For Chu Zhi, the past week had felt like standing still before the sun rose, waiting in the hush before light broke over the horizon.
But for the entertainment industry? Seven days passed like nothing at all. Just another week of lukewarm gossip and half-hearted headlines, trending topics that changed by the hour and vanished just as fast.
True to his word, the show's director, Meng Fan, worked quietly in the background. On Mango TV's official app, a poll launched without much fanfare: "Vote for your favorite performance from all four seasons of I Am a Singer." A subtle move. But the foundation for a Hall of Fame had been laid.
Shanghai. An ordinary Friday. An ordinary law firm.
It was peak rush hour again. The streets outside were gridlocked with honking cars and tired people dragging themselves through another endless commute. Big cities had their benefits—but the crowd, the chaos, the feeling of being swallowed alive? That wasn't one of them.
Inside the firm, Jiang Wan grabbed her tote and bolted.
"Nope, not covering your shift today. I slept maybe three hours last night," she said, dodging a pleading coworker. "Ask Yuanyuan."
She didn't stop walking.
"Your emergency isn't my problem."
Even if that coworker were on fire, Jiang Wan probably wouldn't spare a drop of water. That was just her approach to life: fair, firm, and cold.
At twenty-seven, Jiang Wan had long grown used to pressure—from her parents, from society, from the city itself. They wanted her married. Settled. Smiling. She gave none of that. She didn't need new friends, didn't want after-work drinks, and saw little value in shallow connection. Her few friendships were holdovers from childhood.
Every weekday, her commute was a grinding 80 minutes door to door—subway, then bus. She would've moved closer, but rent near the firm was a punch to the throat.
So she adapted. Sharpened two skills to survive:
Skill 1: "Unshakable Mountain"Active Ability. Allows her to stand on a moving train without holding onto poles or handles, even in heels, while scrolling short-form videos.
Skill 2: One-Handed TypingDespite her small, pudgy fingers, her thumbs flew across screens with unnerving speed.
At work, she didn't stand out. But online? Jiang Wan was a queen in the court of sarcasm and snark. A natural-born cynic with a digital soapbox. The only thing that separated her from true trolls was that her barbs had structure, and her bitterness came with a side of realism.
Near her apartment, there was a small wet market where a colony of stray cats gathered. Sometimes young women stopped to feed them. Couples too. They'd crouch beside the curb and offer scraps with loving smiles.
Jiang Wan always sneered.
"Virtue signaling. If they really cared, they'd take them home."
She'd never do it herself, of course. But she wasn't taking photos for likes, either. Occasionally, when guilt poked at her, she might mutter a flat, "Keep it up." More often than not, though, she kept walking.
Tonight, as she passed that familiar corner, a small, limping kitten stepped into her path.
Its hind leg dragged slightly.
For a split second, irritation flared. Not pity. Annoyance. A sharp, irrational impulse surfaced—kick it—before decency caught the reins and yanked the thought back.
"Ugly thing," she muttered. "If you looked cuter, you wouldn't be abandoned."
She walked around it, unmoved.
Her takeout had already arrived. The bag hung from her doorknob when she reached home, labeled "Mr. Jiang."
It was a trick she used often.
Living alone as a woman in a big city demanded precautions. She hung one of her father's shirts on the balcony rail. Left a few cigarette butts near the door—collected from the office smoking area. She avoided quiet alleys, stayed alert.
Inside, she didn't bother with skincare or changing clothes. Her only ritual was hanging up her coat, blasting the AC, and cracking open her takeout: braised pork rice. Already cooling.
Perfect timing.
The TV flickered to life. Off work at 6 PM, she'd timed it perfectly for I Am a Singer's live broadcast. Her expression remained blank. She was a Li Xingwei fan.
The only reason she tuned in? Her idol was a challenger this round.
Perhaps the delivery had been too fast—the pork rice was cold. Jiang Wan shoveled it in indifferently. "Why's this guy getting more screen time? Last episode barely showed him."
Disgust laced her voice. This guy meant Chu Zhi.
Notably, Jiang Wan's former Weibo handle was [Orange Soda~Sweet], a dead giveaway—she'd once been his fan. When the scandals broke, her reaction was the most extreme. As the admin of a Chu Zhi fan group, she'd disbanded it herself. It wasn't about loyalty; it was her nature.
In middle school, her rural accent and looks made her a target. After confiding in her parents, her mother's advice was: "Let it go. Can't avoid trouble? Then evade it."
But evasion failed. Kids could be terrifyingly cruel. Teachers turned a blind eye. Three years of bullying followed.
Miraculously, she didn't hate school. Instead, she studied harder—grades were her only weapon against her tormentors.
Those years shaped her adulthood into a cauldron of negativity. Whether she had undiagnosed mental issues, she didn't know or care. She told herself she'd moved on, even forgotten the bullies. But a undercurrent of rage remained, lashing out at others' flaws. That stray kitten had merely been a lightning rod.
"At least he's performing last," Jiang Wan grumbled, planning to do laundry after her idol's song and return for the results.
Live broadcast commentary:
"Lin Xia's vocals are good, but not quite Li Xingwei's level."
"Uncle Cidian's high notes—goosebumps everywhere."
"Never 'got' Koguchi's appeal until today. Even without anime nostalgia, it's hype."
"Judges know their stuff. Li Xingwei's talent is just built different."
Had she seen the barrage of real-time comments, she'd have known Li Xingwei and Lin Xia dominated the chatter.
Once the judges finished praising Li Xingwei, Jiang Wan stood to toss her takeout box, barely glancing at the screen.
Then—silence.
After host Gu Nanxi's introduction, the stage fell mute, as if someone had hit mute. Jiang Wan's eyes flicked back.
Chu Zhi stood alone under the spotlight. The audience was a still, dark ocean.
"??"
A technical glitch? But when the silence stretched past a minute—no cheers, no glow sticks, no fan signs—Jiang Wan realized: "This was a boycott."
"Good. This is what he deserves." Her first reaction was vindication. Her philosophy had always been: "If you're doing well, how dare you?"
Pleasure delayed her laundry plans. She'd watch his humiliation play out.
Two full minutes later, Chu Zhi announced his song title. Jiang Wan caught the tremor in his voice.
And then—he began to sing. Into the void.