The scene had collapsed so quickly that even the director couldn’t take it.
He wiped a hand down his face, let out a deep sigh, and finally waved his hand. “Come down already.”
Chen Bai descended the stairs and asked, “Did I pass?”
The director: “…”
Yes.
With that settled, it was time to talk about the contract.
The director had mentioned earlier that there would be payment involved. But in reality, the producer handled the money—the director only picked the actors, while the producer managed the payroll and contracts.
Not being familiar with the industry’s pay rates, Chen Bai wisely decided to bring in some professional help.
Rummaging through his neglected contacts, he finally found a number buried under layers of dust.
Never delete old contacts. Sometimes all they need is a little dusting off.
From his fragmented memories, he recalled that his agent was highly skilled—an expert negotiator. Unfortunately, she had been paired with the original supporting character, a rich young master who had no real ambition. Their partnership never had a chance to flourish.
Seeing that Chen Bai had his own agent, the director asked, “Who’s your agent?”
Chen Bai double-checked the contact name before replying, “Gao Qian.”
The supporting character had always called her “Sister Qian.”
The director raised his eyebrows, glancing at Chen Bai as if he found this hard to believe. Then, as if understanding something, he relaxed his brows and remarked,
“The God of Wealth may not drop gold coins, but your agent sure will make the producer drop plenty of them.”
Gao Qian was a well-known agent in the industry. She was a master at negotiating contracts, and every artist under her wing had become a hit.
It was said that she hadn’t signed any new talent in the past two years, yet somehow, she had quietly signed this one.
Chen Bai sent a quick WeChat message to his gold coin expert agent, giving her a brief rundown of the situation.
Within two minutes, his phone rang.
It was reassuring to know that his agent hadn’t forgotten him.
She quickly asked for details and then said she would contact the producer directly.
The director, eager to keep things moving, signaled that it should be done as soon as possible. Chen Bai passed the message along, and Gao Qian agreed.
After ending the call, Chen Bai received part of the script.
The director handed it to him, saying, “These are all your scenes. Go through them while we finalize the contract. Make sure to review them at least twice.”
The full script would only be given once he officially joined the crew. For now, this would have to do.
Since the role had changed last-minute, some previously filmed scenes would need to be reshot. The production schedule was already behind, and once he joined, things would move fast. If he wasn’t prepared, it would be hard to keep up.
Filming rarely happened in chronological order. It was arranged based on location, actor availability, and logistics. This often left actors disoriented. The director didn’t expect a newcomer to adjust immediately, but at the very least, he wanted Chen Bai to be familiar with the scenes to avoid being completely lost.
Chen Bai glanced down at the script, which was neither too thick nor too thin. “Got it.”
Since the contract wasn’t finalized yet, he wasn’t an official crew member and didn’t linger.
Bidding farewell to the tall, thin guy, Chen Bai left the set.
On his way home, he took an emergency locksmith job for a kid who had locked himself out of his house.
By the time he finished, it was already late.
Scrapping his original plan to return to the store for a while, he stopped by the supermarket instead.
Tonight, he would make shaomai.
Dinner was quick since the live broadcast would start soon after.
Multitasking like a pro, he spread out the script while eating and skimmed through it between bites.
The role was actually more complex than the director had described.
The character, Ah Huai, was a young man living on the same street as the heroine. Unlike Bai Yueguang, he had a terminal illness.
At one point, he had lost all hope and attempted suicide—cutting his wrist with a shard of iron in an alleyway.
By chance, the heroine had found and saved him.
Afterward, through a series of experiences, he gradually realized that his life didn’t belong to just himself—it also belonged to those who cared about him.
From that moment on, his outlook changed. His new goal became trying to live as long as possible.
Chen Bai flipped through the script and noticed a makeup note:
“Remember to apply a scar on the actor’s wrist.”
Chen Bai: “…”
He glanced down at his own real scar.
No need for makeup.
Further along, he found the scene he had performed earlier.
It was actually the post-recovery scene.
By then, Ah Huai’s illness had worsened, making it difficult for him to speak.
So when he saw the heroine passing by, all he could do was write ‘Good morning’ on a piece of paper and hold it up to the window.
…Instead, he had written about gold coins and dinner.
Chen Bai glanced at the shaomai on his chopsticks.
No wonder those people looked at me like that.
The script ended shortly after.
Eventually, Ah Huai succumbed to his illness. His mother collapsed in grief and was hospitalized, while the heroine, who had been estranged from her family for ten years, was so shaken that she finally decided to return home.
That was the extent of Ah Huai’s role—no follow-up, no epilogue.
Chen Bai, flipping the last page: This seems like a pretty difficult job for a beginner.
Finishing his last bite of shaomai, he closed the script and went to check on the kitchen.
There were six shaomai left:
Two for late-night supper.
Two for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Two extras.
That night, Xu Sinian came over to return the plate.
When he left, he took the plate with him again—except this time, it had two shaomai on it.
The next night, it was brown sugar steamed buns.
Then came soup dumplings.
Then came red bean paste buns.
Staring down at the plate of red bean paste buns, Xu Sinian finally asked, “Are you planning to open a breakfast shop?”
Chen Bai, who was simply happy to share and couldn’t finish everything he made, waved a hand dismissively.
