“Have you lost your mind?” Sister Wen couldn’t believe it. In the short time it took her to answer a phone call, Qin Sang had managed to stir up trouble again.

Her head ached terribly, and she wanted to curse but held back, gritting her teeth as she suppressed her temper. “You’d better give me a reasonable explanation. What do you mean, you’re not planning to accept Director Li’s role?”

“Wenjie, please don’t be angry yet,” Qin Sang knew she was at fault and maintained a quite proper attitude, though her tone unconsciously softened when explaining. “I’ve carefully read the script, and I think that role isn’t quite suitable for me.”

“What does it matter whether the role is suitable or not?” Wenjie was nearly furious. “What’s most important for you right now is to maintain your reputation. Besides, how bad could Director Li’s projects possibly be? Do you know how many international stars he has nurtured in the past?”

“I know, but—“

Qin Sang looked at her directly, his expression unusually serious, “All of that is in the past now, isn’t it?”

Li Zhengkui has rarely taken on directing projects in recent years. His most recent work, which he personally directed, was \*Ask the Boundary\*, released six years ago. At the time, it was promoted as having a powerful cast and massive investment. Given that Li Zhengkui himself is a director of national prestige, the hype surrounding the film’s “big three” selling points had already set sky-high expectations among the audience before its release.

Unfortunately, after the premiere, the film’s reputation completely collapsed. Attendance rates plummeted sharply, and box office performance was disappointing. By the time the film was pulled from cinemas, its total earnings fell far short of the invested costs. Even the film’s overall rating dropped to 4.5—and even this score was barely maintained out of respect for the all-star cast and Li Zhengkui’s previous acclaimed works.

\*Ask the Boundary\* is undoubtedly the most humiliating work in Li Zhengkui’s film history. Since then, whether in interviews or even in light-hearted jokes, once \*Ask the Boundary\* is mentioned, Li Zhengkui immediately loses his temper.

Even six years later, Li Zhengkui still couldn’t accept that initial defeat, which is why he’s now making a comeback with Wanjie 2, determined to wash away the past humiliation.

Unfortunately, a bad script is just bad, no matter what.

Qin Sang had read the preliminary script and part of the outline. The plot was too obscure and difficult to understand, and with such a grand worldview, there was no way it could be fully developed in just two hours.

“Wen Jie, I understand what you mean. You want to play it safe and secure a win, but I don’t think working with Director Li right now is the best choice. He’s undeniably talented—there’s no doubt about that—but people who are too talented tend to be strong-willed, stubborn, and set in their ways. That’s a major pitfall for anyone in the film industry.”

Sister Wen’s resolve began to waver, though her brows remained knitted. “Even so, we could choose not to work with Director Li and instead find another, more suitable director. What about Zhou Yihong?”

She was still holding the business card that Qin Sang had given her earlier—a blue-and-white background with just a name and a string of numbers.

“I’ve never even heard of this person before,” Wen Jie said, not understanding. “How could you agree to it?”

“I didn’t agree,” Qin Sang corrected her. “I just said I’d think about it.”

Qin Sang sighed softly. “Wen Jie, I’ve come from nothing to where I am now. Back when I was hitting walls everywhere, wasn’t all I wished for just a chance to prove myself?”

“What’s different about me now compared to back then? I’m still the same person,” Qin Sang’s gaze was sharp and clear, just as honest and sincere as before. “It’s just that I happened to get a stroke of good luck.”

Sister Wen was moved and pressed her forehead, sighing after a long moment. “Forget it. You’ve always had your own ideas. You probably already know what to do.”

\_

Xie Yunchen’s mentor once said that Zhou Yihong was an artistic and sensitive person, smooth in his dealings, with an exceptionally high sense of pride. Yet, the only thing he had was a stubborn recklessness, which made him well-suited for research.

This stubborn recklessness, put nicely, could be called persistence; put harshly, it’s just shameless.

Xie Yunchen’s relationship with this senior brother wasn’t particularly deep, but that didn’t stop the other from leveraging it to pester him relentlessly.

Zhou Yihong spent half a day persuading and entangled for a long time, trying to convince Xie Yunchen to step forward and vouch for him, using his own identity to provide professional assistance.

