"President Li, this is Lin Chen, a new talent we just signed at Xingyao. He's very musically talented."
"Director Zhang, please give Lin Chen your support if you have any suitable music projects in the future."
"Editor-in-Chief Wang, could you consider having Lin Chen perform at your magazine's annual awards ceremony next time…"
He was like a product on display, sporting a perfectly trained smile, spouting the polite phrases Amy had rehearsed beforehand, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the strangers who were evaluating him. He saw that President Liu, the one who had pressured him at the dinner party, was also there. The man, seeing him, simply raised his glass across the crowd, revealing a knowing, cold smile.
Lin Chen felt a sense of absurdity, as if his soul had left his body. He stood there, wearing an expensive suit, drinking an unknown brand of liquor, chatting and laughing with those once unattainable figures, yet he felt that the real Lin Chen from the Qinling Mountains was drifting further and further away from him.
Midway through the dinner, he excused himself to go to the restroom, wanting some fresh air. Around the corner of the corridor leading to the restroom, he overheard two agents from small companies, also there to "expand their networks," talking in hushed tones.
"...Starry Night is really going all out this time. I heard their initial promotional budget for that newcomer, Lin Chen, is this much." One of them gestured.
"Tsk tsk, they're really going all out. But it's normal. Who doesn't splurge resources on anyone Boss Lu sets his sights on? First, they prop them up to the skies, then slowly recoup their investment."
"I heard he signed an 'S-level' contract? High commission, right?"
"High? The money comes from the company. Just you wait, all this investment will end up on his shoulders. Training fees, styling fees, publicity fees, team salaries… Make the books look good on paper, but how much actually reaches the artist? Frankly, it's a gamble. The artist bets on becoming famous, and the company is guaranteed to profit."
"True. But Xingyao's money laundering… uh, their ability to manage funds is top-notch. A lot of money from dubious sources, packaged through a project, and…"
The two seemed to realize they were being overheard, lowered their voices, and hurriedly left.
Lin Chen stood there, his blood seemingly freezing.
Publication budget? Gamble? Money laundering?
These words struck him like cold bullets.
He had only vaguely known before that the contract was unfair and that the company was investing heavily. But only now did he glimpse the darker and crueler truth beneath the iceberg of this vast entertainment industry. He wasn't just a commodity; he was more likely a front, a tool used for capital operations, perhaps even illegal activities!
The lavish investment he saw and felt might not have been entirely for his own creation, but rather for a more complex and sordid purpose. His so-called "value" was insignificant in the face of capital.
A fear deeper than when he was forced and isolated gripped him. He felt as if he had stepped into a bottomless vortex of money, surrounded by surging, blood-stained undercurrents of capital, and he was merely a small boat, vulnerable to being swallowed at any moment.
He returned to the banquet, dejected, his smile even more rigid. Amy seemed to notice his abnormality and asked softly, "Are you feeling unwell?" Lin Chen shook his head, offering no explanation.
After the banquet, sitting in the car back to his dorm, he watched the neon lights rushing past the window, feeling as if he were falling from a glamorous dream. He took out the company-issued phone, wanting to send Chen Kai a message, but found that the encrypted software couldn't connect to ordinary social media accounts.
He was completely isolated.
Back in that cold, luxurious apartment, as cramped as a subdivided flat, Lin Chen slumped onto the sofa, overwhelmed by immense exhaustion and emptiness. He picked up the old guitar in the corner of his music room—the only thing he'd brought from the past. He gently strummed the strings, wanting to sing "Mountain Questions," but found his throat felt blocked, the sound dry and unfamiliar.
He looked at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window: neat short hair, pale makeup, an expensive suit… The person in the mirror was handsome, stylish, conforming to every image of a "celebrity."
But he couldn't recognize who it was.
The vortex of money had begun to spin, firmly engulfing him at its center. He didn't know where this vortex would ultimately lead him—to a dazzling starry sky, or... an abyss of no return.