A Moon and a Cicada - Chapter 3

Beijing Daxing International Airport, midnight. Reporters are still gathered at the exit, waiting for film star Hang Che, who is connecting through Harbin.

“Is it this flight?” A reporter holding a camera with a long-telephoto lens stretched his legs; his feet were clearly falling asleep.

“Trust me, I’m right. Look, aren’t all our colleagues here? What are you worried about?”

“It’s just that we haven’t seen her in person for over a year, haha—”

For entertainment journalists to squat at the airport in the middle of the night, Hang Che was certainly high-profile enough to justify the wait.

Last year, she traveled alone to South Korea to film the low-budget disaster movie Seoul Plan. In May of the same year, the film was shortlisted for the 72nd Cannes Film Festival—a first for South Korean director Park Hyo-ping. As the female lead, she accompanied the crew to Los Angeles. Although they ultimately missed out on the Palme d’Or, it was enough to set off a massive wave of public opinion back home.

Her heroic look as a female police officer and her crisp, clean action scenes won her a legion of fans. Immediately, public opinion split into two extremes; some favored her, while others wished for her downfall.

Netizen Comments:

[It’s just a nomination, okay? And it’s the film that was nominated. She’s just riding on its coattails.]

[The person above is so salty. Isn’t she the lead? How can you separate her from the movie?]

[Sister isn’t drawing a gun! She’s drawing my heart!]

[Sister, don’t hit zombies, hit me!]

[Bad actors stay blacklisted for life! Learn how to be a human before you act!]

[But I find it so greasy, especially the part where she jumps out of the car and draws her gun.]

[Her acting is truly undeniable; Choi Ji-hee is a total goddess! But her character is trash. I really have a love-hate relationship with her!]

[Anti-fans begone! Welcome back, my Empress.]

[Am I the only one who cares if she and Qiu Yunyu have broken up?]

[Please don’t bring my handsome boy into this.]

The year before last, she was pushed to the forefront of a scandal for refusing to perform in the period film The Pianist’s Night, which was invested in by Jingge Zhihua Media. The investors “soft-blocked” her, smear campaigns filled the internet, and fans of her co-stars denounced her, solidifying her reputation as a “tainted artist.”

At the time, public opinion was overwhelmingly one-sided. Coupled with a never-ending stream of past “black materials,” everyone believed this “genius Best Actress” who found fame young was arrogant, reckless, and seeking her own destruction—deserving to be abandoned by the industry.

To everyone’s surprise, she managed to land an invitation from a South Korean director. She spent three months silently learning Korean and won the Best Actress award at South Korea’s 45th Blue Dragon Film Awards last year—the first time since the awards’ inception that it was given to a foreigner.

On the podium, she gave her acceptance speech in Mandarin. The domestic internet was in an uproar, and the hashtag #HangCheMandarinSpeech stayed at the top of the trending list for two full days.

Undoubtedly, she was currently the most talked-about star. Everyone was anticipating her next career move.

But afterward, the high-profile actress suddenly vanished. No one knew where she was or where she had gone.

It wasn’t until a few days ago, as everyone returned to work after the New Year, that someone leaked news of her taking photos with a camera on the streets of Tokyo.

Entertainment reporters moved like the wind. They came up empty-handed in Japan, but finally got reliable news today: she had flown from Narita International Airport to Harbin and taken a connecting flight.

She was truly cunning.

The airport broadcast indicated the plane had arrived. Reporters blocked the arrival gate. As a long-haired woman wearing a hat, mask, and a heavy coat appeared, the crowd exploded, and camera flashes strobed incessantly.

Black hat, black coat, black mask. She carried a backpack on one shoulder and pulled a suitcase toward the exit.

The crowd surged. Other passengers realized that this woman with the refined aura was actually the two-time Best Actress winner and began taking photos with their phones.

Unlike other stars, Hang Che unexpectedly took off her mask and held her hat in her hand, appearing completely unaffected by the reporters swarming her.

Airport security noticed the situation spiraling out of control and stepped forward to clear a path.

Seeing she was blocked and could barely move, she gave a somewhat helpless smile. “Everyone, let’s chat as we walk.”

It was clear her mood was good today. Although Hang Che always appeared gentle and calm before the media, today’s 18-hour journey showed no signs of fatigue on her. Her skin was flawless—poreless even from up close—and her elegant, serene temperament easily inspired goodwill.

The famous director Yang Lin once said of her: “She stands there like a solitary white camellia, independent of the world.”

“Can you tell us why you chose to give your acceptance speech in Chinese?” a young reporter asked nervously.

Hang Che reached out to steady her as she stumbled backward. “Careful.” She then smiled faintly. “Because I am Chinese.”

The reporters laughed. “We heard you’re considering signing with a company. Does this mean you won’t be working solo anymore?”

“Your news is more accurate than my own. I will give that suggestion serious thought.”

The crowd ushered the talked-about actress toward the elevators.

“Will you develop your career domestically or continue to expand into foreign markets?” This was the topic the public cared about most.

“Anywhere is fine, as long as I can act,” she replied neutrally.

Suddenly, someone shouted, “Do you think the Blue Dragon Awards carry more weight, or the Hong Kong Film Awards?”

