Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

Zhuang Jun didn't turn around, his voice flat: "Okay. There are pears at home, I'll make you some pear soup."

He Xu did not speak again.

In the kitchen, Zhuang Jun peeled the pear, cut it into small pieces, threw it into a small pot, added water, and slowly cooked it.

While waiting for the pot to boil, he leaned against the counter, took out his phone, and sent a message to Yang Sheng: "I've brought him home, don't worry."

Yang Sheng replied quickly: "Understood, Brother Zhuang. Let us know if you need anything."

Zhuang Jun replied with an "Mm" and put his phone away.

The pear soup in the pot started to steam, so he turned down the heat and stirred it with a spoon.

There was a corridor separating the living room and the bedroom, and He Xu's coughing could be heard through the wall, sometimes intermittently.

The pear soup is ready.

When Zhuang Jun carried the bowl into the bedroom, He Xu was lying on his side on the bed, his knees curled up to his chest, his whole body curled up in a ball.

His hand rested on his abdomen, his fingers slightly curled.

"Your stomach hurts too?" Zhuang Jun put the bowl on the bedside table.

He Xu did not answer, but he pressed the hand on his abdomen down a little more.

Zhuang Jun sat on the edge of the bed, reached out and turned him over so that he was lying on his back.

He Xu's face was red from being pressed down by the pillow, her eyes were also red, her lips were dry and chapped, and her eyelashes were wet.

"Get up and drink some pear soup." Zhuang Jun helped him up and put a pillow behind his back. "Drink slowly, don't choke."

He Xu took the bowl, lowered his head, and took a sip. As the warm pear soup slid down his throat, he relaxed slightly, his tense shoulders slumping down by half an inch.

Zhuang Jun didn't urge him, but sat down and waited.

After drinking about half a bowl, He Xu put the bowl down, leaned against the pillow, lowered his head, and remained silent.

Zhuang Jun didn't ask him what was wrong.

But he noticed that He Xu's fingers, which were resting on the blanket, were trembling slightly.

That kind of trembling is different from an uncontrollable cold war; it's more like something is churning out from inside, and you can't hold it in anymore.

"...Zhuang Jun."

"Um."

"This past year... why am I always like this?" He Xu's voice was soft, hoarse like sandpaper scraping against glass. "It wasn't like this before. Before, I could rehearse all night, teach non-stop, and be fine. I rarely even caught a cold all year round. Now... I catch a cold all the time, I have stomach aches all the time, I can even pull a muscle while dancing, and I'm covered in injuries while filming. How the hell did I become like this..."

His voice grew softer and softer as he spoke, and the end of his words began to tremble.

Zhuang Jun did not interrupt him.

"In the years before I appeared on 'Absolute Debut,' my health was always pretty good." He Xu lowered his head, his fingers gripping the blanket tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Back then, I coached so many students, spending every day in the practice room, and I never broke down. How come this year... all sorts of problems have appeared. Throat, ears, stomach, now even a cold can make me like this—am I really not going to make it?"

As the last sentence was uttered, a tear fell.

It slammed onto the blanket with a soft thud, leaving a small, dark stain.

He Xu lowered his head, tears falling rapidly, one after another. He didn't raise his hand to wipe them away, just kept his head down, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Zhuang Jun sat next to him, looking at him like that, and remained silent for several seconds.

Then he reached out and patted He Xu on the back of the head lightly.

"It's not that you can't do it," he said, "it's that you're too tired."

He Xu did not look up.

"From last year until now, you've had surgery, filmed movies, flown to the US, mentored NOVA, taught Ian, signed with a company, appeared on variety shows, and even went to deal with your mother's affairs." Zhuang Jun's voice was flat. "How many people do you think you're working for? No one could handle all this."

He Xu's lips moved, but he didn't make a sound.

"You haven't stopped all year," Zhuang Jun said. "You got sick and injured because your immune system weakened, because you never gave it a rest."

He Xu did not answer, his shoulders were still trembling slightly.

Zhuang Jun sighed, lowering his voice slightly: "It's my fault. I gave you too much work."

He Xu finally raised his head, his eyes red and glistening with tears, his voice hoarse: "...What's it to you? I answered it myself."

"You took the job because you thought you could handle it," Zhuang Jun said. "I agree that it was a misjudgment on my part."

He Xu opened his mouth, then closed it again, lowered his head, and sniffed.

Zhuang Jun picked up the bowl of pear soup that had cooled down a bit from the bedside table and handed it to him: "Drink the soup first."

He Xu took the bowl, lowered his head and took a sip, then another sip.

Zhuang Jun sat beside him, watching him slowly finish the pear soup in his bowl.

