After Transmigrating Back, I Became My Own Stand-in - Chapter 10

Shi Xu, who had been pushed into working by her manager, was actually quite cooperative.

Over the past few days, she had familiarized herself with her current face, though she felt the various filters on the livestreaming app made her look less like a human and more like an alien. Eventually, she turned them all off.

Meng Heng’s livestream popularity was high; after all, this was her first public appearance since her injury. To the audience, the background was clearly not a corporate office. The young girl on screen looked spirited and healthy, and she didn’t seem as forced or “try-hard” as she had in previous livestreams.

Regardless, whenever Meng Heng did anything, she was guaranteed to trend on the hot search—it was just a matter of how high she ranked. Her anti-fans had even established a dedicated “Meng Heng Bot,” jokingly awarding her the title of “Yearly Hot Search Subscription Holder.”

Shi Xu, the person involved, was already used to it.

Her current situation as Meng Heng was honestly pathetic. Once you “dehydrated” her fifty million followers, there was likely very little left; the few die-hard fans she had were probably people who had stayed just to curse at her every day.

How can she be… so disliked? Even when I was doing transmigration missions in entertainment novels, it wasn’t this ridiculous!

Shi Xu reviewed Meng Heng’s history. The company hadn’t started her off with a “diva” persona; they only gave up and pivoted to the “infamy is still fame” route halfway through. It was mainly because Meng Heng’s professional skills were so poor. Being a starlet was one thing, but she managed to win awards and ride the coattails of every hit TV show despite her lack of talent. This “black-and-red” strategy was working overtime.

Shi Xu couldn’t understand it, and what she understood even less was that there were actually fans who were genuinely devoted to her.

On one hand, she was quite touched. Livestreaming and chatting wasn’t difficult for her; she was naturally a talkative person. It was just that some questions were hard to answer, so she had to keep an eye on her manager’s expression.

The manager sat nearby, heart as vast as a racetrack, watching expressionlessly as Shi Xu handled the “ideal type” question herself. She nearly spat out her drink when she heard the answer. She thought the girl would follow the old template—tall, handsome, can dance, etc.—general directions that let fans’ imaginations run wild and didn’t hold anyone accountable for “clout-chasing” specific male stars.

She didn’t expect the first thing out of her mouth to be: “Someone who won’t cheat on me.”

Isn’t that the bare minimum? The standards have dropped way too much!

As the “thank you” donations and comments flooded the screen with “hahaha,” Shi Xu squinted and laughed along. On the phone screen, she tilted her head, giving her fans a rare sense of being “doted on.”

One fan followed up: “Didn’t Xiao Heng say last time she wanted someone tall, handsome, a good dancer, and a top-tier SSR (rare) person?”

Shi Xu let out an “Eh?”: “Then why are you still asking me?”

She had gained a little weight during her hospital stay, and her complexion was rosy now. She hadn’t bothered with the face-slimming filters, but she still looked great. Her entire state was relaxed—likely because she had made peace with the fact that since she was back, she had to strive to buy a house and start over anyway. Her work attitude was much more proactive.

These fans are the real “benefactors.” The actual sugar mommy is stingy as hell; it’s better to put effort into the fans.

When she laughed, her eyes crinkled. She wore no makeup except for lipstick, appearing bright, elegant, and composed.

“Stop asking about the schedule! It’s a secret. I’ll show you my hand; it’s not fully healed yet.”

Someone asked about the accident. Shi Xu closed her eyes; in her memory, it was just a flash. She simply said, “I’m lucky to be alive. It hurt a lot.”

Compared to Meng Heng’s previous boring livestreams, this was incredibly effective at “cultivating” sympathy. Before long, a new tag appeared: #HeartbreakForMengHeng.

Her studio was useless in most regards, but they were masters of “Hot Search-ology,” knowing exactly how to trigger the public’s annoyance. Passers-by would click in out of curiosity, see it was Meng Heng, and curse: “Why is it this resource-backed hack again?” Those who didn’t know her would be force-fed “knowledge” by fans, leading to instant resentment.

Her public reputation had long since evaporated. Shi Xu sighed, weighing in her heart which was more profitable: being “black-and-red” famous or truly famous.

The livestream lasted forty minutes. Once it ended, the manager and assistants left. Yao Fangfang would return the next morning. The company gave Shi Xu the week to recuperate, but she still had some “legacy” classes to attend.

Specifically… Opera Script Theory.

Shi Xu wasn’t worried about the content; she was just curious. Before Chen Kaiqi left, she asked, “How were my grades in this class before?”

The manager said seriously, “Terrible.”

Shi Xu wasn’t surprised, but she was still hopeful. “No progress at all?”

Chen Kaiqi: “Maybe a tiny bit.”

Shi Xu: “Fine.”

Chen Kaiqi: “Aren’t your memories slowly coming back? It’s a good thing you have a foundation in dance, otherwise, it would be even harder.”

Shi Xu thought of her own past studies—working through winter and summer without rest. Picking it up again now would be difficult. She knew Meng Heng had studied dance; her family had been well-off when she was a child, and she did ballet for a few years before the divorce. When she did her talent show, her dancing was considered “passable.” Her voice was above average, but not standout.