Suddenly, he let out a low, self-deprecating laugh: “Honestly, I know that you, just like our mentor, look down on me from the bottom of your hearts. I fled at the crucial moment, letting down the mentor’s painstaking cultivation. I’m selfish, I’m cowardly, I admit it too, but…”

“Doing scientific research—it’s just too fucking hard.”

Some hardships are the “bitterness” that comes before “sweetness finally arrives,” while others are the “bitterness” of a “sea of suffering with no end in sight.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what the point of this stubborn persistence is—overcoming one challenge after another, making extraordinary contributions to human progress and the future of aerospace? Providing indelible help to the grand harmony of human life? Those are just words to fool passionate young kids.”

“I’m thirty this year. What does thirty mean? If my life is short, a third of it is already over. My peers are either successful and accomplished or married with children. And me? Alone and worthless.”

“You say we’ve done so much, but who actually cares? Even with endless devotion, we might not make it into the annals of history. So what’s the point?”

Xie Yunshen’s gaze darkened, but he remained silent. Or perhaps he had no answer to give.

Zhou Yihong scoffed self-mockingly, “I’m a person of particularly vulgar tastes—so vulgar it’s unbearable. I need validation, I crave attention.”

“I don’t have the ability to act high and mighty. When the future seems endless and there’s no reward for constant giving, I can’t convince myself to keep going either.”

“Just treat it as the last time.” Zhou Yihong took a drag of his cigarette, with a mix of emotion and resignation. “I’ll shamelessly ask you for a favor one last time, using our senior-junior relationship as leverage. Regardless of whether it works out in the end, I’ll accept it.”

\_

In the past few days, Qin Sang had been forgetting to eat and sleep, her routine completely disrupted. Her performance at work was also off; she seemed unfocused, almost as if she were under the influence of drugs.

But that was exactly the case.

She had added Zhou Yihong on WeChat, originally intending to ask him to send the script. To her surprise, he directly sent her a link to a webcomic.

According to him, it all started when he stumbled upon the sci-fi webcomic Lunar Project during his leisure time to relieve stress. Initially, he went into it with the intention of finding faults, but ended up getting hooked, unable to stop reading until he finished it all in one go.

After finishing the comic, he wasn’t satisfied and felt an urge to expand its influence even further. So, he proactively reached out to the comic’s author and their studio, negotiated the terms, and secured the rights.

The comic, titled Lunar Project, tells the story of a post-2048 Earth on the brink of collapse due to overexploitation. To survive, humanity must seek out and explore more suitable celestial bodies, with the Moon being one of the key targets for development.

At first glance, the premise might sound cliché. But as Zhou Yihong said, you have to dive into the content to truly appreciate how captivating the core of the story is. Unlike other works in the same genre, it uniquely unfolds this heavy, somber plot with a lighthearted, humorous tone, skillfully alleviating the often-unavoidable dryness typical of sci-fi narratives.

This thing is just like soul food, getting more addictive by the minute.

Qin Sang, who usually keeps a wide berth from sci-fi movies and novels as a bit of a philistine, found herself reading sci-fi comics with surprising ease and enjoyment. It was the kind of experience where you can’t put it down without feeling a restless itch, wishing you could finish it all in one breath.

If she had initially harbored doubts and reservations about Zhou Yihong, then after reading the complete comic, she was convinced.

“Wen-jie,” Qin Sang said with a pair of dark circles from staying up late, her eyes bright and shining as she gazed at her agent, her expression unusually animated. “I’ve decided to accept Zhou Yihong’s previous proposal and schedule another meeting to discuss the script in detail.”

Wen Jie couldn’t say much more about it. Seeing how dark the circles under her eyes were from staying up late, yet she still looked so excited, Wen Jie had no choice but to agree to her request. She set up a meeting time and place with Zhou Yihong.

Unfortunately, the mission got off to a rocky start. On her way back to Shanghai after wrapping up a promotion, Qin Sang rushed to make the appointment, only for her car to break down unexpectedly on the elevated section of Fuxing Middle Road. The traffic was completely congested, with no way forward or back.

The driver was inspecting the cause of the breakdown. Wen Jie glanced at the time and anxiously pressed, “How is it? Can you fix it?”

