That night, Wang Zhe left first and Xie Guan didn’t receive the expected reaction from him. However, he knew that the longer the incident dragged on, the more serious the consequences would be. The other shoe would drop eventually, and it was only a matter of when.
The next morning, the company called as Xie Guan was having breakfast with Wang Ruolan and Qu Jie. The other two were about to start shooting in the afternoon, and Xie Guan had a sleepless night, so he got up early to prepare a table full of food. Wang Ruolun, who just walked out of his room, was so frightened that he turned back around to lay on his bed again. Later, he sat down at the table in a state of disbelief: “What day is it today?”
Xie Guan poured a cup of coffee and drank it slowly, “It's the day the sun rose in your bed.”
He calmly listened to the phone call and said to Wang Ruolan and Qu Jie, “I have to go to the company in the morning, and I might not make it back in time to send you both off at noon.”
“No problem, you do your thing,” Wang Ruolan waved his hand. “Having this meal together is enough for us.”
Xie Guan smiled, seemingly relaxed and carefree, without showing any of the heavy emotions brewing in his heart. He stood up, holding his phone, “I’ll go change clothes first. Remember to wash the dishes after eating, don’t be lazy.”
“I know, I know,” Wang Ruolan covered his face with his hand. “Please leave quickly.”
They met in Wang Zhe’s office, where aside from the manager Yao Jing, the vice president, artist director, and the legal team were also present. As soon as Xie Guan entered, several pairs of eyes immediately fixated on him: curiosity mixed with irritation, and none of them looked friendly.
Perhaps it was because the company never had such a meddlesome and audacious artist, who seemed like a textbook example of someone looking for trouble.
Xie Guan greeted them one by one, but no one asked him to take a seat, and so he stood with his hands behind his back next to Wang Zhe’s desk. He maintained a composed demeanor, appearing extremely well-behaved.
Yao Jing examined him and gained a firsthand understanding of the saying, “A barking dog seldom bites.” When the atmosphere became sufficiently tense, she spoke slowly, “You must be Xie Guan. I heard about last night from Wang Zhe.”
“Mr. Zhang is an important business partner for us, and your manager emphasized this to you multiple times. You had a minor dispute and ended up in a physical altercation with Mr. Zhang. Do you still consider the company in your interests?”
Xie Guan came with the intention of resolving things peacefully, and he could endure a few harsh words without self-defense. He didn’t try to argue back and went along with Yao Jing’s point, saying, “I’m sorry. I indeed acted impulsively and didn’t think it through. I apologize for causing losses to the company. I’m willing to accept any punishment the company deems necessary.”
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
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Xie Guan’s heart sank suddenly. It felt like the ground had disappeared from beneath his feet, and a momentary sensation of weightlessness took over his senses. His body swayed in place, but he quickly regained his composure, wearing a calm expression. “Alright, please go on.”
Wang Zhe silently pushed two contracts toward him, one being his original entertainment contract with the company, and the other being the termination contract.
Xie Guan only completed high school and had a rudimentary education. As such, he was fine with reading scripts but struggled with contracts filled with professional jargon. He patiently glanced at the beginning of the contract and then set it aside, asking the quiet legal representative beside him, “Could you please highlight the key points and explain the termination clauses to me?”
He said this to avoid showing weakness, so that no one would take advantage of his inability to understand the document. The legal representative, feeling somewhat guilty, thought he was questioning the contract, and instinctively pointed out the unfavorable clauses, “Mr. Xie, originally your contract with the company was set to expire in August next year, but the company has decided to terminate it early. Since you’re at fault, the company won’t pay you any breach of contract compensation.”
“Furthermore,” the legal representative said with difficulty as he glanced at Xie Guan, “due to your actions causing significant losses to the company, the company intends to deduct half of your earnings from January to June this year.”
Xie Guan’s expression turned ashen like he had been stabbed in the back.
The color drained from his cheeks, and his clenched fists hung at his sides. His gaze quickly turned dark.
Yao Jing and Wang Zhe unconsciously leaned back in their chairs, as if they were facing a wild beast that might attack at any moment.
Xie Guan spoke calmly but with a hint of coldness, “To hell with your so-called significant losses.”
“We all know how this incident unfolded. Don’t push me too far, and don’t think I’m an easy target. If you want me to pack my bags and leave, clean up your own mess first before talking to me.” He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, “Otherwise, we’ll all be backed into a corner, and I’ll fight to the end. Let’s see who’s more resilient.”
There is a saying: ““The weak fear the strong, the strong fear the fierce and the fierce fear those who don’t value their lives”.” At that moment, everyone instinctively fell silent. Xie Guan successfully subdued this group of individuals. He gave a defiant, enigmatic smile, silently gesturing with his lips to indicate “wait and see,” and then walked out of the office in large strides.
The door slammed.
In the chairman’s office on the 27th floor of the Hengrui Group building, Huo Mingjun opened his mailbox and clicked on the investigation report sent to him by his assistant.
Xie Guan, male, born on May 4, 1992, in Mengmen County, S Province. His father, Xie Tingfang, is a farmer, and his mother, Zhao Xinger, passed away early.
As he scrolled through the report, long paragraphs of text flew across the screen, and the few old photos were too blurry to reveal any familiar faces.
There was no need to continue reading; he already understood that this was another futile and hopeless wish.
