Chapter Four: Two Broken Souls

This was just a casual, caring remark from Liu Zhengwen. He never expected that Wang Mo would seize upon it so readily. Wang Mo smiled, “Alright.” What? Seriously? Liu Zhengwen nearly choked on his own saliva. Brother, could you be a little more modest? True, Wang Mo had once been at the top, but did he have any idea how he got there in the first place? Was he truly that oblivious?

He wasn’t the only one surprised; his other colleagues now looked at Wang Mo with strange expressions. Swallowing hard, Liu Zhengwen managed a forced smile. “Alright then, just do whatever you feel is best.”

Whatever others might think, Wang Mo’s heart was alight with excitement—he had finally seized the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Over the next few days, under the curious gazes of his colleagues, Wang Mo sat at his computer every day, diligently working, pretending to be extremely busy, though no one knew what he was actually doing.

On the fifth day, after the composition department had finished all fifty songs and submitted them to Liu Zhengwen for review, Wang Mo finally dropped the act. He printed out the score for “It Doesn’t Matter,” which he had long since prepared, and headed straight to Liu Zhengwen’s office.

Inside, Liu Zhengwen was reviewing the songs submitted by his team. A knock sounded at the door. Liu Zhengwen looked up, weary, and called, “Come in.”

Wang Mo entered politely, “Director Liu, I’ve finished my song. Would you like to take a look?”

“What?” Liu Zhengwen was caught off guard. After a moment, he stared in disbelief. “You actually wrote a song?” He had honestly thought Wang Mo was joking when he agreed to write one.

Wang Mo nodded, “I did.”

Liu Zhengwen eyed him skeptically. “You… know how to compose?”

Wang Mo offered a charming smile. “Director Liu, you might have forgotten. Before my debut, I studied Art and Technology at the Film Academy. It wasn’t the composition program, but we still had to learn songwriting.”

“Oh!” Realization dawned on Liu Zhengwen. No wonder Wang Mo seemed so confident. He smiled faintly, “Alright, let me see what you’ve got.”

Wang Mo handed over the printed score. Liu Zhengwen glanced at it, and the title caught his eye: “It Doesn’t Matter?” He shook his head, sighing inwardly. Clearly, Wang Mo must have been feeling utterly hopeless to come up with such a title. The more indifferent someone appeared, the more turmoil they likely felt inside.

Looking at Wang Mo’s calm demeanor, Liu Zhengwen was convinced he was just putting on a brave face. He could already imagine the despair and sadness churning beneath the surface of the young man before him, that sense of utter desolation after falling from the heights of fame. After all, very few people could truly withstand such a dramatic reversal of fortune.

Alas… such is fate. In truth, the child was rather pitiful—maybe even more so than himself. With that thought, the last traces of resentment in Liu Zhengwen’s heart faded, and he sighed, patting Wang Mo on the shoulder. “Wang Mo, try to let it go. Don’t dwell on it too much.”

What? What am I supposed to be thinking? Wang Mo was momentarily at a loss. “I’m not overthinking anything.”

Liu Zhengwen replied, “I know, but you are thinking.”

“I really don’t have anything on my mind.”

“Alright, I won’t press. I understand.”

What exactly do you understand? Wang Mo was utterly bewildered.

Liu Zhengwen said no more, turning his attention to the score Wang Mo had handed him. Though he was certain Wang Mo couldn’t have written anything remarkable, he still examined the song earnestly. As the head of the composition department, his professionalism wouldn’t allow him to treat any piece with contempt or sarcasm, no matter whose hand it came from.

How poor Wang Mo’s work might be was beside the point. Only his own attitude mattered. It was, after all, his professionalism that had earned him his position as manager; he was skilled enough to form a basic impression of a song’s quality just by reading the score and envisioning the melody in his mind.

“It doesn’t matter who falls in love with whom; it doesn’t matter who ends up heartbroken…” Liu Zhengwen hummed a few lines along with the melody, then frowned. To his slight surprise, the lyrics and melody didn’t feel like the work of a novice—they were both quite complete. But that was all. In his opinion, the song’s quality wasn’t high; in fact, it sounded rather unpleasant to him. In other words, the song was unlikely to have commercial value.