After putting down the bowl, He Xu leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes for a moment.

His breathing was a little calmer than before, but he still looked weak.

"Take a nap," Zhuang Jun said. "I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything."

He Xu didn't open his eyes, but he reached out his hand, his fingers making a grasping motion in the air, and touched Zhuang Jun's sleeve.

Zhuang Jun looked down at the hand gripping his sleeve, but didn't pull away.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed and put his phone on silent.

He Xu slowly loosened his grip on his sleeve, but didn't let go; he just left it there, as if afraid the man would leave.

Zhuang Jun leaned against the headboard, watching He Xu slowly close his eyes and wait for his breathing to gradually subside.

After a long time, he gently pulled his sleeve out of He Xu's hand.

The hand was spread out beside the pillow, the fingers slightly curled. Zhuang Jun pulled the blanket over and tucked it in for him, then turned off the bedside lamp.

-

Only one floor lamp was on in the living room, casting a low, warm yellow shadow over the sofa and coffee table.

Zhuang Jun sat on the sofa, leaning back against the cushions, his hands resting on his knees, staring at the bowl of pear soup on the coffee table.

He has been a manager for almost ten years, managing top-tier artists, boy bands, those whose tempers flared up after they became famous, and those who were lukewarm but anxious every day.

I've seen all kinds of people.

But right now, all he could think about was the way He Xu had been clutching his sleeve earlier.

When this person scolds students in the practice room, his voice can penetrate two floors. He stands there with his back straight and his aura is as hard as iron.

When she was lying in bed crying just now, the strength with which she gripped his sleeve was so light, as if she was afraid of scaring him away.

Zhuang Jun recalled the scene of his first meeting with He Xu.

That day in Jin Xian's office, He Xu pushed open the door from the corridor, wearing an old hoodie, his hair was unkempt, and he looked lazy and disheveled.

After he sat down, he listened to Jin Xian explain the contract terms, nodding occasionally with a calm expression that revealed no emotional fluctuations.

Zhuang Jun's first impression was: This person is difficult to manage.

She's too cold, too opinionated, knows exactly what she wants, and won't be easily manipulated.

He has managed this type of artist before.

He has his own ideas, his own bottom line, and his own temper. You can say one thing and he can say three things back. Sometimes you even have to bang your fist on the table with him in the meeting room.

He Xu was a step above those people—he was also sharp-tongued, and especially strict with his students.

Zhuang Jun initially thought it was because He Xu was arrogant, but gradually realized that He Xu was just indifferent to himself, but meticulous about other people's affairs.

He put himself last, and put the students, Ian, Nova, and the other six people in front of him.

He carried the burden of so many people's affairs, and he also had to bear the burden of his own body, with old injuries and new illnesses.

Zhuang Jun leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and remained silent for a long time.

As he thought of this, that indescribable feeling welled up inside him again, stuck in his chest, impossible to swallow or spit out.

He had managed so many artists, but none of them had ever made him feel like this. It was like a thorn stuck in his throat, not fatal, but every breath reminded him that there was something there.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he just felt uncomfortable, stifled, and as if he had somehow wronged this person.

In the end, He Xu is only twenty-five years old.

He is two years younger than his sister, Zhuang Wenmin.

Zhuang Jun mentally compared He Xu to Zhuang Wenmin.

Zhuang Wenmin is four years younger than him. He watched her grow up since she was a child. She has a stubborn but soft-hearted personality, which is a bit like He Xu.

But Zhuang Wenmin had never suffered much hardship growing up. Her family was well-off, and she was a professionally trained makeup artist. She had a smooth and successful career. Although she had a big temper, she was warm-hearted at heart.

He Xu is different.

He Xu went to South Korea alone at the age of fifteen, was sent back at the age of seventeen, started working as a teacher at the age of eighteen, had his throat drugged at the age of twenty, underwent surgery, made movies, and led tours at the age of twenty-four, and sat on his bed crying at the age of twenty-five, asking himself if he was going to die.

Thinking of all this, Zhuang Jun felt the thorn in his heart sink even deeper.

Having worked as an agent for so many years, he has handled all kinds of contract disputes, public opinion crises, and artist scandals. He can sit down and talk in any situation with a straight face.

But now, sitting on his own sofa, thinking about the person in his bedroom who had just cried herself to sleep, he realized that his problem-solving skills were completely useless.

He couldn't come up with a solution, couldn't make a phone call to resolve the issue, and didn't even know what to say.

He only knew that he felt terrible, like watching something slowly wear down right under his nose, and he had always thought he was taking good care of it.

The title "Zhuang Ma" seems a little unworthy of him.