Chapter Forty-Nine: Custom-Made (Double Feature)

The next morning, Zhou Miao awoke from his hangover to find that the three members of Countdown Band were already on a plane back home.

It was midday by the time Zhou Miao, still bleary-eyed, emerged from his room. He stood silently in the empty living room for a long time.

On the dining table, a glass of milk was weighed down by a note. The message read: “You were sleeping so soundly we didn’t want to wake you. We’ve left! Given how close we are, we shouldn’t be so formal, but we still want to thank you for helping us fulfill our dream. If it weren’t for you, we’d never have had the chance to perform on such a grand stage. Our stop has come, so we’re getting off here. Please carry our shared dream forward—Countdown Band.”

A faint smile played at Zhou Miao’s lips as he downed the milk in one gulp.

His phone rang. It was a call from Zhao Weiming. Zhou Miao sighed, his head throbbing, and answered, “Hello, Director Zhao.”

“Are you free these days? I watched your performance at Strawberry yesterday—you were fantastic,” Zhao said.

Zhou Miao couldn’t help but smile wryly. He suspected Zhao was calling to hurry him into participating in his new show.

“Haha, you flatter me. I’m not busy at the moment. How’s your new show coming along?”

At the mention of the show, Zhao Weiming’s tone turned troubled. His new program was called “Made to Order”—its main gimmick was inviting musicians to compose songs based on celebrities’ past romances.

Each episode would feature a music producer and a celebrity guest, who would return to the places where those relationships had unfolded, retracing emotional footprints. The musician was then required to deeply understand the story in just two days and write a song about it.

The idea seemed promising—using celebrities’ secret love stories to lure a curious audience, then winning their hearts with tailor-made songs for emotional resonance.

But reality was harsh. Celebrities were easy enough to invite—though reopening old wounds was painful, more money usually did the trick. The real problem was the musicians. None of the renowned songwriters were willing to come. The reason was simple: assigned songwriting is tough. It’s hard to empathize with someone else’s story, and with so little time, inspiration might not come at all. Forcing a song could easily tarnish their reputations.

So only lesser-known musicians agreed to participate, and their work was lackluster—dry, uninspired songs that failed to move anyone. As a result, “Made to Order” had devolved from a music show into a third-rate gossip program, surviving only on the draw of celebrity scandals. Poor reviews led to poor ratings, which in turn upset advertisers. To win back their funding, Zhao desperately needed Zhou Miao to step in and save the day.

“It’s complicated. I’ve already lined up the guest—the only thing left is your schedule.”

They set a date, and Zhou Miao sent him Gu Zhiyin’s number so they could discuss performance fees and logistics.

Rainbow was generous to Zhou Miao. As soon as the college entrance exams ended and he could officially begin his career, they provided him with a van and assigned him a driver and an assistant.

The assistant was Yang Xiaoya, a recent university graduate, four or five years older than Zhou Miao. She was plain and a little plump, not very talkative but very diligent, and could even double as a makeup artist.

The next afternoon, Zhou Miao and his assistant flew to Hengdian, the location specified by the program team.

As soon as they landed, a staff member met them and arranged their hotel. After settling in, Zhou Miao was led to the filming location—a well-known local bar called Dark Clouds.

Zhou Miao, in all honesty, had never been to a bar before and had no interest in the scene—he found it too loud and chaotic, like a den of mad revelers when the music stopped.

But this place upended his expectations. As soon as he entered, he heard soft, calming music at just the right volume—neither noisy nor rowdy. The lighting was not the garish, multicolored chaos he’d imagined, nor were there spinning disco balls—just a warm, mellow glow.

It was afternoon, and the bar was nearly empty. At a central booth, the host of “Made to Order,” Zhang Han, rose to greet him.

“Hello, hello! I’ve been looking forward to your arrival.” Zhang Han invited him to sit. “What would you like to drink?”

“Lemon water is fine.”

Zhou Miao felt a little out of place at his first variety show, unsure what to say, but Zhang Han was clearly experienced and gently steered the conversation.

