"Ready to continue, Director He?" Chu Zhi approached with a smile.
Director He eyed him skeptically. The agent had come over earlier—clearly the artist wasn't happy, yet now he was all smiles.
"No issues. Let's begin, Mr. Chu." Director He remained expressionless, his tone flat.
The crew reset the props. Cameras, lighting—everything back in position.
"Action."
Another take. Director He wasn't targeting Chu Zhi specifically—they had no beef. He simply looked down on the entire local team.
"The photographer has no vision, just a glorified tripod. The lighting crew? Amateurs. Chinese have no artistic sensibility."
He missed his days in the U.S., where creativity flowed freely. This arrogance was why he feared no conflict. Even if the ad department head got involved, so what? Creative differences happened. They'd just send another director.
"Check f—" Director He was about to call cut again for "lack of aesthetic," but Chu Zhi beat him to it.
"That take didn't work. Something's off. What do you think, Director He?" Chu Zhi seized control.
"Uh—" Caught off guard, Director He reluctantly agreed. "It was subpar. We'll need another."
He expected the star to ask, "What's the standard?" Instead, Chu Zhi pivoted: "What's missing, in your opinion?"
"Huh?"
"Your approach is unique. There must be unmet conditions—clearly not your fault." Chu Zhi's tone brooked no argument.
A kindred spirit! With a proper American crew, they'd wrap this in an hour.
"Well, it's not unmet… just unprofessional," Director He demurred.
"Do enlighten me." Chu Zhi's gaze burned with curiosity.
"Ahem."
Under that intense stare—disconcerting regardless of gender—Director He cracked. He ranted about shoddy props, incompetent photography, clueless lighting… then veered into how Chinese lacked innovation in advertising. (All sotto voce, of course.)
"I understand. Leave it to me." Chu Zhi suddenly pulled out his phone and dialed the Armani PR head—Mr. Gong—right in front of the stunned director.
"Mr. Gong, while I signed the contract, this campaign is a joint effort. Your team's incompetence is ruining our collaboration."
On the other end, Gong was baffled. "What did I do to deserve this?"
"Mr. Chu, has there been an issue with our crew in Sanya?" he ventured.
"The entire team is garbage—except Director He. He told me the photographer can't even frame a shot, the lighting is a disaster, and the prop standee looks like dogshit. His exact words." Chu Zhi's voice carried. "Is this how you treat a professional like him?"
Twenty crew members simultaneously glared at Director He. "Murderous intent doesn't need translation."
The ad concept was simple: Chu Zhi walks on the beach, sweats, falls into the sea, "melts" into a standee, which then "walks" home and revives via Armani skincare.
The prop master seethed. "The standee was corporate-mandated! My job is to keep it intact—since when do I control the design?!"
Even Gong was livid now. "That bastard He Xi, poisoning the well!"
He knew He's elitist attitude but tolerated it for passable work. But getting chewed out by a top star? Unacceptable.
"Mr. Chu, put me on speaker. I'll speak to Director He." Gong took a rage-suppressing breath.
"Why? You think he'd lie? Absolutely not." Chu Zhi amped up the theatrics. "Send a real team—preferably Americans. Director He says locals aren't cut out for this."
"..." Gong inhaled sharply. "Understood. I'll call He directly. Five minutes."
After hanging up, Chu Zhi patted He's shoulder. "Don't worry. Justice is served."
Director He's face turned granite. "You're very capable."
"Hmm? Not sure what you mean." Smarter than I thought—expected him to stay clueless longer.
Before He could retort, his phone rang. Gong's fury blasted through the receiver:
"He Xi, either do your job or fuck off back to the U.S. as a PA!"
No speaker needed—the crew heard every word.
"Sir, I just—"
"No excuses. Finish today or pay the shoot costs personally." Gong hung up.
"Fucking philistines." Sweat dripped down He's temples. "No appreciation for art."
"Let's shoot." He gritted out.
"But Mr. Gong promised a solution!" Chu Zhi blinked innocently.
"You lit—" That doe-eyed look nearly made He snap.
"Stay calm. We'll fix this together. Maybe I wasn't clear earlier—let me call Gong again." Chu Zhi raised his phone.
"My fault! Please let it go!" He begged. The "pay the costs" threat was empty—corporate policies wouldn't allow it—but Gong's anger was real. Another call would be gasoline on the fire.
"Nonsense! It's everyone else's fault!" Chu Zhi insisted.
"I'm—I'm still adjusting to China. The crew is excellent. Let's just shoot!"
"But you said we need Americans? That locals lack creativity?" Chu Zhi pumped a fist. "Stay strong!"
He fantasized about smashing a brick over that smug face.
"I was wrong! I blamed others for my own failures! I'll treat everyone to dinner as apology!" He spat out. "Can we please start?!"
"Dinner's fine. But never disrespect your countrymen again." Chu Zhi dropped the act, his voice icy. "Chinese creativity surpasses anyone's."
The sudden shift stunned He. Deep down, he still believed China had no competitive edge—but survival instincts kicked in.
——
"Well played, Ninth Brother." Niu Jiangxue watched the entire drama, impressed. She'd worried the star might get bullied—instead, she witnessed a masterclass.
She could already picture Gong's resentment. Workplace rule #1: Subordinates take blame for superiors.
A boss covering for staff? Unthinkable.