Chapter 93: Live House
The short film wasn’t long, so the shooting process wasn’t too tiring. Once the director said it was done, Yue Zhaolin sat up from the bathtub.
Assistant: “Careful not to prick your hand.”
The roses placed under Yue Zhaolin had already had their thorns trimmed off, but the ones lining the edge of the bathtub hadn’t—for the sake of a better visual effect.
As Yue Zhaolin propped himself up to stand, he said, “I think my back got wet?”
The assistant quickly supported him, glancing at his back: “It’s just juice from the crushed roses. The color isn’t deep. Once you take a shower later, it’ll wash right off.”
“Oh, okay.”
Yue Zhaolin nodded, then was called over by the director to check the footage on the monitor.
The background was still a green screen, but the effect was already taking shape.
Especially that moment when a petal happened to fall onto his eyelid, making his lashes tremble slightly at an angled close-up.
Yue Zhaolin thought the scene was beautiful, and honestly expressed his fondness: “Director, it looks really good.”
The director, who was already very satisfied with the work, gained even more “emotional value” from his words and burst out laughing.
With the shoot wrapped up, Yue Zhaolin returned to the dressing room. Looking at himself in the mirror, he felt today’s makeup looked nice. He could take a photo to keep as a memory and add it to his album.
“By the way, Zhaolin, have you decided where you want to go during the break?”
For other trainees, it didn’t matter much, but when it came to Yue Zhaolin, both Xingqiong and the program team wanted to confirm his plans first—so they could prepare trending topics in advance.
“I’ve decided. I’m going to a live house.”
Staff: “Huh?”
A live house has professional stage setups and music equipment, along with high-quality sound systems. It’s quite similar to a small indoor concert.
But unlike concerts, live houses are smaller spaces, which shortens the distance between performer and audience—making the performance atmosphere much more intense.
The guest performers at live houses are mostly independent bands or musicians. Of course, there are also some cover songs, but the majority are the bands’ original works.
The idea wasn’t a problem, but—
“Do you have a favorite band?”
“…No?”
After Yue Zhaolin answered, he realized—if what he wanted was the live house vibe, similar to the atmosphere of a concert, then he’d definitely have to attend a band’s special performance.
So… were there any professional bands performing at a live house tomorrow?
Yue Zhaolin: “……”
Ah.
…
Yue Zhaolin wanting to go to a live house was fine, but he couldn’t just walk into any venue. The company had to do some background checks.
—Too many bars were opened under the banner of a “live house.” Even the ones that looked legitimate often didn’t hold up upon inspection.
With Yue Zhaolin’s massive popularity, his actions strongly influenced his fans. That meant the choice of venue couldn’t be treated carelessly.
Besides, with this kind of hype, such a collaboration opportunity couldn’t simply be handed away.
And even if there weren’t any bands, they could always invite one over—the music variety show “GreenFruit” happened to be broadcasting now.
…
When he returned to the practice room, Yue Zhaolin was told by his teammates that Rong Ruize had already left—and it had been an hour, with no sign of him coming back.
?
Yue Zhaolin glanced at the digital clock on the wall: 17:37. Which meant that not long after he left to shoot the short film, Rong Ruize had walked out.
Yue Zhaolin’s first reaction was—it was hard not to suspect this was intentional.
He had just stepped out, and Rong Ruize followed suit right after. What exactly was Rong Ruize thinking?
Chen Wu was troubled as well: “If he doesn’t want to practice singing, fine. He won’t be able to perform anyway—since the finals night will have heavy backing vocals. But what I’m worried about is him messing up the dance.”
If the singing wasn’t good, at least the backing vocals could cover for it. But if the movements were wrong, or the formations messy, that would have a much bigger impact.
Yue Zhaolin thought the same. Whether Rong Ruize practiced or not was his own business, but Suit Aesthetics was a team—he couldn’t let himself be dragged down.
“I’ll find a time to talk to him.”
Chen Wu: “I want to talk to him too, but I’m afraid he’ll think the whole group is ganging up on him, bullying or isolating him or something… By the way, is Orleans still not back?”
Orleans’s part had to be given to Rong Ruize. He couldn’t even control his expression in front of the cameras, plus he had to worry about malicious editing, so he hid in the restroom.
Chen Wu hadn’t disturbed him, but since he’d been gone too long, he figured he had to check.
Yue Zhaolin didn’t go with Chen Wu. Putting himself in that position—when he was feeling fragile, he wouldn’t want a crowd barging in to comfort him either.
Still, about Orleans’s part…
“You finished filming too?”
Fu Xunying pushed the door open, a little surprised to see Yue Zhaolin still there.
The program had two sets running simultaneously, which made the filming process faster.
Yue Zhaolin: “Mm.”
He mentioned his plan to go to a live house, casually asking if anyone else was free. The atmosphere might feel better if he went with familiar people.
He had work the day after tomorrow, so he’d leave right after the performance. That meant no one needed to adjust to his schedule—if they were free, they could just meet at the venue.
Tan Shen: “A live house, huh?”
