Song Hang adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. This lovesick Best Actor was beyond saving.
He offered a warning: “Let me just say this first, I’ve got no issue with you pursuing your wife, but Liang Tong shot eight movies this year, while you’ve only shot one, ‘Long Night.'”
“Liang Tong?”
Duan Zhihan narrowed his long, narrow eyes.
He had some impression of this person, in his past life, the man had kept making films nonstop, and after winning Best Actor at Berlin, offers had poured in, but unfortunately no good work followed after that, and box office returns had been dismal too.
Making movies wasn’t about quantity, it required a period of quiet accumulation, and constantly rushing from one production to the next left no time to build that up.
Duan Zhihan said calmly, “No time to experience life, so everything you play looks the same.”
Song Hang initially found this reasonable, older-generation actors were usually fine, many had grown up in hardship and tasted real struggle.
Today’s actors mostly came from wealthy backgrounds, often with actor parents themselves, what kind of life experience could people like that even have?
Even the widely acknowledged prodigy Duan Zhihan had genuinely lived through hard times, sinking so low he’d done voiceover work for a scummy pay-to-win mobile game before his acting truly found its footing.
The statement itself was fine, but the more Song Hang thought about it, the more it sounded like he was just rationalizing signing up for a bridal cooking class.
He pushed back: “So what if his filming style’s formulaic? His box office numbers are through the roof, his new movie premieres today, and the media’s predicting it’ll break three billion.”
Duan Zhihan raised an eyebrow. “Five hundred million tops.”
Song Hang didn’t believe that at all.
That movie’s investment was nearly five hundred million, box office needed to exceed three times the investment just to break even. If it only hit five hundred million, wouldn’t it not even recoup its costs?
He suspected Duan Zhihan was just jealous of the man’s success, but then that night he saw the opening-day box office numbers, only seven million. The movie really had flopped!
Ye Cheng couldn’t figure out why Jiang Li disliked the wind chimes, but fearing this little tyrant’s displeasure, immediately went out to swap them.
The huge house was left with just Jiang Li alone. Since everything had been outfitted with soundproofing material during the renovation, the silence had an unsettling quality to it.
The little robot, however, didn’t find it unsettling at all.
He was used to being alone, not needing to live under blinding camera flashes or talk to anyone, free to curl up on the couch and play games.
He was playing an interstellar game made by humans, where the player acted as a captain, recruiting crew members to explore across the galaxy.
Jiang Li’s hand landed on the screen, and a flirtatious, familiar voice came through the phone: “Welcome, my captain.”
The character speaking had black hair and black eyes, wore a steel-gray uniform, with a silver badge pinned to his chest, and sturdy military boots that gave off a cold impression.
This game had accompanied him for nearly six years, and Xavier was the only crew member he had.
He liked the character Xavier a lot, but today, hearing Xavier’s voice, he couldn’t help but inevitably think of the voice actor behind it.
That person had spoken in Xavier’s voice: “Doing something like that, surely he doesn’t think I’m still hung up on him? Can’t be too cold on a show, though.”
For some reason his heart ached, even though he’d thought he wouldn’t feel that pain anymore.
For the first time, he closed the game in under five minutes.
Jiang Li didn’t want to keep feeling this way. He wanted to quit the show.
Afraid of Ye Cheng nagging him over the phone, he sent a text instead.
After sending the text, he did feel better, only wincing at the thought of the hefty penalty fee for breach of contract, he wouldn’t be able to buy Xavier any new outfits this month.
Whatever, he’d already spent extra money elsewhere. He decided to have someone change the door lock too, while he was at it.
Jiang Li looked at the old key and lowered his eyelids, this was probably the only thing linking him and Duan Zhihan now, the two of them owning an identical key.
Although the man probably looked down on it, too.
Back when he’d eagerly bought the most expensive house within his means, he’d specifically saved the biggest room for Duan Zhihan, taking the smaller secondary bedroom for himself.
Duan Zhihan had glanced at the master bedroom with a flat expression, impossible to tell if he was pleased or not. His heart had sunk.
That night, he’d lain awake in bed, unwilling to shut down.
He’d been about to get up for a glass of lemon water when he turned around and realized the man had, at some point, fallen asleep beside him. His body had frozen instantly.
It was only later that Jiang Li learned the house he’d spent his entire savings on was, to Duan Zhihan, essentially a slum, moving in had just been an act of politeness.