Zhang Han had an engaging way of speaking that put Zhou Miao at ease. Gradually, he relaxed and was no longer so stiff and nervous.

“Do you know who this episode’s guest is?” Zhang Han asked mysteriously.

Zhou Miao shook his head. In truth, he didn’t know anyone in the industry.

“Well, you two have a bit of a connection. Remember how you wrote the theme song for Director Zhang Yichuan’s ‘Huo Yuanjia’? He acted in that movie too.”

After “Huo Yuanjia” was released during the Spring Festival, it raked in two billion at the box office, and the actors’ popularity soared. The show’s producers had gone to great lengths to invite this guest.

Zhou Miao’s eyes lit up. “Is it Mr. Li Lianying, who played Huo Yuanjia?”

Zhang Han’s expression froze awkwardly. “Uh… That big star is hard to invite. This time, we have Sun Hao, who played Master Qin’s godson.”

Master Qin’s godson… Oh, the one who avenged his godfather by slaughtering Huo Yuanjia’s family before taking his own life.

Sun Hao, who played that role, was a rising young actor—in his thirties, though “young” was relative. Before he found fame, he’d spent ten years as an extra in Hengdian. Thanks to his unyielding spirit, a director finally noticed him, and his career took off—he became a leading figure among young actors.

Speak of the devil—while they were discussing him, Sun Hao arrived.

He greeted them warmly, “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t expect the traffic to be so bad. I should have left earlier.”

Sun Hao didn’t have the delicate looks of a pretty boy—his features were more rugged, the kind that aunties adored. He was polite, and Zhou Miao’s first impression of him was favorable.

“It’s fine, we just got here ourselves.”

When Sun Hao saw Zhou Miao, he offered his hand. “Zhou Miao, nice to meet you. During the ‘Huo Yuanjia’ promotions, Director Zhang kept mentioning you. Your theme song was outstanding.”

“You’re too kind.”

Sun Hao ordered a whiskey with ice, took a sip, and said, “This bar is famous around here. Whenever I was in a bad mood, I’d come for a drink.”

Zhang Han nodded. “Great taste, nice atmosphere too.”

Setting down his glass, Zhang Han got straight to the point. “Are you still single?”

Sun Hao nodded. “I’ve been single ever since I broke up with my ex. I just want to focus on my career now. I’ll think about other things after I’ve made enough money.”

“So why did you two break up? Who ended it?”

Sun Hao gripped his glass, recalling, “I was the one who brought it up. We’d graduated three years earlier—it was time to get married, and she kept hinting at it.”

He smiled bitterly. “But back then, I was just an extra, making a hundred and fifty a day. Sometimes, I couldn’t even land a dead body role. How could I get married? I could barely support myself.”

“Did she ever complain?” Zhang Han pressed gently, knowing what the audience wanted.

Sun Hao shook his head. “She never complained, not once. She didn’t care that I was broke or that I didn’t own a house.”

His eyes reddened. “But I cared! My family was poor—I’d had enough hardship. I couldn’t bear the thought of her struggling with me. It felt worse than dying.”

“Did you ever think about changing careers?” Zhou Miao, absorbed in the story, asked instinctively.

“I did. I thought even hauling bricks on a construction site would pay better. But she kept encouraging me, knowing acting was my dream. She said she was willing to wait.”

He lit a cigarette. “But the more supportive she was, the worse I felt. After three years as an extra, I still saw no hope.”

Sun Hao’s face twisted in frustration. “Do you guys understand how that feels?”

Given how he’d phrased it, neither Zhou Miao nor Zhang Han could do anything but nod.

Sun Hao downed the rest of his drink. “Later, her family pressured her hard. She asked when I planned to marry her.”

“What did you say?” Zhang Han asked curiously.

Sun Hao’s cheeks flushed. He gazed at the stage, where a singer was performing softly. “I didn’t say anything. That night, while she slept, I snuck out and left a letter. I broke up with her.”

“Did she try to find you afterward?” Zhou Miao asked.

He shook his head. “No one understood me better than she did. She knew how much I was suffering. After that night, she never contacted me again.”

