The recording studio wasn’t far from the production office.
Much of Zhoushan’s publishing, media, and entertainment industry had clustered around the Xicheng district. It was the city’s cultural and entertainment hub.
Xunyu Studio’s headquarters, for instance, sat just half a block from “Nightingale,” across the street and slightly diagonal. The difference, of course, was that Xunyu occupied a gleaming tower that seemed to scrape the sky, while Xunyu occupied a shabby corner lot that had somehow survived demolition and stayed cheap.
The recording studio was on the third floor of one of those office buildings. Lin Xun knew the place well enough to find her way up without thinking.
She stepped out of the elevator, and the wind chimes above the studio door immediately stirred.
A moment later, a lean, tall man in his thirties walked out, his hair dyed a brash yellow. He held the glass door open with one hand and gestured politely outward with the other, guiding whoever was behind him.
The yellow-haired man was the studio’s owner: Liu Shu. Thirtyish, a graduate of Zhoushan Music Academy, technically sharp, and formerly a recording engineer and post-production specialist for several professional singers’ teams. But he had a volatile personality, made enemies in the industry, and eventually said to hell with it and opened his own studio.
Lin Xun looked past him. Two young people followed him out, a man and a woman, both wearing masks, both visibly young.
She noticed immediately that they were each wearing the same model of headphones she’d ordered herself just a few weeks ago, the newest release. Kindred spirits, she thought.
Once he’d seen them off, Liu Shu glanced at his watch, then raised an eyebrow at Lin Xun, who was waiting idly by the door. “Boss Lin, you’re early again. You really are something.”
As the supervising director, Lin Xun usually arrived half an hour ahead of schedule to confirm the recording equipment was set up, review the session scripts, and get everything in order before the talent showed up. It saved time for everyone.
She didn’t take the bait. Instead she asked, “Who were those people? Must be someone important if you walked them out yourself.”
She knew Liu Shu’s temperament well enough. Arrogant, unhurried, and thoroughly unbothered by whatever so-called big names the industry had to offer.
“You really don’t know them?”
Liu Shu looked genuinely surprised. When Lin Xun’s expression didn’t change, he stopped drawing it out. “Those are two voice actors from Xunyu Studio. The woman is Yuan Mu. She’s voiced the leads in three period dramas airing this year. The guy is Zhang Yuehua, go-to voice for idol drama male leads, currently the top male CV at Xunyu active roster — not counting Teacher Qianxun, of course.”
Lin Xun’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She was more than a little surprised. Both of them were well-known names among the younger generation of voice actors. She’d heard of them plenty. She’d just never seen them in person.
After a beat, she clicked her tongue. “Not bad, Boss Liu. Xunyu’s recording here now? Which project?”
She remembered that Xunyu usually went to a different studio for their drama work, a more established place that handled a lot of major productions. More expensive, naturally.
“Ah, well, it’s not a drama, and they were just here to test the equipment anyway. It’s for the audio drama Changyao.”
Lin Xun paused. That was a big-name romance IP. Their studio had even submitted a bid for the audio drama rights a while back, though the budget hadn’t been competitive enough. Word had gone around recently that the rights sold, and everyone in the industry had been guessing who picked them up. She hadn’t expected it to be Xunyu.
Obscenely loaded, no conscience about it.
Liu Shu shook his head and sighed. “Shame that Teacher Qianxun never comes to record in person. I heard from Teacher Yuan Mu that his home setup is completely professional, on par with any studio. I’d love to see what he actually looks like. Is he really like people say online — that he’s got eight mouths? How else would he pull off that many different voices?”
“Pfft——”
Lin Xun couldn’t hold it back.
Eight mouths. Which would mean eight tongues. Eight toothbrushes.
Liu Shu went off to handle things, and Lin Xun didn’t need entertaining. She settled into the waiting room on her own, tea in hand, going through the script.
Time slipped by. When she finally glanced up at the clock on the wall, it was 2:20. Twenty minutes past the agreed time.
Yuanshan still hadn’t shown up.
Lin Xun’s brow tightened. She had never liked working with people who couldn’t keep to a schedule.
She pulled out her phone and messaged Zhou Zhou, who came back saying he couldn’t reach anyone. He checked with the Ruili side, and Yuanshan’s assistant explained that he was stuck in traffic and should arrive around 2:30.
2:30 came. Now they were saying 3:00.
Past 3:00. Now 3:30.
A steady stream of people moved in and out of the studio entrance.
The receptionist kept coming over to refill Lin Xun’s tea, each time stealing a glance at her perfectly composed face before retreating without a word.
Lin Xun held out until 4:00. She looked out at the traffic moving freely outside, then quietly packed up her things and left.
The session never happened, but the studio booking fee still had to be paid.
She had barely stepped out of the elevator when her phone rang. Ruili.
The assistant on the other end cycled through apologies, her voice so strained she sounded close to tears.
Lin Xun didn’t want to make it harder on her. She kept her irritation in check and worked out a new time with her.
In the end, from start to finish, a voice actor who had shown up two hours late had never appeared at all. And even the apology had been delivered by someone else on his behalf.
─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─
On the way home, Lin Xun stopped at a fresh grocery store.
She pushed an empty cart through the aisles while venting to Cheng Meng on the phone about getting stood up by a well-known CV that afternoon.
“No way. Yuanshan did that? Is he pulling the whole celebrity attitude thing?”