Yue Zhaolin: “Yeah, are you coming?” From what he knew, Tan Shen wouldn’t be going home during the break either.
Tan Shen: “Forgive me, but I’ll have to decline. I guess I’m getting old—just hearing those booming speakers makes my chest tight.”
He’d been to a live house before: the venue was small, the sound was deafening, bouncing along with the music, and when the lights started flashing, the ringing in his ears got so bad he felt like he’d pass out the very next second.
Tan Shen still had lingering fear from that experience, so he wasn’t about to risk his life “for the gentleman’s sake.”
Fu Xunying: “I can go.”
Cen Chi: “I can come too.”
Mao Ding: “……”
In truth, he wanted to go, but the company had already prepared an elaborate “coincidental encounter” script and marketing plan for him. Once Mao Ding was on break, he’d have to put on a full performance.
Deng Yangbing was tempted as well, but he had to go home.
He came from a highly educated family, and both his parents were good-looking. Editing together some warm family moments for the main program would give him plenty of face.
So in the end, it was Fu Xunying and Cen Chi who would accompany Yue Zhaolin to the live house.
“OK.”
They’d just meet directly at the venue then.
…
The next day.
Starlight Building.
Chu Li had made full preparations, determined to show up with his “fresh yet understated natural look” to check in at the subway ad screen his fans had bought for him.
—He had also seen the clip of Yue Zhaolin being moved to tears by the drone performance. He’d tried practicing looking touched in front of the mirror, but the crying looked way too fake.
Forget it, better not to make a fool of himself.
Chu Li: “Let’s go.”
Many trainees had already left, so he had to hurry as well.
For the fan-site sisters stationed outside the gates, it wasn’t a secret when trainees left the base.
At first, some speculated that the ones driving off were eliminated trainees. But too many had gone already, and by the time they realized something was off, everyone was gone.
“What’s going on…?”
“They’re not recording anymore?!”
A fansite sister couldn’t believe it: “No way, are they going to some kind of event?”
They’d seen this before—trainees leaving en masse usually meant an event, like the fan meeting after the first public stage, or the soda festival after the second.
“But there’s been no word about anything?”
Starlight was red-hot right now. For any event, ticket sellers would descend on the “battlefield” like hyenas, yet this time there wasn’t the slightest sign.
A secret event? Even less likely.
The fansite sisters who sensed something was off didn’t have to wait even half an hour before—sure enough—videos of fans “accidentally running into” certain trainees started popping up in the audition show’s super topic.
The comments section instantly blew up.
[What the hell]
[The third public performance hasn’t even aired yet, why are people already eliminated? Wouldn’t that violate the contract?]
[Rong Ruize said the program gave them two days off. After the break they’ll return.]
[Where are they going for vacation?]
[Depends on them. Deng Yangbing went home, Mao Ding said he’s not going back.]
Fansite sisters: “?!”
“Wait, the program actually gave them a break?”
“No way!”
“What about Yue Zhaolin? Did he leave too?”
…
For now, Yue Zhaolin hadn’t left.
The live house performance wouldn’t start until 8 p.m., so he stayed in Starlight Building, sticking to his routine—practicing, studying, filming—until night began to fall.
He took a shower and decided not to put on makeup, just wear a mask to the venue.
He had already done his research: live houses are crowded, and the air conditioning usually doesn’t work well. Once things heat up, it gets stifling. So he wore a short-sleeved shirt.
The car was already waiting for him.
From the passenger seat, his assistant turned back with a smile: “Zhaolin, this time there’ll be a bodyguard following you, but don’t mind him—just pretend he isn’t there.”
“You can rest for a bit. The drive will take more than an hour.” This time they were heading to MOODY CLUB, a rather new avant-garde venue.
Yue Zhaolin: “Okay.”
He planned to rest with his eyes closed, but the neon lights flashing past the window lulled him, and he grew sleepier and sleepier.
He tried to fight it, but resistance was futile—he sank deeper into slumber with the gentle rocking of the car.
Until someone called him.
“…Yue Zhaolin, wake up—we need to switch cars now.”
“…Mm?”
On the phone screen, Yue Zhaolin opened his eyes. His gaze hadn’t yet focused, and in the dim car without lighting or makeup, he perfectly embodied the meaning of raw, rugged handsomeness.
That was what Fu Xunying thought as he recorded.
Awakened, Yue Zhaolin took a moment to cool his head. Noticing something off, he frowned: “Fu Xunying? When did you get in the car?”
“Just now.”
He shook the phone in his hand: “Want me to film a ‘First Time at a Live House Vlog’ for your fans?”
Yue Zhaolin: “Give me the phone.”
He wanted to check first if the footage looked good.
Fu Xunying clicked his tongue: “Don’t worry, my skills are great. Oh right, time to get out.” They had to switch cars—because ever since leaving the base, someone had been tailing them.
They didn’t know exactly who, but precautions had to be taken.
“Mm.”
After a few changes of cars, they finally arrived at the destination—MOODY CLUB.
