If a good neighbor says no, then no it is.
After sending the photos, Chen Bai noticed it was almost time for his live broadcast, so the break came to an end.
The good neighbor left with the magazine in hand.
That night, after the broadcast, Pinky spent nearly half an hour sitting on the living room sofa, painstakingly unboxing the clothing gift boxes, finally separating the clothes from the paper bags and boxes by hand.
Even with free new clothes available, Chen Erbai’s live streaming room stayed true to its simple style. The bestsellers were still the 39.9 yuan clothes—cheap yet steadfast in popularity.
The money-making partner was efficient as always. Within half a month, all the procedures were completed, the contract was signed, and the complete script was delivered.
Just as the director had said, most of the scenes for the second male lead involved sitting or lying down—a truly sickly character.
A sickly character, yet one who was sunny, cheerful, and wealthy. The second male lead, Si Yang, was a lazy young prince, well-connected with the male lead, a young top scholar. Actually, he was on good terms with just about everyone—able to chat and laugh with anyone he met, with a life rich in friends and connections.
Aside from the “wealthy” and “sickly” points, Chen Bai couldn’t help but feel that this character setting seemed strangely familiar.
Just as he received the message, it was nearly time for the live broadcast. Since he hadn’t finished reading the script, he used the last few minutes to quickly skim through the crew’s overall arrangements.
He took a sip of water, lowered his head, and his eyes caught a short line of text in the document, making his eyebrows twitch.
He discovered a very important issue.
Unlike Ah Huai from before, Si Yang this time was a leading actor with a heavy role, meaning he would have to stay with the crew full-time.
The shooting location was in a film and television city in the suburbs, across town. The crew would arrange accommodations at a nearby hotel.
It was a proper hotel with internet access. The connection speed shouldn’t be too bad. As long as he brought his computer and gear in advance, he could start streaming whenever he had time.
The bigger problem was that his streaming hours would drastically decrease. Streaming earned gold coins, but so did filming—objectively, he’d be making more gold coins overall. Still, what he cared about was the actual streaming time.
After flipping through the script briefly, he realized there were a lot of night scenes, which would probably clash with his usual live broadcast schedule.
“…”
He never thought the day would come when he’d need to make up live broadcast hours.
Though it was said filming would start in two months, from the audition to signing the contract, nearly a month had already passed. Plus, he had to do final makeup tests a week before filming began, meaning there wasn’t much time left.
From that day on, the viewers in Chen Erbai’s live streaming room noticed something strange: his daily broadcast time had suddenly increased, and he was even broadcasting during the day and at night.
They didn’t understand the reason but were thrilled, thinking that good times were finally here.
Whether good times were really coming was uncertain, but Chen Bai was sure about one thing: tomorrow, he had to head to the film and television city for final makeup shots.
That night, his stream ended an hour later than usual. He logged off at 3 a.m., then started dismantling his equipment and host computer.
It wasn’t his first time moving a computer, so he was quite skilled by now. He wrapped each part carefully in bubble wrap, then placed them into a thickly padded cardboard box.
Since the opening ceremony would be held just a few days after the final makeup shots, Chen Bai decided it would be a waste of time to travel back and forth. He planned to stay directly at the hotel until filming wrapped up.
It took him dozens of minutes to pack his computer and another two minutes to throw a few clothes into a bag. After washing up, he finally lay down peacefully.
Going to bed at four and getting up at seven—when he opened his eyes in the morning, it truly felt like he was waking up in heaven.
Running on sheer habit, he mechanically washed up. Feeling a little more awake, he checked his phone.
His agent was already on the way, waiting at a red light, and would be downstairs in a few minutes.
Chen Bai immediately moved to carry his precious computer. Just before stepping out the door, he remembered something, turned back, grabbed the almost-forgotten clothes, and picked up the keys at the entrance.
By this time, his good neighbor should already be awake and still at home.
He knocked twice on the door next door and waited quietly.
Sure enough, his good neighbor was home. A short moment after he knocked, the door opened.
The moment the door opened, a wave of humidity hit him in the face.