“Opening a breakfast shop means waking up early, which doesn’t fit my schedule. Plus, there are no vacant shops nearby, rent isn’t cheap, and I don’t have the money for equipment.”
Xu Sinian: “…”
This person had clearly thought about it before.
And judging by his response, he had even researched it.
Chen Bai still had a lot more to say, but when he checked the time, he realized it was late.
Reluctantly cutting the conversation short, he said goodbye and closed the door.
Left standing outside, Xu Sinian looked down at the plate in his hands.
He nudged one of the buns with his chopsticks.
The soft dough sank under the pressure, then slowly bounced back, round and plump.
Soft. Sweet. Warm.
Meanwhile, inside—
Chen Bai hurried to start his live stream.
From today onward, Chen Bai extended his live broadcast hours.
After reviewing the script and confirming with the director, he realized that several of his upcoming night shoots would be on-location and in different places.
Since they couldn’t be completed in one go, there would be a few nights where he couldn’t stream at all.
To make up for this, he had to increase his streaming time now.
Currently, his broadcasts ended at 2 a.m. at the latest.
He couldn’t push the time later than that, so the only option was to start earlier.
He put on his headphones and clicked to start broadcasting while the game was loading.
Lately, his live stream had taken a bizarre turn.
It had somehow, inexplicably, evolved into a full-blown gambling den.
Before, when he started streaming, the comments were filled with normal greetings.
Now?
The moment the screen loaded—
[The gambler is here again!]
[Are we doing another no-prize betting game?]
[I lost twice today. If I lose again, I’ll give up my phone for the whole weekend and actually study.]
[I haven’t lost a single bet in two days. Statistically speaking, I have to lose today.]
[My roommate and I pooled our bets and won big yesterday. Erbai, please win—if we lose, I have to buy him food for a week.]
Chen Bai glanced at the rapidly scrolling bullet comments, tapped his keyboard twice, and chuckled.
“So… should I win or lose?”
Instantly, the two opposing groups—Team Win and Team Lose—erupted into battle.
Meanwhile, the number of viewers in the stream kept climbing.
But today, something was different.
Chen Bai didn’t start the game as quickly as usual.
The problem?
He couldn’t find a teammate.
His usual friends were all offline, and the only one online was already mid-game.
No choice but to solo.
It had been a while since he played solo, and he was actively looking for new teammates.
In his match, the five-person squad was divided:
Three players knew each other and grouped up, leaving just one other solo player to be paired with him.
As soon as the match started, the random teammate greeted him enthusiastically.
Chen Bai blinked. The voice was unexpectedly nice.
It was rare for someone to be this energetic on the mic.
Chen Bai was intrigued.
Without thinking, he instinctively moved his mouse toward the “Add Friend” button.
At the same time, he glanced at the chat in the lower-right corner and muttered, “He’s so friendly. I kind of want to add him.”
Silence.
For the first time, the chat didn’t react to his “let’s be friends” moment.
Instead—
The bullet screen exploded.
[QINGZHOU?!]
[Wait, wait, wait—Qingzhou is playing with Erbai?!]
[I was debating between watching Qingzhou’s or Erbai’s stream… AND THEY’RE IN THE SAME GAME?! [Shocked.jpg]]
[Hahahaha, of course, he’s enthusiastic—he’s also a streamer!]
Chen Bai squinted at the chat and asked, “Qingzhou?”
His tone was 70% confusion, 30% curiosity.
It was clear—he had no idea who they were talking about.
[Wow. Erbai really doesn’t keep up with other streamers, huh?]
[Qingzhou is literally one of the biggest streamers on this platform, Erbai!]
[Forget Qingzhou—I only care about my bet. This is a cursed duo. I know I lost this round. (Closes eyes)]
Realizing his random teammate’s identity, Chen Bai casually moved his mouse away from the “Add Friend” button.
“Oh. Okay.”
…That’s it?
The way he instantly gave up on adding the friend was so obvious that the chat burst into laughter.
[Erbai went from “I want to add him” to “Oh. Never mind.” in 0.5 seconds.]
[HAHAHA, his excitement just deflated.]
[I can see his disappointment. He just wanted a bait partner, not a famous streamer!]
[So, no bait game today? Just a regular match? Boring. (Shakes head)]
The three-man squad left first.
Chen Bai and Qingzhou parachuted down to a different location together.
Since he didn’t have a bait teammate, he couldn’t use his usual “human shield” strategy.
Instead, he had to actually play seriously.
Without his usual distractions, his kill count soared.
Teaming up with Qingzhou, they advanced rapidly, wiping out squads along the way.
The faster the game progressed, the more focused Chen Bai became.
He spoke less than usual, occasionally glancing at the chat to drop a brief reply.
The chat noticed the change immediately.
[Whoa. This is what Erbai looks like when he actually plays properly.]
[HAHAHA, I’m not used to him being serious. It’s weirdly cool.]
[Turns out, he can get kills without using teammates as bait!]
[This is the first time I’ve seen him this focused. It’s almost… unsettling.]
A figure flashed across his screen.
Chen Bai reacted instinctively, sniping the enemy with a single clean shot.
As the kill notification popped up, he exhaled in relief.
“…Yeah, bait games are still more fun.”