This outcome was exactly what he expected. If Wang Mo had written a great song, that would have been the real shock.

“Wang Mo, about this song…” Liu Zhengwen hesitated, then said tactfully, “Let me hold onto it for now. I’ll pass it to the Vocal Department—maybe a singer will pick it up.”

Wang Mo saw the look on Liu Zhengwen’s face and understood instantly—he didn’t think “It Doesn’t Matter” was any good. Wang Mo didn’t blame him; in fact, he rather respected Liu Zhengwen’s judgment. He knew perfectly well that unless a truly exceptional singer performed it, hardly anyone in the entire music industry could do the song justice. Even the best of the best would struggle. After all, in his previous life, two decades after its release, almost no singer dared to cover “It Doesn’t Matter.” Without a uniquely raspy voice like Kun’s, anyone else would turn it into a disaster.

So how could Liu Zhengwen possibly know the song’s true value?

Still, Wang Mo could not let the song be handed over to the Vocal Department—it would definitely end up in the trash. He said earnestly, “Director Liu, may I choose the singer for this song myself?”

Liu Zhengwen raised an eyebrow. “You want to choose the singer yourself?”

Wang Mo nodded. “Yes.”

Liu Zhengwen rubbed his brow. Brother, do you really not understand the status of our composition department? To put it plainly, we’re just tools. Singers choose our songs; we don’t choose singers. If the composition department had the power to select performers, Liu Zhengwen would have dominated the company long ago. Clearly, Wang Mo was still used to living in the spotlight and hadn’t adjusted to his current place.

“No,” Liu Zhengwen said tactfully.

Wang Mo persisted, “Director Liu, I understand our position as composers, so please rest assured—I won’t cause you any trouble. I’ll approach the singer I have in mind privately, and if he’s willing to sing my song, I’ll give it to him. If not, I won’t force the issue.”

“Oh?” That seemed reasonable enough, so Liu Zhengwen nodded. After all, who would possibly be interested in a song written by Wang Mo? Unless they were blind. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “So, is there a particular singer you have in mind?”

If Wang Mo had his eye on one of the stars from the Vocal Department, Liu Zhengwen would have to advise him against it, to spare him from humiliation.

Wang Mo had already made his decision days ago. Without hesitation, he replied, “Hao Mingxing.”

“Who?” Liu Zhengwen was momentarily blank, then nearly squeaked in surprise, “What? Hao Mingxing?”

Hao Mingxing wasn’t a famous singer—in fact, he was a nobody. But Liu Zhengwen knew his name because his situation was unusual. Hao Mingxing had once been a decent bar singer and was recruited by Yunhai Media as a newcomer in the Vocal Department. But shortly after joining, his relentless practice damaged his vocal cords; he had to undergo surgery. Afterward, his voice lost its former clarity and became extremely hoarse.

In short: he was ruined. For a singer, losing your voice is like becoming disabled.

“You want Hao Mingxing?” Liu Zhengwen nearly lost his composure. “You do realize he’s…”

He’s a cripple… He didn’t say the last two words, but Wang Mo understood his meaning.

Wang Mo replied firmly, “Yes, him.”

Liu Zhengwen stared at him for a long moment, realizing Wang Mo was completely serious. After thinking it over, he nodded, “I understand.”

Wang Mo was baffled. You understand again?

Liu Zhengwen truly thought he knew why Wang Mo had chosen Hao Mingxing. Hao Mingxing was a ruined man, but so was Wang Mo now. In his eyes, Wang Mo, out of sympathy for a fellow outcast, had chosen someone just as down-and-out as himself. After all, if he’d chosen another singer, none of them would have given his song a second glance. To save face, he picked someone who couldn’t sing.

Misery loves company.

Liu Zhengwen sighed inwardly. Two cripples—it’s a match made in heaven. Well, let them make their own mess. After all, what could possibly come of it?