His good neighbor had just finished washing up, the hair on his forehead still damp. Water droplets slid down the bridge of his nose and along the sides of his face, passing by his sharply-defined Adam’s apple.
Glancing down at the cardboard box in Chen Bai’s hands, Xu Sinian lowered his head slightly and asked, “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Pinky took out the key and handed it over. “Just in case I forget later, I’ll return the key to you now.”
The good neighbor shook his head. “You keep it for now.”
Chen Bai had a good memory, but his record-keeping skills were questionable—he figured there was a nine out of ten chance he’d forget things later.
Since the good neighbor insisted, he kept the key, slipping it back into his pocket without much hesitation. With the box in his hands, it was hard to say a proper goodbye, so he gave a slight wave, said his farewells, and closed the door without asking anyone to see him off.
After saying goodbye to his good neighbor, he went downstairs just as his agent’s car pulled up.
He immediately placed his beloved computer in the back and collapsed into the passenger seat.
The agent turned and asked, “You stayed up late again, didn’t you? You went to bed after three, right?”
So accurate!
Pinky raised his eyebrows and asked, “How’d you know?”
Thanks to good genes from his parents, Chen Bai didn’t get acne, dark circles, or nearsightedness from staying up late. If he didn’t say anything, no one could tell.
The agent said, “Your eyes are dead, anyone can tell.”
After being caught, the pink-haired streamer didn’t bother covering it up and just started openly catching up on sleep.
The drive to the film and television city took more than an hour. Having gone to bed at four, he was so dead asleep in the car that he didn’t even notice the bumps or vibrations along the way.
From the city to the suburbs, and finally into the film and television city, the car gradually slowed and pulled over.
The agent called out to the slumped figure in the passenger seat, but got no response.
Sighing, the agent said, “Here comes the God of Wealth.”
In one second, Pinky’s phone lit up, and his eyes snapped open, sharp and wide awake.
“…” The agent wiped his face and said, “We’re here. I’ll go find parking. Leave your stuff in my car for now. You go find the crew in the hotel lobby.”
Realizing it wasn’t the God of Wealth he was hoping for, Pinky’s eyes dulled again. He tugged his hat down over one eye and said, “Got it.”
When he was about to get out of the car, an invisible force yanked him back. Only then did he realize he had forgotten to undo his seatbelt. After fumbling with it, he finally managed to get out.
Unexpectedly, there were quite a lot of people in the film and television city, a steady stream of foot traffic going in and out. Chen Bai narrowed his eyes against the sunlight and looked around, spotting the hotel where the crew was staying.
At the entrance to the hotel lobby, a crowd had gathered. Some people inside were craning their necks and looking around, clearly waiting for someone. As he approached, he heard someone in the crowd asking about “Asking for Life.”
He stopped and asked, “Are you with the crew of Asking for Life?”
The big brother he asked nodded and said, “Yeah, we’re waiting for the person who’s supposed to read our fortunes. Not all the actors are here yet, so we’re still waiting.”
Finding his “organization,” Chen Bai gave a casual “okay” and squatted off to the side.
The big brother was friendly enough to make space for him, then turned and said, “Bro, you look kinda familiar.”
Chen Bai tugged the brim of his cap down and said, “Really? I have a very ordinary face.”
Meanwhile, Gao Qian had finally found a parking spot after circling the jam-packed lot for ages. As soon as a car pulled out, she swooped in to take it.
Checking the time on her phone, she hurried toward the hotel lobby in her low-heeled leather shoes.
The film and television city wasn’t just for crews—it was also a tourist attraction. Recently, several big productions had moved in, and the crowds were heavier than usual.
There were plenty of people at the hotel entrance too. With one glance, she could tell that most were fans hoping for actor sightings and entertainment reporters hungry for exclusive shots.
The itinerary for a big production like this couldn’t stay secret for long; these people had gotten wind of it and showed up early.
Focused on finding the crew, Gao Qian didn’t spare the crowd a glance and strode quickly into the lobby.
“…?”
Something felt off.
Something had flashed across the corner of her eye. She stopped and turned her head to scan the crowd again.