Through Green Fruit’s arrangement, Yue Zhaolin entered through a back door—no ticket check, straight into the venue. He walked through a long corridor bathed in swaying lights, and into the performance hall.
“Wommm—”
The moment the door opened, a wave of sound greeted him—this was only the warm-up.
Yue Zhaolin pinched the bridge of his mask-covered nose, instantly understanding why Tan Shen had such a visceral reaction to live houses. The closer to the front row, the stronger the impact.
“Over here.”
Cen Chi, who had arrived earlier, spotted Yue Zhaolin and waved at him over the music. The spot he was standing in was an SVIP section reserved specifically for them.
It was especially close to the stage.
Thanks to Green Fruit’s “special arrangement,” MOODY CLUB had already announced a lineup change: tonight’s show would be an exclusive for the original band Chair Party.
Chair Party used to be resident performers here, then went on to participate in a variety show. Tonight was essentially their triumphant homecoming.
So most of the audience didn’t feel disappointed—on the contrary, they were even more hyped, and the turnout was bigger than usual.
The lights suddenly dimmed, and the noise in the venue quieted down.
When the spotlights gathered on the stage again, the lead singer gripped the microphone and raised his voice:
“I’m Cuocuo from Chair Party—long time no see, everyone!”
Amid the cheers, the electric guitar, bass, and drums each rang out in turn.
In an instant, the atmosphere exploded.
Cuocuo quickly glanced toward the crowd—specifically, in Yue Zhaolin’s direction.
His manager had already reminded him that during the show, he absolutely had to cue Yue Zhaolin. But since he was nearsighted, he first had to confirm where exactly Yue Zhaolin was.
“Tonight’s first song is Chair Party’s signature track. Whether or not you’ve heard it before, tonight—we’ll sing it for you!”
“Ahhhhhh—!”
As the band performed on stage, Yue Zhaolin felt the rush of the atmosphere.
From where he stood, he could see the strings of the guitar vibrating, the drummer’s hair flying up, and the lead singer’s Adam’s apple pulsing with every note.
There were no backing tracks here, and because the sound field was so concentrated, the texture of the music was magnified. The natural roar of the instruments and the raw human voice slammed straight into his brain.
A fully three-dimensional feast for the senses.
The live performance wasn’t perfect. The lead singer wouldn’t just stand on stage and sing a whole song straight through—he’d interact with the audience, miss a beat here and there.
But it was precisely those “flaws” that created the unique sense of breath that only a live performance could have.
Yue Zhaolin turned his head and clearly saw the faces of the audience—they were already immersed in this collective musical frenzy.
This was the charm of a live show.
And at that moment, Yue Zhaolin thought again of the inevitable heavy backing vocals on finals night.
Like a barrier.
After performing several songs in a row, CuoCuo took a sip of water to moisten his throat and said, “My throat feels a bit tight, let’s do some interaction first, and let me catch my breath, yeah?”
His humorous tone made the audience laugh, and they joked back, saying no way.
Pretending not to hear them, he stayed calm even through the playful boos: “Next, it’s your turn to sing. If you want to sing, just shout it out!”
Someone had already tipped him off to cue Yue Zhaolin, but he couldn’t just call him up right away—that would look too deliberate. So he decided to pick a few real audience members first.
“You, this girl—yes, you.”
The lucky fan he picked wasn’t very old. Once she got on stage, her body language showed how nervous she was.
CuoCuo understood. After all, she was just a regular person, not used to performing in front of so many people. Smiling, he handed her the mic: “What song do you want to sing?”
“…Uh, ‘Temperature Gap.’”
CuoCuo: “?”
Holy crap—what are the odds?
Yue Zhaolin’s “Temperature Gap” was actually pretty popular, the kind of song that was bold but not sleazy, a regular in bar playlists. CuoCuo himself had heard it more than once while out drinking.
Just to make sure, he asked, “You mean the one by Yue Zhaolin?”
“Yes.”
The girl’s name was Shen Yin, a fan of Yue Zhaolin’s music.
She had first come across the sped-up DJ remix on Douyin, then went searching for the original and found that Yue Zhaolin’s version was way better. Since then, she’d been hooked on the original.
CuoCuo: “Ahem.”
The original singer was sitting right in the audience. If he called him up now, wouldn’t that look way too staged?
What should he do?
In those couple of seconds, CuoCuo couldn’t think of any solution. Forget it—he’d just grit his teeth and push through the process. Let her sing first.
CuoCuo: “Alright, cue the backing track.”
The prelude of Temperature Gap flowed out from the speakers.
Shen Yin swallowed hard. She had clearly listened to this song hundreds of times before, yet at this moment it felt strangely unfamiliar.
Standing on stage, facing the dense sea of people, the pressure was overwhelming.
She was at a complete loss, her mind a jumbled mess. She followed her instincts to come in on the beat, but she couldn’t tell whether she was singing right or wrong.
Everyone could see her nerves—the trembling in her voice, the uneven breaths.
The more Shen Yin sang, the more wrong it felt. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a figure who seemed to be about to step onto the stage.
It was…