Xi Jing Bay Villa.
Min Zhengyue stormed into the wine cellar of the villa like a bandit entering a village.
He had come to Xi Jing Bay today for two reasons: first, to tell Yu Qinzhou that he had already bought a paparazzi studio; second, to drink wine.
He paced back and forth in the wine cellar three times, carefully selecting a bottle of strong liquor he had only heard of but never tasted. Hugging the exquisitely shaped bottle, he casually walked past the sofa behind Yu Qinzhou.
Then, as if by accident, he paused.
He leaned forward slightly.
Yu Qinzhou disliked others getting too close, so Min Zhengyue always kept a careful distance. Even so, he could still clearly see what was displayed on the screen.
It was a photo of two movie tickets.
Pretty novel.
He muttered to himself, then said aloud, “Death Notice, huh? I watched that movie yesterday. Not bad.”
“Yesterday?”
“Heh, after dinner you two left, and I got bored, so I found a friend and went to the cinema instead, watched two films of the same genre.” Min Zhengyue circled around to Yu Qinzhou’s side, set down the wine bottle, and pulled out his phone. “This is probably the best among this year’s Spring Festival releases. The other suspense film invested by Changfeng was total garbage. The actor Huo Gao spent money on couldn’t act at all—I almost threw up watching it.”
The “Huo Gao” he mentioned was a relative of the Rong family’s madam. His family was involved in the entertainment industry, and his only hobby in life was playing around with young celebrities.
Min Zhengyue had never looked highly upon him.
“Changfeng actually has decent taste normally. The production quality was fine, but Huo Gao got blinded by some pretty face and replaced the originally cast serious actor. Then he forced extra scenes onto that character, ruining the entire narrative flow. I’d estimate the box office dropped by at least fifty percent.”
Yu Qinzhou’s expression remained indifferent, but he listened clearly.
He did not question Huo Gao’s situation, only said, “You know quite a lot.”
Min Zhengyue raised his chin smugly. “Didn’t I say I’m opening a paparazzi studio? Of course I need to know all these little insider stories.”
“Oh right, guess who that replaced actor was?”
Though he phrased it like a question, he knew Yu Qinzhou wasn’t interested in the entertainment industry and likely wouldn’t recognize anyone.
He directly tapped the phone screen, pointing at the large title DEATH NOTICE, smiling mischievously.
“It was a small supporting role in Death Notice. Only appeared for less than two minutes before dying—an unlucky extra—but he acted really well. Online reviews of him are especially good.”
Min Zhengyue pulled up Ming Qi’s photo and held it in front of Yu Qinzhou.
“How about it? Handsome, right?”
Yu Qinzhou had never seen this photo before.
It looked like a casual shot. The young man stood under a daytime streetlight, wearing a simple shirt and trousers. His soft black hair was slightly lifted by the wind. He tilted his head slightly, curved his alluring eyes, and pinched the black mask strap as if about to remove it.
At that frozen moment, his striking facial structure and outstanding features were almost entirely captured in the frame.
He was indeed good-looking.
But Yu Qinzhou’s attention was elsewhere.
“He was replaced? When did that happen?”
Min Zhengyue thought for a moment. “Changfeng’s film started preparation like three years ago, so it must’ve been around that time… come to think of it, Ming Qi was still a student back then.”
Then he finally reacted.
“Wait, why are you asking about this?”
Yu Qinzhou’s tone was calm. “Just asking.”
His eyes lowered slightly, gaze shifting from the movie tickets to the iced cola and popcorn beside them. Among them was even a photo of Ming Qi deliberately taken—his hand subtly making a peace sign.
After drinking two cups of wine, Min Zhengyue finally received Ming Qi’s private message reply:
Sorry, Mr. Yu. My manager and I already made plans before the movie was released. I’ll treat you next time instead [Cat Apology.JPG]
So it was the manager.
From that message alone, Yu Qinzhou could almost picture the young man seriously explaining it.
He smiled faintly.
Y: Then next time, save me a ticket for any film Mr. Ming stars in.
Ming Qi blinked, unconsciously touching his nose, feeling slightly embarrassed.
It seemed Yu Qinzhou had truly taken his earlier words seriously—and trusted him quite a bit.
That feeling was oddly pleasant.
And when he was happy, his reply carried a bit of excitement:
[OK.JPG]
It was a fat, white-and-gray cat leaning lazily on a sofa, giving a bold “OK” sign—arrogant and adorable.
Meng She held his ice-cold cola, sipping through a straw, but his eyes were fixed on Ming Qi beside him.
Even though the cinema lighting was dim, he could still faintly see the curve of Ming Qi’s lips.
…Who was he chatting with, that made him this happy?
Meng She narrowed his eyes and leaned in silently, whispering in a ghostly tone only Ming Qi could hear:
“Xiao Ming… you’re not secretly dating someone behind my back, are you?”
The sudden voice slid in like a ghost, startling Ming Qi so badly he jolted.
His phone slipped from his hand—
thud.
It fell to the ground and rolled all the way into the corner.
Ming Qi: “……”
Meng She: “……”
It was originally just a casual remark, but Ming Qi’s reaction made Meng She feel like he might have accidentally hit the mark.
He suddenly panicked. “Wait, are you serious? Inside the industry or outside? Male or female? Older or younger? How many people in their family?”