Amidst the bustling group, a pink-haired guy, blending perfectly into the scene, slightly lifted the brim of his cap and looked back at her.
Gao Qian: “……?”
For a split second, she thought she was hallucinating.
After a two-second delay, she asked, almost involuntarily, “What are you doing here?”
Pink Hair glanced at the big brother beside him; the big brother glanced back at him.
In the next instant, the pink-haired figure was swept up.
Gao Qian grabbed him and wiped her face with her free hand, saying, “The crew’s inside the hall, not out here.”
How could she forget—aside from the last time, this person had basically no experience with joining a crew.
“…”
It wasn’t until he was dragged inside the hotel that the squatting man outside finally realized something.
He watched the figure enter the hall and get surrounded by staff, his eyebrows twitching as understanding dawned.
It turned out—this person was from the crew.
——“Are you with the crew of Asking for Life?”
Chen Bai had literally been asking if they were part of the crew, not if they were waiting for the crew.
And yet, this guy had answered “yes” and kept him outside for nearly ten minutes without noticing anything wrong.
After being detained outside for nearly ten minutes, Chen Bai was finally led to the real crew and introduced to the director, assistant director, and resident screenwriter.
The other leading actors hadn’t arrived yet—they were still on flights—so the staff led him first to a room being used as a temporary dressing room. There, he met the specially hired stylist, makeup artist, and art director.
One of the makeup artists looked particularly familiar. Chen Bai took one glance and immediately recognized her.
It was the makeup artist from his last crew—the one who had added him on WeChat. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw him.
Both sides were delighted at the reunion, and they chatted warmly.
During the friendly chatter, the makeup artist even whispered to him that if he had time, she could spill some interesting gossip from the neighboring crew.
Pink Hair nodded eagerly. Suddenly, life had gained a little more purpose.
Next, the costume designer led him to try on outfits.
The costumes were carefully preserved in a special room, and rows of accessories lined the walls, dazzling to the eye.
Fortunately, since he was playing a sickly character, he didn’t have many accessories. They picked clothes suitable for someone of his “ailing” status.
There weren’t many accessories, but the clothes themselves were complicated—three layers inside and three layers outside—requiring several costume designers to help him dress.
Putting a naturally outgoing person in the middle of a bunch of costume designers was like tossing a party among gods of wealth—there was no way it would stay quiet.
As someone helped him tie his belt, Pink Hair casually moved his wrists and chatted away. During the conversation, he learned that the outfit he was wearing had been designed by professionals, referencing tons of historical costumes and then innovated from there. The pieces were handmade, and the embroidery had been stitched by skilled artisans.
In short—each outfit cost five figures.
“…”
The hand that had been casually moving froze immediately.
Any further movement would be an insult to money.
Once the outfit was on, a dark blue silk belt draped elegantly around his waist. One of the assistants helping him dressed carefully tied a jade pendant with a matching dark blue tassel to his waist.
Pink Hair asked cautiously, “Is this real jade?”
His cautious expression was written all over his face, completely unhidden. The people around finally burst out laughing and said, “No, don’t worry.”
Only then did Chen Bai feel reassured.
After changing, he was led to the makeup room.
The makeup room was bustling. It wasn’t just makeup artists—there were stylists too. His makeup artist was at least the deputy team leader level, serious while working, not someone you could gossip with casually.
Pink Hair cooperated well, pretending to be serious too, but after pulling an all-nighter, his eyelids quickly grew heavy. Only his sheer willpower and strong work ethic kept him awake.
He supported his heavy neck while enduring the makeup session. To distract himself, he started fiddling with a flying chess app on his phone.
After rolling several ones in a row, he got so excited he became completely awake again.
By the time his hair was done, his agent—busy handling other things—finally returned to the dressing room. She hadn’t done basic assistant work like this in ages; as soon as she entered, she was so exhausted that she just kept drinking water, ignoring everyone else.
In the lively dressing room, the stylist finally tied a headband embroidered with silver-threaded cloud patterns around his forehead, stretched her sore hands, and announced, “All done.”
