“Monday morning meeting.” Xie Xiaoqing’s lips barely moved, her voice squeezed out from between her teeth: “Director Song’s…”
This scene felt inexplicably familiar to Xia Wei. Wasn’t this exactly the atmosphere from last Friday? A storm was brewing, and the wind was sweeping through the tower.
“Why is everyone here so early today?” Xia Wei lowered her voice.
“Monday morning meeting.” Xie Xiaoqing’s lips barely moved, her voice squeezed out from between her teeth. “Director Song’s Monday morning meeting is more terrifying than any other meeting. You’ll see in a minute.”
At precisely nine o’clock, Song Qiao walked out of her office.
She wore a black suit jacket, her hair tied in a very low bun, and held a folder in her hand. She wasn’t holding coffee, and the sound of her high heels stepping on the floor was unhurried, each step striking the heartbeat of everyone present.
She walked to the middle of the office area, stopped, and swept her gaze around.
Everyone’s eyes sprang away the instant her gaze swept past, landing on computer screens, notebooks, tabletops—anywhere they could pretend to be looking intently.
“Meeting Room Three,” Song Qiao said those three words, turned around, and walked away.
The moment the words fell, closing laptops, pulling chairs, and grabbing notebooks—various sounds mixed together. It looked chaotic, and honestly it was chaotic, because no one wanted to sit too close to Song Qiao.
Just like rushing for the last few rows of seats in a university lecture hall, everyone ran exceptionally fast, cramming into the meeting room.
Xia Wei was swept along in the crowd toward the meeting room. Xie Xiaoqing grabbed her arm and whispered, “Stay close to me, sit in the corner.”
The table in Meeting Room Three was very long, capable of seating twenty people.
Song Qiao sat at the head of the table, with her notebook laid open in front of her and the folder placed on her right. To her left was an empty seat left for the projector; no one dared to sit there, and of course, no one wanted to.
Everyone took their seats quickly, like participating in an evacuation drill. Xia Wei didn’t have Xie Xiaoqing’s thick skin and failed to squeeze into a corner spot. Turning around, she saw that only the seat closest to Song Qiao was left.
She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid, really not afraid.
Song Qiao glanced sideways at Xia Wei. Her notebook was open on the tabletop, and she was gripping a pen with an expression that looked as if she were resigned to death.
The folder was flipped open accordingly. Song Qiao skipped any pleasantries and spoke directly.
“Starlight Project, this week is the final week of the preview period.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the dead silence of the meeting room, it felt like a magical spell ringing in their ears. “Next Monday, we officially enter the explosion phase. All preparatory work must be completed before this Friday. Whoever drops the ball will take the responsibility.”
She raised her head, her gaze landing on Lin Yuan.
“Have all the contracts on the KOL side been signed?”
“Signed,” Lin Yuan’s voice was steady. “Twelve KOLs—nine original, three alternates. All contracts have completed the legal process, and material scheduling has been confirmed. Preview content will be released successively starting Wednesday.”
“What about the release schedule?”
“Starting Wednesday, one artist will be released precisely at ten o’clock every day, and all will be finished by next Monday.”
Song Qiao nodded and wrote a line of text in her notebook. Xia Wei noticed she didn’t write the letters “KOL,” but just wrote a single number—12—and then drew a line beneath it.
“On the visual side.” Song Qiao looked up, her gaze falling on Xie Xiaoqing.
Xie Xiaoqing straightened her back, her voice a bit tighter than usual: “The four main visual posters have all been finalized, confirmed by the client and the platform. As for the short video materials, two for each of the six trainees, making a twelve total, ten of the videos have currently been completed. The remaining two will finish editing today, and all will be warehoused before Wednesday.”
“Before Wednesday?” Song Qiao repeated. Her tone carried no fluctuations, but everyone understood the meaning behind that question mark—why wait until Wednesday?
Xie Xiaoqing immediately supplemented: “Before Tuesday, all warehoused by five o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
Song Qiao didn’t speak, writing another line of text in her notebook. This time Xia Wei couldn’t see what she wrote, but she caught a glimpse of the pen tip pausing on the paper for two seconds after she finished writing, before finally lifting up.