“Director Shen’s personal hobbies… just phone it in. She knows you can’t learn it anyway,” Chen Kaiqi sighed, looking at her artist leaning against the door. She felt like a eunuch serving a concubine, terrified her mistress would be sent to the “cold palace” (discarded).

Once the manager left, Shi Xu patrolled the apartment. She found many “cute girl” things in the corners: dog-themed rugs, popular sunset lamps. A sticky note on the headboard said “Add oil!” (Keep going!), with a later addition: “Forget it, forget it.”

Shi Xu laughed and pulled back the curtains to look at the city. Sunday was New Year’s Eve, but many companies hadn’t started their holiday yet. The skyscrapers were still brightly lit. This city had changed too much. She lowered her head and searched Weibo for her friend’s name.

She used to have many friends, but true friends are one in a hundred. When she was left with nothing, only Xin Xiaoxuan remained. A friend she had studied Kunqu opera with since childhood, who had entered the entertainment industry earlier but hadn’t made it big, eventually finding “true love” and getting married.

She searched for a long time, only vaguely remembering a character from her ID. She had found it in a Google cache yesterday but hadn’t finished reading. The blog hadn’t been updated in a long time; the last post was mourning a pet cat. The friend still lived in this city, in an old neighborhood near Sanxi Bridge.

It was nearly midnight, but Shi Xu wasn’t sleepy. She put on a mask and hat, threw on a coat, and decided to head out. Without her manager watching, she scanned a shared electric scooter at the entrance and rode toward the bridge following the GPS.

The neon lights of S-City never slept. Giant LED screens displayed ads for stars of this era—none of whom Shi Xu recognized. She felt like a ghost in a future world, finding no trace of her former existence.

She reached the neighborhood, circled it a few times, and finally bought some grilled cold noodles (kao leng mian) at a roadside stall. The owner asked, “Both of you just finished work?”

Meng Heng was about the same height as the old Shi Xu, but her presence was even more striking, even when bundled up. A girl standing nearby looked at her, sensing she was a beauty.

Shi Xu hummed in response.

The owner was chatty: “No spicy strips? Young people love adding spicy strips nowadays.”

Shi Xu didn’t like those snacks. “No thanks.” She looked at the steaming griddle and asked, “How many years have you been here? I remember there used to be a stall selling grilled buns here.”

The owner chuckled. “I’ve been here seven or eight years. Little girl, are you misremembering?”

The owner of the sour and spicy noodle stall next door chimed in: “She’s not misremembering. That was over ten years ago. That person went back to their hometown long ago.”

“Ten years ago? Then how old are you?” the owner asked.

Shi Xu took her plastic bag and said, “Over forty.”

The owner gave an “Oh,” and even the girl who was about to leave gave her a surprised look. Shi Xu just smiled. She had worked tirelessly in the Mainframe space just to return to a life that had been cut short. But heaven doesn’t always grant wishes. If she were still alive, she might have been there to see her cat through its final days. Xin Xiaoxuan’s second child had probably graduated kindergarten by now.

And me? I’m gone.

A few days later, it was New Year’s Eve. The manager was away, but the staff who hadn’t gone home gathered for a New Year’s dinner. They were chatting and scrolling through videos of celebrities posting their holiday meals. Chen Kaiqi didn’t forget to remote-control Shi Xu, telling her to post something too.

Shi Xu: “We’ve already started eating, what’s there to post?”

Chen Kaiqi: “Remember to send a New Year’s greeting text to Director Shen.”

Shi Xu perfunctorily replied “OK” and set an alarm so she wouldn’t forget. Eventually, Yao Fangfang sent her a group photo with a “Happy New Year” edit. Shi Xu was in the center, squinting as she smiled over a small cake.

As she was reading her Weibo comments, a call came in. The caller ID: Director Shen.

The room went silent instantly.

Shen Tianqing: “Where are you?”

Shi Xu (with a cherry tomato in her mouth): “With the studio crew.”

Shen Tianqing: “Address.”

Shi Xu gave the address. Shen Tianqing replied, “Wait there.”

Once she hung up, her colleagues looked terrified. “Is Director Shen coming to inspect our work on New Year’s Eve?”

Shen Tianqing arrived quickly. Shi Xu went down alone. The “Sugar Mommy” sat in the car, her expression unreadable.

Shi Xu stood outside the window. “Is something the matter?”

Shen Tianqing didn’t even look at her. “Get in.”

How annoying, Shi Xu thought. She couldn’t understand what this “brat” wanted, looking like a bitter widow every single day. Fine… whatever.

The car drove straight to the entrance of a luxury hotel.

Shen Tianqing: “My family wants to see you.”

Shi Xu almost tripped getting out of the car. Her mental fortitude was being tested to the limit. What is this? Isn’t this supposed to be a “pure” transactional relationship between a benefactor and a canary?

Is it really necessary to “meet the parents”?

Shen Tianqing glanced at her, seemingly indifferent to her casual clothes. Perhaps because she was in a good mood, she actually said something “human”:

“Don’t be afraid. I have no intention of marrying you.”

Shi Xu: Thanks. I didn’t want that ‘blessing’ anyway.