Chu Zhi, Li Huai, Luo Jianhui, and Mo Qingqing arrived at the main broadcasting tower. They had been invited to take group photos for a teaser campaign representing the upcoming cultural envoy concert. If not for this shoot, the team might have just submitted their own pictures.
"Brother Jiu, you really are a romantic. You took us to see the galaxy," said Mo Qingqing.
"Come to think of it, I've never seen the Milky Way like that before."
"And 'The Brightest Star in the Night Sky,' when's that single dropping?"
Mo Qingqing wasn't faking her fangirl energy. She had even bought the star-cluster-themed fan account [Crimson Snow], and as soon as she saw Chu Zhi, she hit him with a full triple-like combo.
"That one song doing so well in Japan, honestly, I'm speechless," Li Huai added, referencing the response from a Tokyo broadcast the week prior.
Luo Jianhui kept it simple. "Captain, I'm way too curious about your trash bin."
Each of them fixated on something different, based on age and perspective, but all were clear signs: Chu Zhi was not just hot, he was scorching.
Despite not having seen each other in a week, the four slipped right back into a comfortable rhythm.
The broadcasting tower was one of Beijing's most iconic buildings, though the departments inside were a tangled maze. It took the better part of a morning to finish the shoot.
No one offered them lunch afterward, so Chu Zhi casually suggested, "Uncle Li, Brother Luo, Qingqing, my treat. There's a roast duck place nearby called Admiral's—heard it's decent."
In this industry, if you can't turn a casual work lunch into a lasting relationship, you've failed at networking.
"If I let the junior pay every time, what kind of elder would I be?" Li Huai replied. "Also, that duck place? A friend told me it's amateur hour. I know Beijing well, I'll take you somewhere with real flavor."
"If you're saying that, Uncle Li, I'm really looking forward to it," said Chu Zhi.
"Follow Teacher Li and you'll be eating well," added Mo Qingqing.
The phrase "real flavor" made Luo Jianhui subconsciously swallow. A foodie's reflex.
Under Li Huai's guidance, they took turns and detours until they arrived at a no-frills diner—what locals called a flyhouse. No menu. The chef cooked anything that wasn't slow-cooked cabbage or knife-shredded tofu. As long as it wasn't too fancy, they could whip it up.
Hidden eateries weren't always good, but if a place was this out of the way and still surviving after twenty years, it had something going for it.
They ordered chopped chili fish head, sweating chicken, red minced trio, Liufu duck, and two vegetable sides. Since there were only four of them, the poultry dishes were halved.
As they ate with enthusiasm, the official promo machine kicked into gear. Even before they finished lunch, the national broadcast network had already posted the event on their homepage: [October 28, Hokkaido Inspiration Concert]. The photo featured all four members of the China delegation. Surprisingly, there was no excessive publicity.
The country's relationship with Japan was complicated. Sending an artistic envoy and having it succeed was a diplomatic win, so yes, it was worth mentioning. But the earthquake in Japan... well, they left it at that.
Chu Zhi's team, led by his PR manager Fei Ge, quickly understood the official stance and simply shared the network's official post. Nothing extra.
Still, Little Fruit fans were locked in.
"7 PM the day after tomorrow, perfect timing after work."
"Channel 15? My place doesn't have a TV, can I stream it on my phone?"
"Sure! There's a national network app with every channel on it."
"Finally, no more grainy Bilibili reuploads. We're getting the real deal!"
Their excitement was palpable. The innocence of Little Fruits meant they had no idea what was coming next.
The following day, the weather turned. Late October rarely brings sunshine.
"Let me say thank you, thank you for warming all four seasons."
"Brother Jiu, come on. You didn't need to write an entire song just to thank me," said Lao Qian, currently locked in negotiations for a new Japanese invitation. "What's this song even called?"
"Just 'Let Me Say Thank You,'" Chu Zhi replied.
"Sounds... tasteful," Lao Qian mused, then switched to business. "I sent over the director's info. Take your time looking it over. We're not in a rush."
"Got it," said Chu Zhi.
"I'll head back to the van," Lao Qian said, toothpick-style lighter between his lips.
Chu Zhi nodded and, with assistant Xiao Zhu, entered Kanghui Tower for a commercial appearance on the 32nd floor.
Montblanc had released a limited run of 1,000 pens in collaboration with Mozart. Don't ask how they partnered with a long-dead composer—they also collabed with Shakespeare.
The event wasn't just for this drop. Montblanc was also opening its first flagship pen store in Beijing, and as the Asia-Pacific brand ambassador, Chu Zhi had to show up.
While in makeup, he opened his email and reviewed the file Lao Qian sent.
Director: Ōjō Etsuji.
His résumé was odd. Debuted with horror shorts, and his magnum opus in Japanese horror portrayed parallel worlds. Rumor had it an early screening of the uncut version had literally scared someone to death.
Chu Zhi thought of Shimizu Takashi, who created the Ju-On series, but Ōjō Etsuji was different. He also excelled at pure romance.
Many of the internet's most iconic romantic screenshots came from his films. The man could switch between genres effortlessly. He must've grown up eating premium chocolate.
Japanese "pure love" films weren't the same as BL dramas. This was literal—innocent, heart-tugging love stories.
Chu Zhi flipped through his filmography and formed a rough impression.
"Mr. Chu, it's your turn," a staff member called.
"Coming," he replied, putting away his phone.
The event was painfully by-the-book. More rigid than a paid performance. Just two staged appearances and a pre-screened Q&A with questions chosen by the organizers.
The real conversation happened back in the van.
"Last night I wanted hotpot but ended up ordering sushi," Lao Qian sighed.
"That's a drastic downgrade," said Niu Jiangxue.
"It's the gap between ideal and reality."
"Why do your dinner plans always sound like philosophical tragedies?" she teased.
"And that's how he charms women," Wang Yuan shot back.
"It's mutual, okay? You make it sound like manipulation," Lao Qian defended himself. "Big Wang, your worldview is too narrow."
Wang Yuan rolled his eyes, then changed the subject. "What do you think? Should Jiu take the role in 'When I Close My Eyes'?"
"Definitely," Lao Qian answered. "The script is great. I think it could blow up across Asia. Jiu will become the dream guy of every fan in the region."
"The script starts with the male lead dying. How's that supposed to make him a star?" Wang Yuan had read it too and found it absurd.
"Come on, Jiu's looks alone will carry the role. I mean, even I have to admit he's in a different league," Lao Qian said with a grin.
Wang Yuan fell silent. Lao Qian's face had the texture of weathered bark, and yet here he was making such bold claims.
Lao Qian was one of those men with charisma rather than perfect features. His skin was bad, but if you swapped it with Qi Qiu's, he might genuinely have movie-star potential.
The team was no longer thinking just domestically. Their sights were set on Asia. Time to sharpen the blades and aim them at the Korean and Japanese markets.
In this world or any parallel one, few Chinese stars had managed to break into the Japanese mainstream after 2015. In the 2000s, there were stars like Jay Chou and Faye Wong, but in recent years, nobody with real dominance.
Chu Zhi's Japanese EP was a golden opportunity. The team knew it. That was why Fei Ge had already flown to Tokyo on the night of the 26th.
Thanks to an introduction from Koguchi Yoshihiro, he had a meeting with Sony Music executives on the 27th.