The question was sharp and difficult. “Awards are simply recognition for the past.”

Hang Che shifted her hat to the hand pulling her suitcase and ran a hand through her long hair.

“Does that mean you don’t care about winning?” As expected, the reporters’ sensitivity for creating headlines was frightening.

Hang Che looked down at the path, laughing. “Oh no, I feel like I’m going to trend for that.”

The atmosphere of the interview was lighter than expected. Perhaps after a year, the reporters were more curious about this returning queen.

“Over here! Hang Che!”

Shouts came from all sides. Security had gradually gained control, clearing the way ahead.

Suddenly, Hang Che stopped and turned back to the reporters. Her tone was sincere. “Could you please take some good-looking photos of me?”

The crowd was puzzled.

“I haven’t seen them… in a long time.” She said this with genuine conviction.

Them? The reporters quickly realized she meant her fans. Whether it was a show or not, at that moment, the reporters reached a silent consensus, and the flashes became even more frequent.

“You look good no matter how we shoot!” “Exactly! Look over here!”

“Thank you, everyone. You’ve worked hard. Stay safe on your way back.”

The crowd slowed, finally reaching the garage elevators.

A female reporter shouted a follow-up: “One more! One more question!”

“Have you watched your boyfriend Qiu Yunyu’s hit drama Destroying the Evidence?” The other reporters froze, mentally lighting a candle for this brave soul. There was an unwritten rule in the industry: one generally doesn’t mention “Danmei” adaptations (BL dramas) in public. With more young people entering the industry recently, some rules were slowly being broken.

Hang Che stood at the back of the elevator, turned, and tilted her head at the reporter with a sincere smile, but did not answer.

The security guard held back the reporters and quickly pressed the down button.

The door slowly closed, blocking out the noise, leaving only the silence of the elevator.

Her phone vibrated. Hang Che pulled it from her coat pocket and swiped the screen with one hand. “Hello?”

“You’re back in the country? When are you free for us to meet and talk?”

“In a couple of days.”

“Alright. Coming to my company, or should we meet at…?”

Hang Che provided the answer immediately: “The company.”

“Got it. I’ll send you the address on WeChat.” The woman on the other end had an alluring, lazy voice that sounded very pleased.

“Okay. Goodbye.”

In the parking lot, Hang Che looked for the car sent to pick her up. Since her first role, she had never had an assistant or a manager. Most of her roles came through personal introductions or direct contact. Her makeup artists were usually provided by the show or set, or she hired them temporarily. She didn’t like bothering people and felt it wasn’t necessary.

However, in the current climate, not having a management company or a team inevitably led to problems—PR, business deals, promotion, and more. Coupled with fierce competition and smear campaigns from rivals, she had no channel to speak for herself other than Weibo.

If not for this, she wouldn’t have had to find a “different path.” So for this domestic comeback, she had privately contacted several entertainment media companies, intending to sign officially after a careful choice to focus more on her acting.

After her call, the car arrived. The driver politely took her luggage and put it in the trunk. Hang Che had put her hat and mask back on as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Hello, passenger for tail number 1908. Glad to serve you. Our destination is SOHO Modern City, 56 kilometers away.”

“Thank you for your hard work.”

The driver shifted gears, and the vehicle slowly rolled out of the underground garage.

Trending topics soon appeared:

#HangCheMidnightAirportPhotos

#HangCheAsksReportersToTakeGoodPhotos

#HangCheFirstAppearanceSinceBlueDragon

#HangCheSigning

The night was deep, but the netizens and the “melon-eating” army were full of energy. Originally, there were objective comments under the hashtags, but they were quickly taken over by negative ones. Consequently, by the next day, only the signing rumor remained on the list; the others had vanished without a trace. Everyone began speculating which company she would sign with.

Comments:

[Can’t stand it. Is she coming back to the domestic industry to rake in money again?]

[To the person above: please disappear. We like watching her. Thanks.]

[Hang Che still has fans? Are they out here whitewashing her again?]

[Exactly. I don’t care about her past mess; just don’t let her near the artists I like.]

[Which company would even sign her? Tell me so I can block them.]

[You’ve got some nerve. Hang Che has Golden Statue and Golden Horse trophies, and now a Blue Dragon. Does your ‘fave’ have any actual works to show?]

[Exactly. None of the antis can compete with her skills. Just a bunch of brainless clowns.]

Chaos reigned as all sorts of “ghosts and gods” came out. Whenever Hang Che’s name appeared, a storm followed. Anyone remotely connected to her was dragged into the fray.

Some wanted her back—the enemy of an enemy is a friend. Others wanted her to disappear forever so she wouldn’t steal their “cake.” Overall, negative comments and skepticism filled the social media platforms.

Like idol, like fan. Hang Che didn’t pay much attention to the internet. Other than business posts, she rarely posted about her personal life. Consequently, her fans were quite “Zen.” She had a large base of casual observers, but her “warrior fans” were pitifully few. Whenever public opinion turned, they were usually crushed.

Even Hang Che’s own Weibo comments were about to be completely occupied by anti-fans. The target herself didn’t seem to care.