Cheng Meng sounded genuinely surprised. She knew who Yuanshan was and liked some of his work.
She searched the forums while they talked, then after a long pause said, “His reputation looks pretty solid on here, though.”
Lin Xun drifted into the drinks aisle, checking labels, and picked out a case of high-calcium milk, the kind suited for older people.
“Maybe his spaceship back from Mars got hijacked by aliens. That’s the only explanation I’ve got.”
Cheng Meng had long since gotten used to her sharp tongue. “So what are you going to do? Didn’t you say after listening to all those voice samples, his was the only one that really worked?”
Like Tang Huan, she trusted Lin Xun’s ear without question. After all, she was one of “Nightingale’s” most devoted fans, a veteran from the early days.
“I rescheduled for a second session next week…”
Venting was one thing, but she had already talked herself down. Rationally, she said, “At least for now, his voice fits best. I can let one no-show slide. Maybe something came up that he couldn’t explain. As long as the actual recording sessions go smoothly, I can live with it.”
“That’s because you’re impossibly picky about vocal compatibility. And honestly, Xun Xun, I think you’ve gotten a lot more patient these past few years.”
Cheng Meng marveled at this. “Back in the day you would’ve walked the moment something went sideways. The person who could make our Sister Lin sit and wait two hours hadn’t been born yet.”
“Who knows.”
Lin Xun gave a noncommittal reply, then suddenly remembered what Shen Yu had said when he recognized her the day before. “Actually, Meng Meng, do you remember if we ever talked about my personal life at my desk back in high school?”
“Your personal life?” Cheng Meng’s voice shot up several notches, like she’d caught wind of something juicy. “Is there something you haven’t told me? Out with it!”
“…”
Lin Xun, unbothered: “I mean basic personal details. Like that I’m from Qingyuan, that I grew up with my grandmother, that my parents are gone. That kind of thing.”
Cheng Meng thought about it. “I don’t really remember. We were always crowded at your desk chatting about something. Could’ve happened.”
Lin Xun made a small sound of acknowledgment.
She wasn’t particularly bothered. None of it was sensitive information.
But she made a quiet note to herself: watch what she said around Shen Yu from now on. Those ears of his were a little too sharp.
She hung up and found herself in the fruit section.
Lin Xun picked out a few dragon fruits, impressively large ones, then thought for a moment and lifted a watermelon off the shelf.
Before she could set it in the cart, an old hand reached over from behind her.
“That’s not how you pick a watermelon. That one won’t be sweet.”
The voice was aged but familiar. Lin Xun turned around in surprise.
It was Old Lady Jiang, as expected.
She had her hair done up in her usual neat bun and was pushing her own cart. Not far behind her trailed another figure, tall and broad, like an accessory she’d brought along.
This one leaned on a slender carbon-black cane, cap brim pulled low over his brows and eyes, a pair of dark glasses resting on a high, straight nose, thin lips and a sharp jawline half-hidden under the shadow of the brim.
He drew looks wherever he went.
Lin Xun couldn’t quite say whether people were turning for the cane or for the face that, even half-covered, was difficult to ignore. Probably half and half.
She put the watermelon back and asked, willing to be corrected: “…So how do you pick one?”
Old Lady Jiang tapped each watermelon in turn, then bent close to examine the stems, and finally settled on one of medium size, perfectly round. “This one.”
Lin Xun had always trusted the accumulated wisdom of older people. She lifted the watermelon carefully and placed it in her cart.
Back when her grandmother was still alive, she’d never once been served a watermelon that wasn’t sweet.
By the time they’d finished with the fruit, Lin Xun had also stocked up on instant noodles.
Old Lady Jiang picked out some seasoning and vegetables.
Shen Yu had been silent the whole way through, not a word to Lin Xun, whom he’d just reconnected with the day before, and barely any more to the old woman either. No expression to speak of. The only time he stirred was when something needed reaching from the top shelves, and even then he did it with the air of someone making a considerable concession.
Lin Xun found it odd. While he was stretching up to get a packet of Sichuan pepper powder at Old Lady Jiang’s instruction, she lowered her voice and asked, “What’s going on with him?”
Old Lady Jiang adjusted her reading glasses and pursed her lips with open displeasure. “He’s giving me the silent treatment. I said one thing to him yesterday and he’s had that sour face ever since. Fine by me. We’ll see who holds out longer. Temper like that, no wonder nobody can stand him.”
Lin Xun glanced at the women nearby, young and middle-aged alike, stealing looks in their direction and murmuring to each other with barely concealed delight. She felt Old Lady Jiang’s assessment was, on balance, somewhat debatable.
She was a little curious. “What did you say to him? Must’ve been bad, to get him like this.”
By her memory, young Master Shen had always had a sharp tongue and a foul temper, but it was mostly bark. He was the type to dish it out, not the type to take it. Nobody ever really got under his skin.
“Well…”
Old Lady Jiang looked momentarily guilty. She cleared her throat twice. “It was nothing, really. I just said he takes after his father.”
“…”
Lin Xun thought about the slap that had landed squarely on Shen Yu’s face back in high school. The bowl of borscht upended onto his father’s head, bright red and fragrant. And Shen Yu’s stepmother, who had seemed barely older than them and apparently couldn’t get a sentence out without shedding a few tears.
After a long pause, Lin Xun picked up another packet of instant noodles and delivered her verdict with perfect evenhandedness: “…Yeah, that’s a pretty vicious thing to say.”