At the thought, he pinched the old key in his hand, preparing to toss it into the trash by the door, when his phone rang.
The instant Jiang Li answered, he regretted it, it was probably Ye Cheng’s nagging.
But instead, a lazy voice came through: “The door card at home’s been changed.”
He instinctively glanced at the video intercom, and sure enough, Duan Zhihan’s face appeared on the screen.
He took a deep breath, an emotion coloring his beautiful features: “I changed my own door card, what’s it to you? Get out of the building right now.”
The little robot deliberately stressed the word “my,” and there was a moment of silence on the other end. “I forgot something.”
Forgetting once was normal. Forgetting twice, understandable. But he couldn’t tolerate someone forgetting things every single time.
He suggested coldly, “You should go see a doctor about Alzheimer’s.”
Jiang Li hung up right after saying that.
Duan Zhihan had no idea why Jiang Li had suddenly gotten angry, this time seemed even angrier than before, not even letting him in the building. He clicked his tongue softly.
Jiang Li tossed the key into the trash.
Since he was alone at home today, he didn’t need to disguise himself as human while eating, so the little robot sat in front of the TV and watched the news broadcast.
After finishing the news, he moved on to a science program, jotting down what he’d learned in his observation report.
He spent seven or eight hours like this, and when he finally stood up from the stool, his whole body felt drained of strength.
His battery was almost out.
The little robot told himself to stay calm and walked to the kitchen for some lemon water, but even after drinking it, he still had no energy, not only could he not walk, he couldn’t even stand steadily.
Confusion showed in his pale eyes.
Was he breaking down?
A strange scene suddenly flashed through his mind, a human child, arms wrapped around his head, trembling, hiding in a dark repair shop, his body covered in scars beneath his clothes.
That child looked so fragile.
Jiang Li didn’t recall knowing this child. He attributed his body’s malfunction to the lemons at home having gone stale from sitting too long.
Just then, he noticed the note stuck on the fridge door, which said “delivery on demand, good prices.” He decided to order food for himself.
Jiang Li dialed the unfamiliar new number: “I’d like a lemon water.”
The other end seemed surprised he’d actually called, and after a pause, replied with a brief “oh.”
The little robot was taken aback by the cold response.
Even though he disliked being bothered by humans, he was used to the idea that customers were always right, an attitude like this would surely put the business out of business by next year.
Under normal circumstances, Jiang Li wouldn’t have hesitated to switch to a different vendor, but right now he didn’t have the energy to open the app.
The boy placed his order and waited by the door, like a little kitten waiting beside an automatic feeder.
He wasn’t sure how long he waited. He felt his ability to focus slipping away more and more, and just as his consciousness was about to scatter, the doorbell finally rang.
He opened the door with his eyes closed, meaning to say “just leave it by the door,” but when he opened his eyes, it was Duan Zhihan standing there, carrying the delivery.
Jiang Li didn’t have the energy to curse him out, only watching as Duan Zhihan walked in and sat on the couch, setting the food box down on the coffee table: “Your delivery has arrived.”
He suddenly realized that Xiao Su hadn’t dialed the wrong number last time after all, the number on the fridge really was Duan Zhihan’s. What kind of Best Actor secretly enjoyed delivering food?!
Duan Zhihan seemed to ignore the look on his face entirely, taking out the food from the box one by one.
The little robot caught the scent of the food, and his mind seemed to grow even hazier.
He had no energy left to think and simply reached out for the lemon water.
Duan Zhihan held the cup steady for him, seeing that the boy was clearly quite hungry, struggling even to hold a glass, yet only clutching the lemon water to drink.
He frowned slightly. “Is this all you usually eat?”
Jiang Li didn’t want to explain this to a clueless human, but the next second he found himself lifted onto Duan Zhihan’s lap: “A little one needs to eat.”
He instinctively tried to break free from the man’s hold, but Duan Zhihan easily restrained him with one hand, while the other unhurriedly spooned some porridge.
The full spoon was brought right up to his mouth.
He clenched his jaw shut, but Duan Zhihan pinched his cheek, forcing his mouth open. The little robot was forced to swallow one spoonful of porridge after another, the sound of his own swallowing echoing in his ears.
Warm liquid dripped onto his chin, slowly sliding down. Unable to bear the humiliation, he spoke up: “It’s about to drip down.”
The next second, cool lips pressed against his skin. Duan Zhihan kissed his chin, slowly, deliberately—
Licking the liquid clean off.