Every August, Huo Mingjun would visit a grave in H Province. He should have accepted this fact, and how all the regrets and disbelief he harbored were in vain before a handful of brown earth. The departed would forever rest in the cold ground, and even if souls could be reincarnated, they would already be living ordinary lives.
The deceased were gone, but after many years, the living still couldn’t let go.
The phone placed on the table began to vibrate. Coincidentally, Huo Zhikuan was also talking about Xie Guan on the other line, “…I heard the negotiations with the company fell through. Zhang Heshan initially let it slide because of your influence, but now he’s determined to retaliate… There’s no doubt there will be a crackdown. What should we do? Do you want to intervene?”
The exhaustion and powerlessness brought about by dashed hopes made him irrationally weary of the name “Xie Guan.” Huo Mingjun pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Don’t bother, I’ve made a mistake.”
A week later, Xie Guan was called back to the company by Wang Zhe. While his attitude remained cold, the new termination contract no longer included the clause about deducting earnings. The two parties severed ties completely, and Xie Guan was well aware that Starlight Entertainment couldn’t accommodate him. Perhaps the previous threat to deduct his earnings was only a setup for this final outcome. He couldn’t help but smirk inwardly; these people were wallowing in their own filth and assumed everyone else was just as dirty. With a group of executives dragging them down like this, Starlight Entertainment would find it hard to reverse their fortunes.
However, on second thought, he offended investors and was driven out by his former agency; his situation wasn’t much better than Starlight’s.
But life had to go on, and the show must continue as well. Xie Guan gave up his company dormitory, found a small rented room, and carefully counted all his savings. He sat cross-legged on the old bunk bed, deep in thought about his future. At a certain moment, the words spoken by Ms. Nie flashed through his mind.
At best, his appearance could be described as handsome, and it was far from being an “androgynous beauty” or having a “delicate physique. Xie Guan glanced at his own abdominal muscles and realized that discarding the idea of “finding a backer” was much more practical.
One should stick to their principles in life. Since he had previously defied Mr. Zhang and hadn’t stooped to unspoken rules, seeking a backer now would be like slapping himself in the face. If he had known this, why did he rush to put on a show of righteousness?
In his childhood textbooks, it said that making the right choice would bring inner satisfaction even if it meant enduring hardship. However, the cruelty of real life meant that steadfastly adhering to what’s “appropriate” could lead to even more challenging circumstances. He paid a high price with the only consolation being that he was a person of integrity.
Over the years, Xie Guan struggled to gain recognition in the entertainment industry. His earnings were meager, and even the paycheck he secured for his role in Rising Tides of the Blue Sea was a mere 12,000 yuan for one episode. With such little savings, the money he had wouldn’t last more than a few months. If he didn’t find work soon, he’d be facing homelessness.
As such, he spent some time revising his resume and sent it to nearly a hundred production companies. Xie Guan printed out copies, prepared some good cigarettes and tea, and went door-to-door at hotels near the film and television studios to knock on the doors of assistant directors. Fortunately, his several years of experience as an extra before joining Starlight Entertainment made it easier for him to re-enter the industry than he initially thought.
After a month, the resumes he sent to the production companies seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Xie Guan did manage to participate in a few extra roles for different productions, but the pay was pitiful. Eventually, news spread that Mr. Zhang was determined to blacklist a certain D-list artist, and when someone recognized Xie Guan, the word got around. Subsequently, no production dared to hire him.
Returning from the film and television studios to his residence in the city, Xie Guan already lost nearly ten pounds. He was quite lean to begin with, but now he appeared somewhat haggard. He placed his large backpack in the corner, washed his face, and collapsed heavily onto the bed.
The resumes he sent out received no response, and production companies were unwilling to risk angering Mr. Zhang by giving him an opportunity. While Mr. Zhang was an investor, he was just one of many in the industry, not all-powerful or omnipotent. Although another artist could easily handle this sleazy old man with a drink or two, he became an insurmountable obstacle in Xie Guan’s path.
In the darkness, he closed his eyes tightly and silently asked himself, “Do I really want to continue on this path?”
Just when he was on the verge of losing all hope, there was finally a glimmer of opportunity.
Xie Guan received an email from a small film company on Hong Kong Island. The email stated that they were preparing a film project, and Xie Guan’s profile happened to match the requirements for the role of the third male lead in the film. They hoped he could come to Hong Kong Island for a screen test and provided the contact information for the casting director.
The lifeline that emerged in his dire situation was a pleasant surprise, and Xie Guan leaped up as if injected with chicken blood. Hong Kong Island was beyond the reach of Mr. Zhang’s influence. He was unfamiliar with the region and never considered it as a potential career path, so this occasion was a chance for a significant change.
When Xie Guan replied to the email, his hands were trembling, and he accidentally typed a few words wrong. He carefully saved the contact information for the casting director and called at an appropriate time. The person on the other end had a thick Hong Kong accent, and Xie Guan struggled to understand his meaning at first. The film they were working on had a tight budget, which was why they were considering an actor like Xie Guan, who proactively approached them.
As long as there was a role to play, Xie Guan didn’t mind compromising on his pay. They quickly reached an agreement. Two days later, Xie Guan packed his simple belongings, terminated his rental lease, and embarked on a journey southward all by himself.
thank you for translating~
The poor guy.. Such is the world we’re living in nowadays.. 😩
Xie Guan is so pitiful. I just hope something good will happen to him soon, he deserves to live a better life. Thank you for the translation!