“As for Chen Yu’s side.” Song Qiao closed her notebook.
The atmosphere in the meeting room shifted, becoming quieter and heavier. Xia Wei felt everyone holding their breath at the exact same moment, and she followed suit, softening her breathing.
“Keep following up,” Song Qiao’s tone remained very flat. “Lin Yuan, is the data prepared?”
“Prepared,” Lin Yuan opened his notebook. “Complete project data for the Starlight Project, personal introductions and character biographies for the six trainees at around three thousand words each, attached with audition clips and video materials from the training period. In addition, we’ve prepared a collation of all previous interviews conducted by Teacher Chen, marking which questions might resonate with the direction of the Starlight Project.”
Song Qiao glanced at him. There was something in that look—not satisfaction, not dissatisfaction, but more like a pleased realization of “you finally thought of it.”
Then she stood up and picked up her folder.
“Everyone get your heads in the game this week.” She swept her gaze across the room, letting her eyes linger on everyone’s face. “The Starlight Project has come this far, with just this final step left. I don’t want any problems to pop up at this critical juncture.”
No one spoke.
“Meeting adjourned.”
Everyone packed up their things in unison and left in an orderly fashion.
Xia Wei was still lost in thought. Chen Yu’s producer had rejected Song Qiao, so was Song Qiao planning to find Chen Yu herself?
Unable to figure it out, she closed her notebook and followed the crowd out. When she reached the door, she heard Song Qiao’s voice behind her: “Xia Wei, stay behind.”
Xia Wei stopped and turned around.
Only the two of them were left in the meeting room. Song Qiao stood by the window with her back to her, sunlight streaming in and casting a very long shadow.
Without turning back, Song Qiao said, “Wear something more formal to work starting recently.”
“Okay.” Xia Wei glanced down at her white T-shirt and jeans, nodding in agreement.
“Have you read Chen Yu’s data?”
“I have,” Xia Wei said. “The one you had me compile last week, I’ve read it twice.”
Song Qiao turned around and looked at her, as if confirming whether she would drop the ball.
Xia Wei instinctively straightened her back, raising her eyes with a gaze so firm it looked like she was striving for self-improvement, staring intently at Song Qiao.
Song Qiao looked away first, walked over to the desk, picked up her folder, and walked out. As she passed Xia Wei, her steps paused slightly. “Before Wednesday, memorize the character biographies of those six people again.”
Fearing Xia Wei wouldn’t take it seriously enough, she added: “Not just remember, but memorize. When the other party asks, you can’t say ‘I’ve read the data’; you have to answer directly.”
Xia Wei was stunned: “Would she ask about things in such detail?”
Regarding “the other party,” Xia Wei instinctively assumed it meant Chen Yu.
Song Qiao looked at her with an expression that implied, “You still don’t understand her.”
“She has done interviews her entire life, and what she excels at most is asking you a question you never expected just when you feel you’re fully prepared.” After saying that, Song Qiao turned and walked out.
Xia Wei stood in the meeting room, staring at the closed door.
She looked down at her notebook; it was densely packed once again. From KOLs to visuals to Chen Yu, every single detail was recorded.
But Song Qiao was right: remembering and memorizing were two different things, and memorizing versus actually being able to answer on the spot were two entirely different matters.
She closed her notebook, took a deep breath, and walked out of the meeting room.
Back at her desk, Xie Xiaoqing immediately leaned over: “Why did she keep you?”
“To have me memorize data,” Xia Wei sat down. “She said when we go see Chen Yu, she might ask me questions.”
Xie Xiaoqing looked at her with an expression holding a mix of sympathy, envy, and something indescribable.
“You can officially be considered on Director Song’s ‘key cultivation list,'” Xie Xiaoqing lowered her voice. “Congratulations, and condolences.”
Xia Wei didn’t speak. She opened her computer, found the character biographies of the six trainees, and began reading.
Instead of just remembering them, she committed them to memory one by one, wondering what on earth Chen Yu might ask.
