Bo Funian · Chat

You stand in front of the door to the top-floor office of the Starlight Building, your palms already slick with a thin layer of sweat. Your manager adjusts your collar one last time, whispering in a low voice: "Remember, answer whatever Mr. Bo asks, and don't say a single extra word. If he tells you to stand, you stand. If he tells you to sit... you'd better not sit either." The door opens. That office is larger than you imagined, and emptier than you imagined. Within the cold grey tones, there is only an exaggeratedly wide desk, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, and walls lined with artist and project profiles. The sunlight is sliced into bars by the blinds, stretching across the floor like a series of fences. He is sitting at the very back. You can't even see his face clearly, only a backlit silhouette—shoulders and back straight, head slightly tilted, one hand resting on the armrest, fingertips pressing against his temple. The reflection on his silver-framed glasses obscures his gaze, but you know he is looking at you. That feeling of being watched is like a needle, piercing through the center of your brow and sending a chill all the way down your spine. Your manager quickly steps forward, presenting your profile with both hands, bowing respectfully at a ninety-degree angle: "Mr. Bo, this is our company's newly signed artist. They have an exceptionally good foundation, please take a look—" Bo Funian doesn't take it. He doesn't even move. About five seconds pass—maybe ten, you can no longer tell—before he slowly raises his hand, pinching the profile between his index and middle fingers like picking up an inconsequential scrap of paper. He sweeps his eyes over the first page, taking perhaps only two seconds, and then puts it down. "Good foundation?" His voice reveals itself before his presence does. Deep, unhurried, every word sounding as if it were crushed in his throat before being spat out. No warmth, no fluctuation, it's hard to even tell if it's a question. The manager is already starting to sweat: "Yes, yes, yes, look at this face, and these body proportions, as long as you're willing to give them a chance—" "Did I ask you?" Five words. The tone is slightly heavier than before, dropping perhaps from zero degrees to minus one. But the manager's mouth is instantly shut as if someone pressed a pause button, and even their breath is held back. The office falls so silent that only the faint sound of the central air conditioning remains. Bo Funian finally moves. He stands up from his chair, walks around the desk, and approaches you step by step. His leather shoes make no sound on the carpet, but you feel as if every step is treading directly on your chest. He stops right in front of you. Less than a meter away. You finally see his face clearly—refined, sharp, with a casual hint of malice between his brows. Those eyes behind the silver-framed glasses are looking at you, yet not quite "looking" at you; it's more like scanning a freshly unwrapped product. From your eyes, to your lips, to your shoulders, to your waistline... his gaze lingers for less than half a second on each spot, but that feeling of being appraised is more suffocating than any prolonged stare. He tilts his head slightly. It's a very slight movement, like examining a decorative piece that is somewhat pleasing to the eye. Then he raises his hand—the one wearing the mechanical watch—and lifts your chin with his index finger. The force is very light, not even a "pinch." But the gesture itself is a declaration: which way your face turns is up to me. His fingertips are cold, and a faint, cold scent of cigar smoke seeps from his cuff, wrapping around the tip of your nose, making your knees weaker than any perfume ever could. "Look up." You do as told, without hesitation, without struggle. Not because you are brave, but because his voice leaves absolutely no room for you to hesitate. He releases his hand, lowers his gaze, lets his eyes linger on you for another two seconds, and then turns back to sit behind his desk, his movement like a bird of prey folding its wings. "Leave the profile." He picks up the fountain pen on his desk, looking neither at you nor at the manager, merely opening the next document. His tone has returned to that lukewarm, everyday temperature. "The person stays." The manager freezes for half a second, then, as if receiving a pardon from death, bows repeatedly, nearly tripping over the threshold while backing out. The door closes. The office falls quiet once more. He still doesn't look at you, the faint, clear sound of his pen scratching against paper filling the room. You stand in place, not knowing whether you should speak, remain silent, or do something else. Only that bar of sunlight cut by the blinds remains between you and him, like an invisible line. About a minute passes. He stops writing, looks up, and his eyes behind the glasses lock straight onto you. That gaze is not fierce, not cruel, and doesn't even carry much emotion—but you know that if you were a block of ice, this look would be enough to melt you into water within three seconds. His lips move slightly, his lip line on the thinner side, and the cold hint of red at the corner of his eyes takes on a nearly dangerous laziness in the afternoon light. "听说你想红？" -> "I heard you want to be famous?" These words drop into the air like a pebble thrown into a calm pool of water. Not "What makes you think you can be famous?" or "Do you think you have what it takes to be famous?" Just "I heard you want to be famous"—like a judge reading out the title of a case file. What is about to be judged is whether your desire to "be famous" itself is worth his time. He waits for you for two seconds. You don't answer. It's not that you don't want to, but your throat feels as if it's blocked by something. And he seems to have anticipated this long ago; the corner of his mouth doesn't even twitch as he gently rests his pen on the desk. "Can't answer?" He leans forward slightly by an inch, resting his interlaced fingers on the desk, his thumb unhurriedly turning his watch. "Then let's rephrase the question—" His gaze slides from your eyes to your lips, pausing for a brief moment, before returning to your eyes. "What makes you think you're worthy?" Five words. Not heavy, not loud, but you hear the subtext beneath them—this is not a question, this is a test. Your answer will determine whether you stay to continue this conversation, or if you and he will never cross paths again. And you know that in this entire entertainment industry, he has the final say. There are only those he doesn't want to promote; there is no one he cannot make famous. The problem is never with him, but with you— Do you dare? Are you worth it? Are you willing to lay everything you have on the table and let him set the price? The sexual tension is a knife suspended in the air. You can't see it, but you know it's there. Bo Funian looks at you, waiting for you to speak. On his wrist, that mechanical watch ticks quietly.