Chapter 1: Teacher of the Year
The television lit up the living room with flashing colors, as if it were celebrating a victory that wasn't his. On the screen, a host shouted with that forced smile only seen in gossip shows:
"Once again, the great success of the year belongs to our beloved director, Wei Jinchao! His latest movie, Love in Times of Zombies and Taxes, has broken all box office records. Critics from all over the world call it 'a masterpiece of absurd cinema.'"
Lu Cheng almost spat out his tea.
"A masterpiece? In that movie, a zombie falls in love with his tax accountant!" he growled, squeezing the remote control as if it were his enemy's neck.
He wanted nothing more than to crush the head of that good-for-nothing thief, a rat who had stolen every opportunity he ever had.
"Brother Cheng, do you think you could lend me your notes?"
"You little leech! When I catch you, I'll take you on vacation around the world… tied up in the trunk of my car!" Lu Cheng shouted, letting the threat float in the air, while the boy stepped back, his eyes shining with both fear and amusement.
Things had gotten complicated ever since Lu Cheng had finished school. He practically never had the luck of getting a decent film into theaters. Not because most of his projects were bad stories, but because they were so innovative that the technology simply didn't exist yet to bring them to the big screen.
He hated the luck of those big-name actors who could take a movie copied frame by frame from a cartoon and still break records just because they had the budget to plaster every idea across the silver screen.
"Guess I'd do better as a critic… no, wait, I still want to be a filmmaker."
"A fantasy filmmaker, but still a filmmaker… where was I? Oh right, today he had been invited to watch a school play."
That's how low he had fallen. Now he was basically living the life of one of his old teachers—those frustrated professors who had never managed to succeed in the entertainment industry.
Professor Xiao, he regretted not having understood your teachings. In his next life, he would make sure to bring you an apple on the first day.
He pretended to wipe away a nonexistent tear from his eye.
"Well… spit at the sky and it'll fall back in your face," he muttered, recalling the proverb his mother used whenever she wanted him to stop complaining.
Now he was stuck living as a drama teacher, venting his frustrations on his adorable—and sometimes insufferable—students.
As he thought about that, he noticed something strange in the mirror. For a second, he could have sworn he saw a wicked smile appear on his face, as if part of him enjoyed the idea of making those poor kids suffer during rehearsals.
He shook his head violently.
"No, no, no! I'm a saint. I wouldn't do such devilish things," he convinced himself, though that fleeting smile still lingered in his mind like a bad online review.
He grabbed his toothbrush and dipped it into the paste with the precision of a director marking his first shot. The taste of mint filled his mouth as he brushed furiously, as if he could scrub away the memories of all his failed movies.
When he finished, he rinsed the brush and left it on the ceramic cup that had more cracks than his career. He turned on the faucet, cold water hit his face, and he stared again at the mirror, drops sliding down his cheeks.
"Lu Cheng…" he murmured, patting his face as if to "wake up." "Either you become a legendary director, or you'll end up teaching teenagers who think Shakespeare was an influencer."
"Well, the first one didn't happen, so what's left is to ruin the dreams of the next generation… no, no, I mean illuminate them with the words of wise Latins… if a blow doesn't make you see reality, then nothing will," he corrected himself, raising a finger at the mirror like a lecturer giving a masterclass.
The mirror, cruel as always, didn't answer. It only reflected back the image of a messy-haired man whose hair stuck out in all directions as if it had lost a fight with gravity.
He grabbed a rough towel, dried himself half-heartedly, and sighed. The cold air made him shiver, reminding him that even the water heater seemed to have sided with Wei Jinchao to ruin his existence.
He put on the wrinkled shirt he had left hanging on the chair for two days. The collar was crooked, but smoothing it with his hand didn't make much difference. After all, why bother? No one was going to see him as a movie star; at best, his students would see him as "that weird teacher who stares into space trying to look mysterious."
He opened the refrigerator hoping for a decent breakfast, but was greeted instead by the echo of poverty: a half-empty bottle of water, a wrinkled tomato, and something that in better days had been cheese.
"A feast fit for kings," he muttered, taking the tomato and biting into it like an apple. The sour juice made him wince, but at least it filled his stomach.
He sat at the small kitchen table, surrounded by unfinished scripts and bills that hovered around him like vultures.
"Lu Cheng, filmmaker, dreamer, visionary…" he said in a deep voice, like a trailer narrator. "Currently starring as a devourer of rotten tomatoes. Don't miss his next masterpiece: The Man Who Ate His Own Dignity for Breakfast."
He laughed to himself, though the sound was sadder than funny.
With one quick sweep, he grabbed his worn-out bag, shoved in a few notes and the notebook where he scribbled ideas no one wanted to produce. As he left the apartment, he closed the door carefully, as if afraid to wake up his debts.
The hallway smelled of dampness and instant noodles. He greeted the neighbor across the hall, a chubby man in a robe who always seemed to be on vacation. The man gave him a sleepy nod, clutching his coffee cup as if it were the only reason he still lived.
"Good morning, Director Lu," the neighbor said mockingly.
"Good morning, hallway critic," Lu Cheng replied, forcing a smile before heading down the stairs.
That old man knew how to bring out both the best and worst in him, but nothing good could come from pairing a failed writer with a failed filmmaker. They were natural enemies, and anyone who said they could get along was lying.
Lu Cheng sighed, clutching the bag tightly against his side.
"Alright, Lu Cheng… time to give your daily performance: pretending you know about life, while teaching kids who think Stanislavski was a vodka brand."
"Alright, Wang Peng," he said, crossing his arms. "Today's lesson is emotional expression. Show us your inner pain. Remember: you are a warrior who has lost everything… your sword, your kingdom, your… video game account."
Wang Peng nodded solemnly, closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he let out a scream so off-key that even the pigeons on the roof flew away.
"Nooo! My kingdom is gone! And my sword… my sword!"
He raised his arms to the sky, but instead of looking like a defeated warrior, he resembled a customer begging for a discount at the market.
"And now… even my Cheap Shooter password!" he added dramatically, falling to his knees.
The entire class exploded in laughter. One of his classmates almost choked trying to hold it in.
Lu Cheng put his hand to his face.
"Wang Peng…" he said with fake patience. "Yours is not Greek tragedy. Yours is unintentional comedy."
"Is that good or bad, teacher?" the boy asked from the floor, his innocent eyes almost moving him.
"Let's just say… it's useful for entertaining at children's birthday parties," Lu Cheng replied, while the laughter continued to fill the classroom.