The discovery of the “Zhou-0907” alternate account was like a bizarre hole bored into Lin Yang’s ice-cold worldview. Through it, he caught a glimpse of a Li Chenzhou who was diametrically opposed to the man he thought he knew. The image of the high-and-mighty, ruthless business emperor overlapped with the clumsy figure secretly searching for “How to Confess” and “Dating Guides,” creating a surreal chemical reaction.
Lin Yang’s thoughts became more chaotic than ever. While anger and fear remained, they felt as though they had been tossed into a blender, mixed with an absurd curiosity and a faint, weak trace of bitterness that he refused to acknowledge.
As the variety show recording neared its end, the pastoral life in Yunxi Village was coming to a close. The production crew arranged a group activity visiting the town market to experience the local customs, intended as a way for the guests to relax. For Lin Yang, who had been under constant invisible pressure, this was a rare chance to breathe.
However, the night before the market visit, Li Chenzhou appeared again. This time, he didn’t use any excuses; he knocked directly on Lin Yang’s door.
When Lin Yang opened the door, he saw the man standing there. He was dressed, as usual, in well-tailored dark clothing that emphasized his tall stature. Whether it was the moonlight or something else, Lin Yang felt the man’s cold features seemed a fraction softer than usual, though his eyes remained deep and unreadable.
“Tomorrow night,” Li Chenzhou said, cutting straight to the point. His tone was as flat as ever, yet it carried an undeniable weight. “Clear your schedule.”
Lin Yang’s heart tightened, and his first instinct was to refuse. He had planned to go to the town for a few drinks with Teacher Guo Huai and Tian Rui as a farewell.
“Tomorrow, the production crew has plans,” he attempted to resist.
“Cancel them,” Li Chenzhou said succinctly. His gaze fell on Lin Yang’s face with a focused scrutiny, as if observing his reaction. “I booked a cinema.”
A cinema? Lin Yang was stunned.
Li Chenzhou was asking him out to a movie? Was this another project from a “Love Tutorial”? Did “Recommended Dating Spots” include movie theaters? A sense of powerlessness, mixed with that absurd curiosity, surged in his heart. He knew refusal was futile; Li Chenzhou’s decisions were never open to negotiation.
He pursed his lips and gave a low response: “I understand.”
Li Chenzhou seemed satisfied with his compliance. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and turned to leave without another word. His shadow stretched long under the moonlight, still carrying that “do not approach” aura, yet Lin Yang inexplicably sensed a hint of relief in him, like someone who had just completed a difficult task.
The next evening, Lin Yang used the excuse of still feeling unwell to decline Tian Rui and the others’ invitation to the market. Though disappointed, Tian Rui didn’t think much of it and told him to rest well. Teacher Guo Huai gave him a meaningful look and patted his shoulder but said nothing.
At seven o’clock, Li Chenzhou’s car pulled up outside the old house on time. It wasn’t the usual low-profile Rolls-Royce, but a more understated black Bentley. Lin Yang climbed in to find Li Chenzhou already in the back seat with his eyes closed, resting. His profile looked exceptionally cold in the dim light of the car.
The car drove toward the only decent cinema in town. Upon arrival, Lin Yang found the entrance unnaturally quiet. Only a man who appeared to be the manager, along with a few attendants, stood waiting respectfully. Upon seeing Li Chenzhou, they immediately bowed and led them through a private passage.
The entire lobby was empty, with only a few lights turned on, making it feel somewhat dim. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn and carpet cleaner.
“President Li, Mr. Lin, everything has been prepared according to your instructions,” the manager said with a fawning smile and a cautious tone. “Hall One has been cleared.”
Cleared? A private screening? Lin Yang’s lip twitched slightly. This was classic Li Chenzhou style; even watching a movie required such a grand display. He could almost imagine Li Chenzhou nodding solemnly while reading a “Dating Guide” suggestion that “buying out a venue demonstrates strength and importance.”
They were led into Hall One. The vast theater was indeed empty, save for the two of them. The seats were comfortable leather sofas, and drinks and a bucket of popcorn had been set out in front of them. Lin Yang looked at the golden popcorn with an even stranger expression. Would Li Chenzhou actually eat this stuff? Or was this another tutorial requirement?
Li Chenzhou seemed to see nothing wrong with it and sat directly in the best seat in the middle. Lin Yang had no choice but to follow, sitting one seat away from him. The distance was neither too close nor too far; he could feel the other man’s presence while maintaining a safe gap.
