Xie Xiaoting was the firefighter who had rappelled down from the ninth floor on a safety rope to save the seventeen-year-old student.
"Xiaoting, don't overthink it. Those people are just immature." Captain Qi of the fire brigade tried to console him. "The higher-ups just notified me—you're getting two days off."
"Captain, I'm really fine. Why the sudden leave?" Xie Xiaoting's first reaction was to turn off his phone screen.
"Xiaoting" was Xie's nickname. A graduate of Southwest Fire Engineering, he had been recruited straight into the fire department. Back then, his fair complexion earned him the affectionate moniker "Xiaoting" (a feminine-sounding name). Now, his skin wasn't exactly dark, but a healthy sun-kissed tan.
"Leave is rare in our line of work. What, you're not happy about it?" Captain Qi stood up, wanting to say more, but he was a man of few words—preferring action over speeches. In the end, all he managed was: "Take it easy for a couple of days."
Having served in the brigade for eight years, Captain Qi was a seasoned veteran who had saved countless families. But even he couldn't wrap his head around it—how did saving lives suddenly become a problem?
"Alright, alright. I'll go enjoy myself then." Xie forced a smile.
As he watched the captain leave, Xie's grin slowly stiffened.
"I'm fine." He had said it to reassure himself, but deep down, he knew he wasn't.
He turned his phone back on. The glaring comments assaulted him again:
["Someone dug up his info—his name's Xie something. Ugly as sin." "No wonder he can't get a girlfriend." "Firefighters wear full protective gear when rescuing people. It's not like other jobs don't have risks." "He looks shifty-eyed. Bet he groped that girl while 'saving' her."]
How could he not care?
There were supportive messages too, but anyone familiar with Weibo knew that fangirls made up 70% of its daily traffic. Casual users only showed up for major scandals or trending hashtags.
The result? The encouraging comments were mere drops in an ocean of malice. Fans uninvolved in the drama wouldn't stick their necks out to defend him—not when it might backfire on their own idols.
"Did I really do something wrong?" For the first time, Xie Xiaoting doubted himself.
Meanwhile, in Shanghai, Chu Zhi had stopped checking Weibo. He was afraid prolonged exposure might warp his sense of right and wrong.
"What's the schedule for this afternoon?" Chu panted, accepting the lemon water his assistant Xiao Zhu handed him and gulping it down.
The [Healthy 500-Meter Run], an initiative by Shanghai's Sports Bureau and Propaganda Department, was a public event. His manager, Sister Niu, had arranged his attendance to strengthen ties with official channels—a move Chu supported.
After running three rounds of 500 meters, his mind weighed down by recent events, he was exhausted.
"This afternoon, we have the Shanghai Youth Conference, a press event for Watson's, a preview screening for the new drama Cat's Affection, and nine promotional photos for Weibo and Instagram. Should I go over post-dinner plans too?" Sister Niu consulted her iPad.
"Clear four hours for me this afternoon. I need it for something."
Sister Niu didn't ask why. After a brief pause, she said, "The conference and press event are non-negotiable. But I'll contact Director Guo to reschedule the drama screening for tomorrow. The photoshoot can wait too—we'll share something else instead."
"Will that cause issues?"
"I've met Director Guo a few times. It'll be fine once I explain."
"Thanks, Sister Niu." Chu appreciated it. His daily schedule was the result of meticulous planning by a team of twenty. Knowing this, he rarely acted on whims—even when sick, he'd take meds and power through events.
"Anything else you need help with?" Sister Niu asked.
"Actually, yes. Can you book a recording studio and an experienced music producer?"
Is he rushing to record a new song? Sister Niu relaxed slightly. Given how Red Chamber was produced, everyone knew Chu had a home studio—but his recording pace was notoriously slow. Hiring a producer must mean he's on a tight schedule.
"Also, Brother Fei, could you contact the Shanghai Fire Department? I need permission to use some footage—non-commercial purposes only."
Fei, the PR manager, had never dealt with fire departments before. But the moment the request landed, he uncrossed his legs (which had been propped up in the backseat of the van) and got to work.
"Oh, and Fei—try not to sit cross-legged too often. It can cause bow legs and ruin your handsome image."
"Uh… got it."
Fei's habit, picked up from college roommates, had survived years of nagging from his mother. But every time Chu noticed, he'd remind him.
Like a well-oiled machine, the team sprang into action.
Sister Niu went straight for the top—Li Menglong, an all-rounder producer renowned for rock, pop, folk, and experimental music.
Crucially, Li Menglong was signed under Taiyang Chuanhe Entertainment, Chu's agency. Might as well leverage company resources.
Since Li Menglong happened to be in Shanghai and had no conflicting commitments, he agreed—after all, "help" didn't mean free.
The Youth Conference wrapped up at 2:30 PM. Unlike its global or UN counterparts, this was a municipal event hosted by Shanghai's government, themed "Encouraging Youth Participation in Societal and Policy Development." Most attendees were entrepreneurs.
Chu declined all dinner invites and bolted to his van. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the studio.
"Hello, Teacher Li."
The studio was prepped, the crew ready. After exchanging greetings, Li scrutinized Chu from head to toe.
Had Chu not been thick-skinned, the unabashed staring would've made him uncomfortable.
"Don't mind me, Teacher Chu. My wife and daughter are huge fans. My wife bought over thirty pairs of sunglasses to support you."
"Please thank her for me—but maybe ease up on the shades."
Once small talk ended, Chu got down to business. He had already written the lyrics and melody en route. Now, he outlined his vision for the arrangement and mixing.
The original production team behind "Lone Warrior" was stellar: lyricist Tang Tian ("Light Chaser," "Decent," "Nameless"), composer Qian Lei ("Silence," "Big Fish"), and mixing engineer Zhou Tianche (Karen Mok's "No Farewell").
Chu had clear ideas. Halfway through their discussion, Li understood why he'd been called in—to refine the song's vocal delivery.
Not all producers were vocal coaches, but top-tier ones like Li certainly were.
"Teacher Chu, this line needs a sighing tone—not defeatist, but a downward breath."
"Next verse, add a hint of sob to that sigh."
"Focus on chest resonance here. Try again."
"The emphasis is off. 'Love you for walking alone in dark alleys'—stress 'alone' and 'walk.'"
Li Menglong dissected every syllable. For Chu, it was worth it. A producer's approach differed fundamentally from a vocal coach's—the latter taught techniques for long-term use, while the former demanded instant results, whether the skill stuck or not.
"Lone Warrior… sounds like a hit." Sister Niu studied the lyric sheet.
"Wait—didn't Ah Jiu mention this title during Singer's semifinals?" Wang Yuan, the assistant manager (and full-time fangirl), recalled instantly.
"Holy crap. Does she memorize everything Chu Zhi says?" Old Qian shuddered at the sheer dedication of stans.
Three and a half hours later, the song was finally recorded. It was far trickier than expected—anyone who'd tried singing it in karaoke knew the chorus demanded serious breath control.
Chu Zhi's rendition was polished, thanks partly to his Farinelli-level pipes and partly to Li's razor-sharp guidance.