He Zheng blinked, his smile deepening. “Is the dress beautiful, or am I beautiful?”
Without hesitation: [You.]
He Zheng gave a thumbs-up to the camera. “You sure know how to talk.”
Maybe he really did look beautiful tonight—because the number of viewers rose noticeably, and the chat grew lively. He Zheng read the comments line by line, answering each one patiently.
When things got busy, he glanced at his “Top Supporter” in the leaderboard—still online, but quiet. That was how he always was: staying when the room was empty, then silently fading into the crowd once it got lively again.
While He Zheng was distracted, someone in chat typed, Do a PK!
Others quickly echoed the suggestion.
Livestream PKs were a way to encourage spending—two streamers would compete for gifts within a set time; whoever received fewer would have to do a punishment.
“I’ve never done one,” He Zheng said. “Let’s try.”
He matched with a male streamer not long after—a shirtless guy with messy stubble, a small beer belly covered in body hair, and rough features.
When the man saw He Zheng, his expression turned odd. The long hair, the dress, the faint Adam’s apple—he couldn’t tell if He Zheng was male or female.
“Hello,” He Zheng greeted, noticing the man’s look. “I’m a guy.”
Instantly, the man’s confusion turned into disgust. His tone was laced with open contempt.
“Feminine freak, huh? A grown man wearing a dress.”
He Zheng didn’t respond. He pulled a cigarette from the pack beside him, lit it, lowered his eyes, and watched the tiny sparks flare and fade.
His silence gave the male streamer a burst of false courage, making him even more unrestrained:
“What kind of mom raised you? It’s people like you—these damn sissies—that are ruining society. Can’t you act like a real man?”
The chat flooded with mocking “666” comments, encouraging the bully.
He Zheng’s lips curved into a faint, almost invisible smile. He calmly looked the man over from head to toe and said coolly,
“So being ugly counts as masculinity now?”
“Who the hell are you calling ugly?!”
The man snapped, baring his teeth and spewing curses, the kind that got uglier by the second.
He Zheng just watched him quietly, then took the cigarette from his lips and said with a soft laugh, “You’re really pathetic.”
The next moment, both livestreams suddenly went black. A system message popped up: Streamer suspected of violation—please make immediate corrections.
He Zheng blinked, then looked down at the cigarette in his hand. He had forgotten that smoking wasn’t allowed on camera.
The other guy had likely been reported for verbal abuse and was banned as well.
That ended the night’s stream. He Zheng sighed, took his phone off the stand—and right then, Li Ru called.
“Who’s that guy at the top of your leaderboard?” Her tone was sharp. “I was watching your stream. Who is he?”
“Just someone online,” He Zheng replied honestly. “I’ve never met him.”
Li Ru’s voice sank. “Don’t meet him. He’s interested in you.”
“I know.”
“Then keep your distance. Don’t meet people from the internet,” she said firmly. “The streaming world isn’t any cleaner than showbiz. You can’t read people through a screen. Don’t get fooled.”
She didn’t spell out the rest, but adults understood perfectly well what she meant.
He Zheng wanted to say that he had suspected the man’s intentions from the moment he asked for his WeChat—but after getting to know him, he hadn’t sensed anything improper. The man even refused phone calls.
All the thoughts swirling in his mind condensed into a simple: “Mm. I know what I’m doing.”
“Where’s he from?” Li Ru pressed. “Is he local?”
“I never asked,” He Zheng said helplessly.
“I’ll help you check. If you still want a career in entertainment, stay away from this kind of ‘number one fan.’ If you ever get famous and people dig up something like that, it’ll ruin you.”
She hung up angrily.
Moments later, a WeChat message came in—from that same “Top Supp.”
He Zheng opened it. It was a picture of a white haute couture gown.
The man had written politely: [Can I buy this for you?]
He Zheng started typing a reply, but Li Ru’s warnings echoed in his head:
“Don’t get fooled.”
“You can’t read people through a screen.”
“The streaming scene is full of traps.”
His fingers hovered above the keyboard for a long, long time.
Then he raised an arm to cover his eyes. After a moment of silent thought, he powered off his phone—letting that unanswered message sink quietly into oblivion.
The next morning, He Zheng woke up early—an hour before the scheduled time—and arrived at the set ahead of everyone.
The proud young director was again wearing a suit. When he saw He Zheng, his gaze brushed over him like air—barely a second of acknowledgment.
He Zheng’s role was that of a wicked maid who had done all sorts of evil. He only had one short scene, lasting less than a minute: the heroine’s brother discovers that he has been bullying the innocent female lead, swoops in heroically, and slaps him twice for the audience’s satisfaction.
Extras had no dignity. There were no fake hits arranged—it was two real slaps.
Since his scene was first, He Zheng at least got the rare joy of skipping the makeup line. He sat quietly in front of the mirror while the makeup artist darkened his face a shade, drew thick brows stretching to his temples, painted his lips blood-red, and dotted several ugly moles across his cheeks.
After the ordeal, He Zheng looked at his exaggeratedly ugly reflection, touched his face, and asked, “Is this really necessary?”
The makeup artist shot him a glare. “You ever seen an extra outshine the lead?”
The actor playing the heroine’s brother arrived half an hour later, trailed by two assistants—one carrying coffee, the other shading him with an umbrella. His attitude toward He Zheng was identical to the director’s: not even a glance, not a flicker of eye contact.
In his eight years in the industry, He Zheng had met all kinds of people—but for someone with so little fame to act so high and mighty, this was a first.
The man’s styling session took longer than all the extras’ combined. As He Zheng waited, he glanced toward the director and saw the impatience practically leaking from his expression.
Bored, He Zheng pulled out his phone. The man known as “Top Supporter,” who hadn’t replied to his last message, had called him once—at three in the morning. Nothing else.
He Zheng’s expression didn’t change. He exited the chat and scrolled down to another contact labeled Director Zhang.
Their last message was from a month ago—a voice note from the director:
“You really are perfect for this role. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
They had chatted enthusiastically at first, but He Zheng had never replied to that particular message.
Director Zhang’s latest post from yesterday showed a group photo on set. Everyone looked full of energy, full of promise—bright futures ahead.
He Zheng zoomed in. A stranger now wore his old costume, one size too small, smiling stiffly from the edge of the group.
He watched for a while, then smiled.
He didn’t know how that role was given away.
But he knew one thing: opportunity always belonged to the ambitious.
And though he had ambition too—it still wasn’t enough.