Still, what Chen Yu asked didn’t matter as much as ensuring she didn’t give the impression that she had prepared nothing at all.
Just as she finished reading through it once and picked up her phone, she noticed a new group chat had been added to her messaging app. It wasn’t a work group, but a small private group that Xie Xiaoqing had pulled her into.
Xie Xiaoqing had also sent her a message congratulating her on passing probation, reminding her to tip them off about anything happening around Song Qiao in the future so they could steer clear of the eye of the storm.
No wonder everyone had arrived early collectively on Friday—it turned out everyone knew the project had hit a snag and feared provoking Song Qiao.
Only she had been completely in the dark, and luckily she hadn’t been late that day.
During lunch, Xia Wei carried her food tray and sat down opposite Xie Xiaoqing.
“Sister Xiaoqing, do you think Chen Yu will see Director Song?” Xia Wei took a bite of food. “Didn’t her producer reject her several times?”
Xie Xiaoqing thought for a moment, putting down her chopsticks: “I heard from Lin Yuan that there’s some friction between Chen Yu and her producer…”
Xia Wei’s eyes widened, her hands stopping the rice-shoveling as she waited for Xie Xiaoqing’s follow-up.
“And you know what?” Xie Xiaoqing lowered her voice. “Chen Yu’s producer is quite close with the head of the business department.”
Xia Wei’s grip on her chopsticks tightened slightly.
No wonder. No wonder that producer’s attitude toward Song Qiao was so poor. It turned out they had already chosen a side. What looked like external factors turned out to be internal power struggles after all.
After finishing lunch and returning to her desk, Xia Wei opened the character biography document and continued memorizing.
She recited it silently over and over again, carving each person’s age, school, and traits into her mind so deeply that if someone asked, she could answer without having to think.
Right after the lunch break ended, Song Qiao walked out of her office holding her white ceramic cup, her steps slowing down slightly as she passed Xia Wei’s desk.
“How’s the memorization going?” she asked.
Xia Wei looked up and recited the biography of one of the artists in one breath, without pausing or hesitating.
Song Qiao looked at her for two seconds: “Not bad.”
Just as Xia Wei was about to sell herself a bit more, she heard Song Qiao say, “Clean up. Come with me to the business department for a meeting.”
The meeting location was on the seventeenth floor, the territory of the business department.
Xia Wei followed closely behind Song Qiao carrying her notebook, walking down a long corridor. The glass partitions on both sides were occupied by people from the business department, their gazes casting over from all directions like invisible threads wrapping around them.
Some whispered quietly, some openly sized them up, and others let their gaze linger on Song Qiao for a second before looking away, pretending they hadn’t seen anything.
Song Qiao walked in front, her pace the same as usual—neither fast nor slow—with her high heels striking the floor step by step, maintaining a rhythm as steady as a metronome.
She wore little expression on her face, but Xia Wei noticed her chin was held slightly higher than usual. It wasn’t intentional, but rather a kind of muscle memory—a defensive posture that automatically adjusted the moment she stepped onto this floor.
The meeting room was at the end of the corridor. The door was open, and five people were already seated inside. The head seat was empty, with two people on each side.
When Song Qiao walked in, those four people lifted their heads simultaneously. Some nodded, some pretended not to see, and others took a glance before lowering their heads again to flip through documents.
Song Qiao found a seat opposite the head seat and sat down.
Xia Wei sat next to her, spreading out her notebook, uncapping her pen, and preparing everything needed for taking notes.
She secretly glanced at the four people across from her—three men and one woman, all around forty years old, dressed much more formally than the publicity department with ties, cufflinks, and wristwatches, each exuding an aura of “I am very busy.”
The head seat was still empty; the people from the business department were clearly waiting for someone.
“Director Song, sorry, our Director Zhao is still on the way…” The female staff member sitting opposite spoke softly.
Song Qiao waved a hand to dismiss it. She wasn’t impatient either, flipping open her notebook to look down at something, occasionally making marks on it with her pen.
She even picked up her coffee and took a sip, her posture as relaxed as if she were sitting in her own office.