The person who had just lost miserably at flying chess stuffed his phone away and stood up. His agent, still gulping down water, glanced sideways at him—and soon, everyone else around also turned to look.
And then—they were all stunned.
A stunning sight.
Her long hair was barely tied up with a headband, cascading naturally down her shoulders.
Over a snow-white inner lining, she wore a dark blue satin robe embroidered with auspicious clouds and flying cranes in gold and silver threads. As she moved slightly, the intricate patterns shifted, hidden and revealed by the draping long sleeves.
The standing figure lifted her eyes slightly, and when her light gray pupils peeked out from under long lashes, it gave the impression of a green shadow flickering across a red wall—an almost ethereal moment.
The costume designer exchanged a glance with the styling director and praised, “This face tells a story at first glance.”
The director and the photographers would be very pleased with this.
When the crew first heard the director had cast a newcomer, they were skeptical—especially when they saw the pink-haired girl. It made them even more uneasy. But now, seeing the result, they were genuinely surprised.
No wonder the director had insisted so stubbornly on this casting choice.
Chen Bai barely made it to the scheduled time for final makeup photos. After tidying up his clothes, the staff led him to the photo studio.
The studio was set up inside the hotel, so there was no need to head outside. The photography assistant explained that the director had originally wanted to shoot outdoors using real scenery, but since there were too many people squatting around outside the hotel, they decided to keep it indoors for confidentiality.
Chen Bai, who had almost gotten involved in that earlier mess, nodded without saying much. He focused intently on his precious five-figure outfit, careful not to let anyone step on it or pull it accidentally.
As the costume designer and director had predicted, the director was clearly much happier after seeing him. Turning to the resident screenwriter beside him, he said, “I told you he was perfect for this role.”
There was a hint of pride in his tone.
The resident screenwriter, already numbed from endless tasks, just nodded perfunctorily.
The photographer and director finalized some details. Meanwhile, Chen Bai’s agent leaned in to remind him, “Makeup photos are different from magazine photos. Don’t chase the camera. Act as if you’re filming a movie.”
Chen Bai nodded, then stepped forward when the director signaled him.
Some people were just born for this job—understanding instructions immediately and grasping the feeling at once.
The final makeup photoshoot wrapped up much faster than expected. With that, the main task for the day was done.
Although it ended early, it wasn’t too early. By the time Chen Bai had changed out of his costume and become a dry, clean-haired girl again, the afternoon was already halfway over.
Still thinking about his precious computer, he hurriedly followed his agent out of the hotel to retrieve his all-important cardboard box.
The people camped outside the hotel still hadn’t left—they had astonishing perseverance. They had been there since morning and were still hanging around now.
Passing by the big brother he had spoken to earlier, Chen Bai asked with a smile, “Did your friend finally meet the person he was waiting for?”
The eldest brother answered that someone had indeed come and gone inside.
At least someone showed up. The man in the hat congratulated him, smiled, waved, and walked off.
Pink Hair successfully retrieved the computer, but his agent had other work and couldn’t stay with him.
After picking up the room card from the hotel front desk, Chen Bai carried his cardboard box into the elevator alone.
There were already several people inside—quite a few, in fact. The person standing deep inside the elevator had striking gray hair.
One elevator, six or seven people, five different hair colors.
Chen Bai looked around and realized that with just two more colors, they would basically form a human rainbow.
Just as he was looking away, the gray-haired person who had been staring at his phone raised his eyes and glanced at him.
This face… looked strangely familiar, like he had seen it somewhere before.
Gray Hair had a cold and aloof air about him, but surprisingly, he was polite. He nodded slightly and said, “Hello.”
Then he asked, “Just arrived too?”
——This person seems to know me?
Chen Bai’s brain whirred at high speed, trying to remember where he had seen this person before, but he still smiled and responded politely, saying he had already been there for a while.
——Still can’t remember.
His brain really was like a diode: things he wanted to remember were stored perfectly, but things that didn’t matter wouldn’t stick no matter how often he saw them.
The elevator slowly reached their floor.
To his surprise, Gray Hair got off at the same floor—and they were staying right across from each other.