The ending was deeply saddening and full of regret—a good woman lost just like that.

“How is she now? Did she get married?” Zhang Han inquired.

Sun Hao nodded. “A year after we split, a mutual friend told me she was getting married. She didn’t invite me, but I went to her wedding. She looked beautiful in her wedding dress.”

“Did she see you?”

“She did—she was on stage and looked a bit surprised. I thought she’d cry when she saw me, but she just smiled…” Sun Hao poured another drink, his expression tinged with melancholy.

“At the time, did you secretly hope she’d drop everything and leave with you?” Zhou Miao asked, cutting to the heart of it.

He smiled helplessly. “I did think that, but it was just wishful thinking. That day, she smiled so happily—genuinely. She’d found someone more suitable than me.”

Sun Hao let out a long sigh. “Honestly, seeing her so happy without me made me miserable, as if my absence meant nothing to her.”

A harsh thing to say, but it was genuine. People are like that—they hope their ex will be happy, but if she truly is, it stings, because the person making her happy isn’t you.

“At the time, all I could think was, if only I’d had money!” Sun Hao was a bit drunk now, pounding the table in agitation. Fortunately, the show had booked out the bar for the afternoon.

Letting the guest drink was a deliberate strategy by the production team—everyone knows that after a few drinks, secrets spill out. Even a wooden fish would sing sutras after a few shots.

But Sun Hao was clearly no longer in a state to record. Zhang Han hadn’t even encouraged him—he’d poured glass after glass himself.

So Zhang Han suggested they call it a day and continue tomorrow.

When they left the bar, night had already fallen—they hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

Sun Hao’s manager took him to the hotel to rest, while Zhao Weiming invited Zhou Miao and Zhang Han out for hotpot.

At the table, Zhao Weiming handed Zhou Miao a plate of fruit. “So, what do you think, brother? Did you get any inspiration from his story?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.”

Zhou Miao’s assurance put Zhao Weiming at ease. Since last year, Zhou Miao had written five songs, each a masterpiece and a career highlight. His talent was recognized by both the public and professionals in the industry.

“Eat up. Tomorrow you’ll probably be on your feet all day,” Zhang Han said.

The next day was, as expected, a journey through memories. Sun Hao took them to all the places he’d once been with his ex-girlfriend, walking until Zhou Miao was numb with fatigue.

As dusk fell, they arrived at their final destination—a small, low-rent room in a city village. When they’d first come to Hengdian, they’d rented this tiny place for just three hundred yuan a month to save money.

They borrowed the key from the landlord and stepped inside. No one had lived there for ages; the place smelled musty.

The room was tiny, less than ten square meters, furnished only with a cabinet and a bed—if one could call it that. It was just a bamboo board laid across two benches.

Since entering, Sun Hao had been silent, sitting on the dusty bamboo bed, lost in thought. Any movement made the bed creak loudly.

“She used to hate this bed—it was too noisy. Any movement at night would wake her up.”

He stared at the moldy ceiling. “There used to be a nest of rats up there. At night, they’d run back and forth—it was so annoying.”

“There were a lot of cockroaches here, too. She was terrified of them. She bought all kinds of traps, but nothing worked.”

Even after all these years, Sun Hao still remembered every flaw of this shabby room. Life here had been miserable, but now, what he missed most was the time he’d spent with her in this little place.

There was a tiny sink. Zhou Miao turned the faucet, which hissed before spurting out reddish-brown rust water—who knows how long it had been unused.

Most people couldn’t even imagine living in such conditions, yet she’d stayed by Sun Hao’s side for years without complaint.

Zhou Miao sighed. “You really have no luck, letting such a good girl slip away.”

Sun Hao’s expression was bitter. The way he’d left her that night was his life’s greatest regret; every time he remembered it, he wanted to slap himself. But there’s no medicine for regret—what’s past is past.

“All right, I have an idea for the song. Let’s meet at the bar tonight. I need some time to prepare.” With that, Zhou Miao left the crew.

Watching him go, Sun Hao couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of song would Zhou Miao write for him?