The Top Supporter immediately went quiet.
He Zheng had never been one for romance or sentimental talk, but he understood what was going on. Not one to dance around things, he decided to just pierce the veil.
“What’s wrong? You planning to date me?”
The Top Supporter took a deep breath and said firmly, “I’m the one asking the questions. Don’t answer with a question.”
“Still acting tough, huh?” He Zheng smiled faintly, then let it fade. “Alright. Go on — your second question.”
“Why don’t you plan to date?”
He Zheng had seen that coming. He casually brushed it off, “No money.”
“I have money.”
The Top Supporter enunciated every word clearly, his tone firm. “I have.”
At that, He Zheng fell silent again.
The room was so quiet that even the light drizzle outside sounded heavy and thunderous.
The moment felt familiar — like that day on set when he got injured. He had stood before the mirror, tending to his wound, while the Top Supporter had asked, “Am I messaging you too often?”
And just like now, He Zheng had stayed silent.
Their relationship was delicate — like a kite drifting in the wind. The Top Supporter kept running against the breeze, trying to make it fly higher, while He Zheng always, at the worst possible moment, let go of the string.
Everyone was an adult here—if you’ve gone this far and still don’t get a response, that basically meant a polite rejection.
After ten minutes of silence, the Top Supporter couldn’t stand the suffocating atmosphere anymore. He forced out a few words to preserve the last shred of his dignity, changing the subject: “Forget it, maybe I’m just a little sleepy.”
He Zheng went along easily: “Go to sleep then.”
The Top Supporter made a sound of agreement and said the familiar line, “You hang up on me.”
This time, his tone was heavier than before.
He Zheng stubbed out his cigarette. “Good night.”
The Top Supporter said, “You too.”
…..
Two hours later, the rain had stopped, and it was time to go live. He Zheng had been streaming for nearly a week now, but this was the first time the Top Supporter didn’t show up.
Maybe he really did need some rest after staying up so late.
People still entered the livestream room right away, but the username that popped up wasn’t his. He Zheng looked at the unfamiliar nickname, puzzled—why would someone else also camp out waiting for him?
“Good evening,” He Zheng greeted proactively.
There was no reply. A few more people joined in succession. The first comment that appeared seemed normal: “Is that him?”
The second one followed: “Yeah, it’s him. Doesn’t look too different from his Weibo photos.”
While the comments kept chatting among themselves, the video suddenly lagged, then the screen went black. He Zheng refreshed several times before getting back in—but as soon as the stream reopened, viewers flooded in like a dam had burst. The number skyrocketed, five times more than usual.
Watching the screen, a bad feeling welled up in his chest.
The third comment: “So that’s what he looks like without makeup. How slutty.”
The fourth: “Shouldn’t he focus on acting properly instead of streaming?”
The fifth: “Can someone tell me if this person’s a man or a woman?”
The sixth, seventh, eighth…
More and more negative remarks poured in, twisting the tone of the chat. Old regulars who didn’t understand what was going on were confused and asked, “What are you guys talking about?”
Someone immediately replied: “The streamer’s got an attitude problem.”
Those words set everything off like fuel to a fire. The audience’s emotions were stirred, and the first wave of chaos began.
“How can someone like that even have the nerve to act all high and mighty?”
“Do you even have the status to justify that attitude?”
“If you can’t handle acting, then don’t. Throwing a tantrum after a couple of slaps—what’s wrong with you?”
“Extras nowadays think they can throw fits at supporting actors, huh.”
That’s when He Zheng finally spoke. “Got proof?”
His tone was calm—no anger, no defensiveness. But that ordinary sentence carried an air of indifference.
An indifference so deep it seemed ingrained in his bones.
Someone snapped.
“You’ve got some nerve asking for proof! Go check Weibo yourself, idiot—it’s all there!”
He Zheng switched to Weibo. His private messages were flooded—99+ notifications. He clicked one open; the insults were endless. Someone had even forwarded a screenshot to him, captioned: ‘Apologize to my idol.’
The screenshot showed a Weibo post from user “Actor–Huang Chen,” a verified VIP7 account.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with actors these days. Was it really necessary to bring personal emotions onto the set? The slap was part of the script, and I even apologized beforehand. Why lose your temper during filming? Can’t we just get along? If you can’t even take one slap for a scene, maybe you’re only fit to play bit parts forever.”
Below the post was a photo of two red, swollen hands.
The top comment: “My poor baby, so professional he hurt his hands.”
The second: “Tag that diva extra, we need to call them out.”
The third came right after—and this time, He Zheng’s account was directly tagged.
Everything looked so “logical”: a “bullied” small actor, his protective fans, self-righteous netizens, and bored gossipers—all gathered like villagers at the entrance of a small town, pointing fingers at a stranger.
He Zheng returned to the stream. The comment section was moving even faster now—everyone spamming the same word: Apologize.
A long-time viewer typed in disbelief: “Is that really you?”
Looking at all this, He Zheng suddenly smiled.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “I’m the diva. I bullied him. Go ahead and tell Huang Chen to come here—I’ll bully him again.”
…
If the livestream chat had been a deep, swirling ocean before, now it was a raging storm.
The chat exploded.
“Die, you disgusting faggot.”
“LMAO, you really think you’re somebody?”
“If you don’t apologize, we’ll report you to the police—everyone repost the Weibo!”
“Just look at him—he looks like a cheap slut.”
“Plastic surgery freak. How many top supporters paid for that face? Bet it stinks down there.”
He Zheng hadn’t planned to respond—but the words “Top Supporter” stood out in the mess of text, harsh and glaring. He straightened up and said coldly, “Watch your mouth.”
“Who’s his top gifter? Someone find out.”
He Zheng didn’t reply. Instead, he opened a drawer beside him, took out a hair tie, and slowly tied his long hair up into a ponytail.
“What, did your top gifter sleep with you?”
He Zheng tightened the elastic.
“That guy’s probably trash too, giving gifts to someone like you.”
He let go of the hair tie, gave a low chuckle. “Should he send your mom a funeral wreath instead?”
“?”
“Whether he slept with me or not is none of your business,” He Zheng said, pulling out a cigarette. “But tonight, I’ll sleep with your dad.”
“?”
“Who else in your family’s still alive?” He tossed the lighter onto the table. “I’m running out of ideas.”
The moment his words fell, a purple hair dryer icon suddenly popped up on the screen.
Then came the familiar hair-dryer effect.
This time, the gift shower wasn’t wild—restrained, calm—but enough to draw everyone’s attention.
The hair-dryer animation blocked most of the comments; the entire livestream became a blur. Through the flickering mess of words, He Zheng vaguely saw the chat fly by, filled with furious viewers spitting the filthiest insults. Their text was black, and so were their hearts.
Amid that storm of chaos, he caught sight of a streak of red—and right then, the camera finally came into focus.
A bolt of lightning split the sky outside, and the familiar rain returned.
And the person who always had his back arrived too.
Across the barrage of comments, the Top Supporter typed three words: [I can’t sleep.]