Year After Year, There Are Fish 02

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“No way, do big celebrities really surf the internet under their real names?”

You Yun was well aware that these secondary creations by celebrities fell into a gray area—fans carving out their own little worlds, usually ignored unless money was involved. But if the other party took it seriously and decided to go after her, it could happen in an instant.

So he wouldn’t be sending a lawyer’s letter to make an example out of her, right? If that happened, he would soon find out that his old high school classmate was a midnight insomniac writing twisted fan fiction about him driving cars!

No, no!

For a moment, You Yun felt like dying; she wanted more than just to disappear into a crack in the ground—she wanted to carry a locomotive and escape this carbon-based planet.

Her trembling fingers wavered between deleting her Weibo account and deleting the posts with an apology.

Amidst the chaos in her mind, a small hope flickered: big celebrities usually have professional teams managing their Weibo accounts—maybe this one wasn’t even run by him personally?

Besides, even if he saw it, so what?

He didn’t even know that I am me.

After all, his account had tens of millions of followers, with fans producing all sorts of wild fantasy literature—bold comments weren’t unique to her alone, including all sorts of crude and messy expressions about his supposed temptations. Her relatively tame posts were nothing in comparison. If they really wanted to send a lawyer’s letter, how could they even catch her?

Moreover, her Weibo didn’t bear her real name; she used “YuzuMeow” instead of “You Yun.” On the surface, “YuzuMeow” was just a devoted fan. He couldn’t be so heartless as to crack down on fans, could he?

Thinking this gave You Yun the courage to straighten her back again.

That’s right—on the internet, your alias is your armor.

What was there to fear while wearing pants?

Refreshed, You Yun boldly followed him with the “YuzuMeow” account and left a few puzzling comments on his latest post.

YuzuMeow: “Big brother is so handsome, I want to have monkey babies with you / cute”

YuzuMeow: “Following big brother for 1,028 days, hard to imagine how lively and cheerful I’d be if he ever noticed me TvT”

YuzuMeow: “Want to slide down the slide on big brother’s abs (o′0`o)”

Sent successfully.

Good. Now it really looked like a crazy fan.

After this, she turned off the screen and rolled over to sleep peacefully.

The rain outside pattered against the glass, a lullaby for her to fall asleep.

You Yun’s sleep was restless; she had a strange dream and woke up feeling exhausted and uneasy. The next day, she went to breakfast with dark circles under her eyes.

“You last night…” Liang Zhen swallowed a wonton, staring at her unblinking. “Did you go to a prostitute?”

You Yun almost choked on her soy milk at such an outlandish question. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Had a dream.”

“A dream about going to a prostitute?”

“…Your brain only thinks about prostitutes, huh?”

“It’s because you look like you got drained by some wild man.”

“…”

You Yun ignored her, finished her soy milk quietly, and left the table carrying her tray.

“Wait for me. Eating too fast might cause intestinal perforation,” Liang Zhen said, though she quickened her pace to catch up. “What was the dream? I’ll interpret it for you.”

Liang Zhen, a top graduate from a prestigious drama school, a proud successor of communism and an active party member, was also a hardcore fan of astrology, divination, and tarot cards. If her professional teachers found out, they’d probably jump up shouting, “Believe in science, reject superstition!”

“Go fool others with that,” You Yun wasn’t buying it. She put her tray away, washed her hands, and headed out.

“How can you call it fooling? This is scientific astrology, materialistic fortune-telling, and…” Liang Zhen called after her, “You’re going the wrong way, the training camp is this way.”

Forgetting she had been dragged into a variety show, You Yun turned back. “What’s scientific astrology?”

“Times are changing, we have to keep up. AI dream interpretation is all the rage. Tell me what beautiful dream you had.”

But she hadn’t had a beautiful dream—only a nightmare.

She dreamed Zhao Zhiyu had not only sent her a lawyer’s letter but also locked her up in jail.

The prison cell was pitch black with nothing inside except an iron grate. She nibbled on a cornbread while the guard told her her parents were visiting. Tearful, she approached the window, ready to promise them she’d reform and start anew. Then, she looked up and saw a familiar pair of eyes.

“Zhao Zhiyu!”

“Huh? Lionfish?” Liang Zhen said.

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You Yun: “…”

Mishearing much? And here you are interpreting dreams?

“Fish…” Liang Zhen, clueless, pinched her fingers and murmured: “Flying fish ascend to the sky, water resides in the north, mountains and marshes communicate, the Xun palace meets water—a great omen signaling the arrival of benefactors.”

“Xun palace… isn’t that feng shui?”

“…”

Oh, she had mixed it up.

“Fish…” Liang Zhen tried again, racking her brain but came up empty. “Forget it, it’s all mystical arts anyway. Anyway, I observed the heavens last night, calculated your fortune by hand, and your Red Luan star is moving—your destined love will appear today. Maybe around the corner you’ll meet the one.”

You Yun laughed at her. “Your mysticism is quite trendy, mixing disciplines?”

Liang Zhen stubbornly insisted, “Really. Just wait and see—the man of your dreams will appear today.”

“Alright, I’ll wait then.”

You Yun didn’t take her seriously. After saying goodbye, she reported to the training camp.

StarRay’s “Pineapple” online video platform was the company’s core entertainment segment, supporting TV, mobile, and in-car devices, with rights management, original productions, and live broadcasts.