Their little Ming Qi was such a clean, well-behaved kid—what if some big bad “pork trotter” had tricked him!
Seeing Meng She getting more and more agitated, Ming Qi quickly reached out and covered his mouth, making a “shh” gesture. Then he pointed at the big screen in front of them, signaling: We’re in a movie theater. Don’t disturb others.
Meng She: “……”
Fine. He’d endure.
But the moment he thought Ming Qi might actually be in love, the seat beneath him suddenly felt like it had needles. He couldn’t sit still at all.
As soon as the movie ended and Ming Qi was still immersed in the plot, Meng She immediately leaned in, impatient:
“Spit it out. Honestly!”
Ming Qi: “……”
Why was Meng-ge still stuck on this?
He had thought watching the movie would make this topic go away.
Ming Qi raised his right hand solemnly, like swearing an oath.
“I swear, I’m not dating anyone.”
There was a difference between marriage and dating anyway.
Sorry, Meng-ge. I’ll use my 500,000 yuan allowance to support you later. You won’t blame me, right? T^T
“Really not?” Meng She frowned suspiciously, afraid Ming Qi was just avoiding him because he found him annoying. He quickly added, “I’m not forbidding you from dating. But you’re still in a rising phase of your career—dating could affect your focus on work. That said, if you really want to date and relax a bit, it’s not impossible. The main thing is the other person’s character has to pass.”
Ming Qi naturally knew Meng She was worried about him. His tone softened.
“Don’t worry, Meng-ge. I understand everything you said.”
After staring at his face for a long while, making sure those alluring eyes were still as clean and clear as ever, Meng She finally let out a breath of relief.
“Alright. Let’s go eat.”
For lunch, they had grilled fish—something Ming Qi had been thinking about for a long time.
After eating, they didn’t stay out. Meng She sent Ming Qi back home.
Once home, Ming Qi moved a small tea stove onto the balcony. He took out the tea leaves Yu Qinzhou had “friendly gifted” him, along with fresh milk he bought on the way back, and began brewing milk tea while continuing to scroll through Death Notice reviews and videos on his tablet.
In just three days, the popularity of Death Notice kept rising instead of falling.
Although the opening day box office champion went to Changfeng’s investment film Lost, Death Notice quickly pulled ahead by a large margin in the following days.
By the time the film surpassed 1.2 billion at the box office, the production team released a new poster featuring Ming Qi alone.
He was curled up in a basement corner wearing torn clothes, arms wrapped around his knees. His beautiful, expressive eyes were filled with terror. His skin—barely covered by fabric—was stained with dust and blood. Heavy iron shackles bound his slender ankles, extending out of the frame.
The caption was deliberately meaningful:
A film’s success cannot be separated from countless “small roles.”
At the same time, the official Weibo account @-mentioned Ming Qi.
Before Death Notice was released, Ming Qi’s account had fewer than 100,000 followers.
In just four days, it surged to 150,000.
For him, it could only be described as a rocket-like rise.
[Thanks for the official recommendation, I’m here for the pretty little actor!]
[The production really put effort into this. Even small roles were carefully cast, and the acting was genuinely good.]
[I understand, but at this critical moment I can’t help thinking you’re subtly roasting something.]
[A film’s success depends on small roles, and its failure also depends on small roles, right?]
[Fu Qing: Just say my name directly.]
[This comeback is killing me, Death Notice, you really did it.]
“Ming Qi, did you see the official Weibo?” Meng She called.
Ming Qi had just finished reading the post and comments.
Meng She clicked his tongue twice. “What is this? A fight between gods, and mortals suffer?”
At first, when Lost was overtaken in box office rankings, it didn’t care much.
But after Death Notice continued to dominate and even a third-place animated film surged ahead, pushing Lost down further, the companies behind it finally couldn’t sit still.
Soon, social media platforms like Weibo and Douban were flooded with “netizens” accusing Death Notice of fake box office numbers, while others claimed the animated film contained inappropriate content for children.
Thus began a chaotic online war between fanbases, with remaining Spring Festival films’ fans fanning the flames.
The intensity of it all was more dramatic than a Spring Festival Gala sketch.
Whether Death Notice was actually suppressing box office discussions or not, one thing was clear:
The latest poster and caption were openly slapping Lost in the face.
Meng She’s first reaction was satisfaction—finally getting revenge.
His second reaction was: Oh no. Ming Qi is going to be hated.
No need to mention others—Fu Qing, the small actor who got his role through connections in Lost, would definitely direct his anger at Ming Qi.
Compared to Meng She’s worry, Ming Qi was calm.
“It’s fine. Thinking about it another way, the official account’s move also brought me a lot of followers.”
Meng She couldn’t help laughing. “Your mentality is really good.”
Ming Qi also curved his eyes slightly.
For someone like him, that might be his only strength.
“If it turns out later that the role in Lost originally belonged to you… I can’t even imagine how chaotic things will get.”
Not long after Meng She said that, the topic #LostMingQi suddenly surged onto the trending list, shooting rapidly into the top ten.
Meng She: “……”
What does that even mean?
Was his mouth now specially designed to trigger bad predictions?
When he prayed every day for Ming Qi to become famous and himself to get rich, nothing ever happened.
And now this?