The driver was also puzzled. The car had just undergone maintenance, so logically, this shouldn’t have happened.

For the moment, he couldn’t figure it out and couldn’t pinpoint the specific cause. He could only answer honestly, “I’m not entirely sure what’s wrong. It might not be fixable anytime soon.”

Sister Wen was displeased. “Then what should we do? It’s rush hour right now, traffic is terrible, and even if we arrange for someone to come pick us up last minute, it’s already too late.”

The driver scratched the back of his head, cautiously observing her expression before tentatively suggesting, “Should I go ask if there’s anyone who can help?”

Sister Wen furrowed her brows, about to dismiss his suggestion, when the cars stuck behind them began honking impatiently. As her peripheral vision caught sight of the lone figure standing to the side, waiting, she couldn’t help but pause in surprise.

Her schedule had been packed tight lately, and even the time she had arranged to meet Zhou Yihong tonight had been squeezed in with great effort. She hadn’t had time to rest, nor had she managed to eat a proper meal.

What’s more, times have changed—with her status, if she continued to be blocked here and got recognized, there was no telling what kind of trouble might break out.

Wen-jie sighed helplessly, having no choice but to compromise: “Then make it quick. Don’t take too long.”

……

Autumn was almost here. These past couple of days, Jingcheng had cooled down, the nights a bit chilly. A gust of wind swept over from the river, and Qin Sang shivered, pulling her trench coat tighter. Her white lambskin boots tapped along the edge of the curb, a beret pressing down her hair, a mask covering her face. She casually tucked away a few strands ruffled by the breeze. Xiao-xiao handed her a thermos cup: “Drink some hot water to warm up.”

Qin Sang reached out to take it, cupping the thermos with both hands. Warmth continuously seeped through the cup wall, and she let out a contented sigh.

A glimpse in the corner of her eye caught the driver leaving, and Wen Jie coming over. Only then did she ask, “Wen Jie, what’s wrong?”

Wen Jie rubbed the corners of her eyes, looking utterly exhausted. “The car can’t be fixed. The driver went to get help, and I’m afraid it’ll be a while before he’s back.”

Qin Sang pressed her lips together, “Let me give Director Zhou a heads-up. Our car has broken down, so we might be delayed for a while. We shouldn’t keep everyone waiting.”

Wen Jie answered absent-mindedly with an “hmm,” busy contacting the company to see if there was any way to send a car to pick them up via a detour.

Qin Sang lowered her lashes. Deprived of warmth, her fingers holding the phone felt a bit chilly, and her typing was slow.

She lowered her head, sending a message to Zhou Yihong to inform him of the unexpected situation on their end.

Zhou Yihong replied promptly: “Teacher Qin, are you saying that your car broke down and you’re stuck on the road right now?”

Qin Sang: “Yeah, stuck on the elevated highway over Fuxing Middle Road.”

Zhou Yihong: “Fuxing Middle Road? Hold on a sec, let me ask.”

Qin Sang wondered, ask what?

Just about to reply, I heard the driver’s shout beside my ear, “Teacher Qin, I’ve found someone to help.”

Qin Sang instinctively raised her head just as her phone received a new message.

Zhou Yihong: “What a coincidence, my junior brother seems to be there too.”

……

The riverbank was aglow with bustling lights, the moon hung lonely in the sky, and the river surface rippled gently, like scattered fragments of flowing light. The riverside night was lush and vibrant, brilliantly illuminated. Yet from the glamorous, wine-and-lights-filled night, he walked alone. Dressed in a white shirt and black suit pants, his figure stood tall, straight, and unyielding, as if time flowed on without end, and the years had left him unchanged.

The river roared, its waters churning relentlessly. Qin Sang stared unblinkingly at the figure drawing closer and closer. For a fleeting moment, her mind went blank, a ringing filled her ears, and all around fell into profound silence. Even her thoughts grew unusually sluggish, like the pendulum of a long-unused clock—tick, tock, one after another, it swung with a heavy, dragging slowness.

She came to realize it later, and with immense confusion, she could only think of a phrase that seemed entirely out of place: “I panicked, lost my way, stumbling in confusion, unable to find my origin or my destination. In the end, I succumbed with clear awareness, in this endless night.”

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