This variety show was produced by StarRay and exclusively aired on Pineapple—a talent competition.

At noon, the official blog released a list of 100 contestants and four mentors: Qing Xi, Xiao Yi’an, Lin Shen, and one whose photo was deliberately obscured, leaving only a black silhouette to keep the surprise.

In season one, the director invited a popular on-screen couple and one of their fans from a certain site. The fan wars that erupted were fierce and lucrative.

With this director’s habits, the second season’s special guest was likely no saint—probably some “fish” from Qing Xi’s pond.

None of this concerned You Yun. She was just filling a spot. As the saying goes, “When the monk’s there, ring the bell; work a day, act crazy a day.”

The studio office was in Building 6. The director only told her to check in at the studio, no specific address. She wandered floor by floor, passing beautifully dressed young women who were probably contestants too.

After a long search, she found the studio—a ten-meter-high broadcast hall.

The décor was cyberpunk style, red and black with chaotic purple, with space pod-like seats giving a high-tech feel.

In the center was the stage: a fifteen-by-fifteen-meter square with a massive LCD screen behind, likely the final competition arena.

Around the stands, small clusters of girls gathered; their styles were diverse, and the room was full of long legs.

As a seasoned internet user, You Yun didn’t dare greet anyone, just circled around quietly until someone called her.

“You Yun?”

She turned to see a man wearing a black long coat over a light beige crewneck sweater, neat and clean. “Senior Han Sheng.”

Han Sheng was a senior she met in university clubs, a year ahead, majoring in directing. She hadn’t expected to meet a familiar face at a variety show—an emotional reunion.

“Senior, you’re already a director?”

“No, just a VJ, a cameraman,” he shook his badge and asked, “Are you staff too?”

“I’m a contestant.”

Han Sheng looked surprised. “Oh, I thought you studied acting. Is it so hard to find work in your department?”

You Yun sighed, “It’s complicated.”

“No worries, you’re pretty enough to cross boundaries and still be the face of the show.”

He pointed to a nearby group of girls. “I’ve seen their profiles—they’re strong. You should recruit them and form a team.”

You Yun wasn’t interested in debuting. She was just going through the motions as a corporate cog.

Han Sheng was unusually enthusiastic, rattling off names, companies, and skills as if ready to make a presentation.

Not wanting to discourage him but uninterested in the details, she changed the subject. “Senior, what’s today’s schedule?”

“There’s nothing important today—just familiarizing with the venue, shooting personal promo photos, and cutting teaser footage. The official recording starts next week,” Han Sheng explained. “I was surprised to see you today—I didn’t see your name on the original list. Were you a late addition?”

“No, I use a stage name.”

“You changed your name? What is it?”

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After deciding to join the show, her agent thought her real name was unattractive and conflicted with an older artist’s name in the industry. To avoid trouble, she was told to pick a unique and memorable stage name, so she scoured classic poetry and finally came up with one that was distinctive and original.

“My name is…”

Just then, the studio door was pushed open.

A rush of hot air flowed in, and You Yun and Han Sheng, standing at the entrance, instinctively looked up, stunned.

The newcomer was tall, dressed in a black hoodie, wearing a mask and a baseball cap, with several unruly strands of silver hair peeking out—a striking silver mane.

Silver hair, indeed.

She involuntarily imagined the male protagonist from last night’s novel—her little fish—though his figure was probably slimmer, having suffered so much abuse.

In those few seconds of distraction, a swarm of people behind him exploded forward like an agitated hornet’s nest, screams rising.

You Yun was startled, stumbled, and before she could dodge, was swept into the throng, phones raised everywhere.

“Ahhhh! Zhao Zhiyu!”

“Could he be the last mentor of the show?”

“Not just some marketing stunt—he’s really here!”

“Paper fish, look at me!”

The man seemed used to this chaos. He leisurely removed his mask and hat, revealing dazzling silver hair that shimmered in the air.

Amid the clicking cameras, You Yun caught a clear side profile framed by a faint halo.

Her heart felt like it would explode.

It really was Zhao Zhiyu!

Why was he here?

Was he coming to serve her a lawyer’s letter?

The crowd outside kept swelling, clamoring for autographs, while You Yun in the inner circle was nearly crushed, anxiously shouting, “Stop pushing!”

At the sound, Zhao Zhiyu turned.

His gaze naturally settled on the girl squeezed like a quail nearby, his eyes slightly lifting at the corners.

“Everyone, please step back. You’re crowding this young lady…”

He hesitated, unsure how to address her.

You Yun was stunned as well.

At that moment, she didn’t know if he remembered her or if he was just being discreet in front of so many people.

She weighed whether to introduce herself. If he still didn’t recall, it would be awkward; if she remained silent, it’d be impolite.

Better to use her stage name—everyone in the industry called each other by those.

“Oh, I’m…” You Yun parted her lips, blurting out two words without much thought.

“Damn.”

Silence fell.

Everyone around was dumbfounded. Was this girl a hater? Insulting him to his face—bold indeed.

You Yun was distracted. After a long moment, her dull senses slowly returned.

Wait—what did she just say?

Damn!

Exactly. She said: I, am, your, mom!

A cold sweat broke out on her back as she hurriedly clarified, “No, that’s not what I meant! I mean, my name is…”

“I get it,” Zhao Zhiyu chuckled softly, his voice casual, “A mom fan, huh?”

“…”