After exchanging polite goodbyes and closing the door, Chen Bai placed the precious cardboard box on the table and immediately forgot about Gray Hair, diving into unwrapping the foam layers one by one.
After carefully arranging the parts, he sat cross-legged and began assembling the computer.
Soon, the setup that had once lived safely in his bedroom at home was perfectly recreated in the hotel room.
The production was clearly well-funded. His assigned room was a suite, complete with a living room and a bedroom. From the balcony, he could see a small portion of the film and television base. The desk in the bedroom was roughly the same size as the one he used at home, making the transition feel easy.
The only scheduled task for today had been taking makeup photos. Script reading wouldn’t start until all the leading actors had finished their photo shoots the next day.
With time on his hands, he showered, sat down at the desk, put on his headphones, connected the Internet cable, adjusted his equipment, and launched the game.
It was an unconventional time for a live broadcast, but a large crowd of netizens immediately flooded in—and quickly noticed some subtle changes.
[Hey, the table looks different?]
[Nope, the entire table changed, even the chair’s different.]
[Erbai’s classic vibe is still the same though (.)]
[Is today’s stream extra long? Superman Erbai!]
[Did you move? It feels way more luxurious (?)]
Chen Bai said lightly, “It’s work-related. I’m temporarily staying somewhere else. Can’t stream too long today—I’ll wrap up by midnight. Got other things to do afterward.”
At this time, his friend was still helping out at their family shop. Chen Bai switched to pestering other friends while glancing at the barrage.
He added, “It’s a hotel. Of course it’s more luxurious.”
[Erbai moved? What about the friend next door? QAQ]
This comment came from Yuqieriqing.
“My friend’s still living at the same place as before.”
Chen Bai smiled and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”
[Hahaha, Sister Qing is still standing guard over the neighbor]
[Isn’t your friend cold? Should we send over a jacket?]
[Recommendation: invest in Baizhou and embrace a wider world]
[Sister Antarctica is hotter than your friend’s neighborhood! (shaking)]
The barrage of comments kept rolling in, but Pink Hair didn’t pay much attention. He had already grabbed a friend who happened to be online and started a game.
Tonight felt like a seamless relay race: just as one partner logged off, Qingzhou came online, so Chen Bai didn’t even have to shake other friends awake.
Also online were other netizens who had clicked into the live room during the usual broadcast hours.
They came in thinking they had gotten in early, but in reality, they had missed almost everything. The live broadcast timer in the upper right corner, showing several hours already, was like a slap in the face.
[What did I miss?!]
[Wow, he’s been streaming for so long and Fruit Live didn’t even notify me!]
[The instant noodles I just made don’t even smell good anymore…]
Chen Bai glanced at the comments and said, “No notification?”
He remembered that the platform was supposed to automatically send a live broadcast notification to followers.
“That doesn’t always work.”
Qingzhou, probably seeing the same complaints in his own barrage, added, “Sometimes the notifications get swallowed. The platform is linked with Weibo. If your stream schedule isn’t fixed, you can post an update on Weibo instead. That usually works without any issues.”
A very professional explanation—worthy of being the platform’s number one streamer.
It was Chen Bai’s first time hearing about this. Just as the game ended, he picked up his phone, opened a certain app he hadn’t touched since peeking at it last month, and started to fiddle with it.
The app interface popped up, and the first thing that caught his eye was the blinding red 99+ notifications in the lower right corner—along with a completely unreadable number count next to it.
He immediately retreated tactically, backing out of the app while still holding his phone.
[Erbai actually has an account! And he didn’t tell us!]
[I didn’t even see what it was before it disappeared. Erbai, you’re way too fast.]
[What secrets are we not allowed to see?!]
“That’s not my account,” Chen Bai said seriously, logging out and sitting back down with his phone. In a perfectly serious tone, he started to talk nonsense: “That’s my friend’s account. I logged into it by mistake and forgot to log out.”
Then he added with a completely straight face: “This friend is a bit forgetful.”
Author’s Note:
↑ A truly forgetful person even forgets they’ve logged into someone else’s account.
The Good Neighbor is the queen! It’s obvious from the character notes! (shaking)