The lights dimmed, and the silver screen lit up. There were no advertisements; the feature film began immediately.
When the opening credits rolled and the familiar, slightly amateurish soundtrack played, Lin Yang felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He froze in his seat.
Appearing on the screen was a historical “trash” drama he had participated in many years ago “All-Consuming Love”! He played a minor supporting character, a devoted but low-IQ “cannon fodder” prince. When the show aired, its reputation had tanked, and its rating on Douban had stabilized at around 3 out of 10. It was one of the “dark history” moments of his acting career that he wished he could erase forever!
Li Chenzhou booked an entire cinema to play this absolute disaster of a movie?!!
Lin Yang felt the blood rush to his head. His cheeks burned instantly, and he was so embarrassed he wanted to curl up and disappear. He wished he could find a crack in the floor to crawl into or simply faint on the spot. He whipped his head around to look at Li Chenzhou, searching for a trace of mockery or ridicule on his face.
However, Li Chenzhou sat perfectly straight, his gaze focused intently on the screen. His profile looked exceptionally serious in the shifting light, carrying a look of almost academic concentration. It was as if he were reviewing a business proposal or an engineering report!
On the screen, a younger Lin Yang wore an exaggerated headpiece and delivered mushy, cringeworthy lines with immature, over-the-top acting. The plot was pure melodrama. Every frame and every line felt like a public execution for Lin Yang. He sat on pins and needles, unable to look at the screen, keeping his head down in a desperate attempt to reduce his own presence.
Time became agonizingly slow. The theater echoed with the affected voices from the film. Every second felt like a year to Lin Yang, and he cursed Li Chenzhou a thousand times in his heart. This was definitely revenge! It was another form of humiliation, one that felt worse than being scolded directly.
Finally, after nearly two hours of torment, the ending theme played, and the screen went dark. The lights slowly came up. Lin Yang stood up almost immediately, desperate to flee this scene of embarrassment.
However, Li Chenzhou slowly turned his head to look at him. His expression remained unchanged, but his gaze seemed deeper than before, carrying a post-evaluation seriousness. Under Lin Yang’s terrified and shamed gaze, Li Chenzhou opened his thin lips. In a voice that was deep and pleasant but sounded like a demon’s whisper in that moment, he gave his review one word at a time:
“Your acting has potential.”
Lin Yang was speechless. He turned to stone, mouth agape, staring at Li Chenzhou’s incredibly serious, cold face. His mind was a total blank.
Potential?? In this 3-point disaster of a movie? In that sky-high cringey performance? How on earth did Li Chenzhou see “potential”?! This praise was harder to accept than being told his acting was terrible. It was the ultimate “backhanded compliment.” It was a psychological strike!
The sheer scale of the embarrassment and absurdity made Lin Yang feel like he was about to explode. His face was bright red, and he couldn’t say a single word. He just wanted to vanish.
Li Chenzhou didn’t seem to notice Lin Yang’s breakdown. He stood up, adjusted the hem of his perfectly smooth clothes, and said calmly, “Let’s go.”
On the way back, the atmosphere in the car was even more bizarre than it had been on the way there. Lin Yang kept his head turned toward the window the entire time, wishing he could shrink into a ball. Li Chenzhou remained silent, but Lin Yang could sense that he seemed to be in a good mood.
It wasn’t until the car was nearly at the entrance of the village that the silent Li Chenzhou finally spoke, breaking the suffocating stillness. His voice was steady, but it carried a faint, undetectable hint of seeking confirmation.
“Next time, we can watch something you actually want to see.”
Lin Yang whipped his head around, looking at him in disbelief. Li Chenzhou didn’t look back; his gaze was fixed on the night road ahead. The lines of his profile looked somewhat softened under the streetlights.
“Or,” he paused, as if recalling something, and added, “if you like it, we can come often.”
Lin Yang was completely at a loss for words. He looked at Li Chenzhou’s profile, and his mind uncontrollably flashed back to that Weibo account those silly articles about “Dating Guides” and “How to Express Concern.”
So, this disastrous private screening was, in his mind, a successful “date” executed according to the tutorials? And that soul-crushing comment about “acting potential” was the “positive encouragement” he had racked his brain to come up with?
An indescribable emotion welled up in Lin Yang, making his throat tight. He wanted to laugh, yet he wanted to cry. In the end, he could only close his eyes wearily and lean his head against the cold car window.
Li Chenzhou, what on earth am I supposed to do with you?