The day after submitting his script, Su Yan still hadn't received any word from the station.
To be fair, for a rookie like him, even getting any feedback within a week would already count as fast by Production Department standards.
But people were people—waiting always made you anxious.
Just because a script had been submitted didn't mean anyone in the production team would actually bother to read it.
What if they were all slackers?
Or what if they simply had terrible taste?
Then it wouldn't be surprising if no one appreciated his script for "Rurouni Kenshin."
Su Yan had seen enough awful dramas in his past life to know—there were plenty of so-called "professional producers" who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.
As these thoughts ran wild in his head, some noise suddenly broke out in the office.
He looked over to see a crowd of coworkers gathered around Kiyota Sanji's desk, discussing something excitedly.
A few minutes later, Su Yan understood what was going on.
The script "Pure Breeze", co-written by Kiyota Sanji and Kanzaki Yusuke, had been picked up by a producer from the station, Tu Heng.
Now, Su Yan wasn't surprised that someone was interested in Kiyota's script—after all, he had connections.
But the fact that it was Tu Heng?
That was different.
In just five years, Tu Heng had gone from a rookie to a rising producer, with two TV dramas aired on Sakura TV under his belt.
One of them, last year's detective drama "Black Mist", had even ranked 9th nationwide in viewership that season.
Even if Tu Heng wasn't quite a "gold-tier" producer yet, he was a respected veteran with a proven track record. And now he was personally picking up a web drama project for Kiyota?
"Impressive."
No doubt about it—it was Kiyota's uncle, Deputy Director Akasaka Yoshitoki, who had assigned Tu Heng this "political task."
Compare that to Su Yan's own situation:
The original host had spent two years doing grunt work in the screenwriting department just to become full-time, and now Su Yan was trying to get a low-budget, short-format web drama approved.
He couldn't help but chuckle and shake his head.
"I'm no different from anyone else…"
He didn't hate people with connections. In fact, he understood it perfectly—wasn't working hard in life all about making things easier for the people you cared about?
If Su Yan were an emperor in ancient times, he'd have his own son inherit the throne.
If he were a billionaire, of course, he'd help out his family.
He just couldn't help but sigh at his luck.
Even after being reborn, he didn't land in a rich family where he could just coast through life.
Nope—he had to start from scratch as a screenwriter and fight his way up.
Classic.
Meanwhile, Kiyota Sanji was basking in the attention from his coworkers.
But for someone as vain as him, it wasn't the flattery from eager bootlickers that mattered.
It was the reaction of those who weren't saying anything.
And just then, he noticed Su Yan—smiling and shaking his head.
Kiyota's brow twitched.
What are you smiling about? What are you shaking your head at?
Was it mockery?
Was Su Yan laughing at the fact that Kiyota hadn't actually done much of the writing in "Pure Breeze," and was only credited as co-writer?
Or was he shaking his head at how shamelessly Kiyota had used his uncle's connections to get Tu Heng involved?
The more privileged someone was, the more sensitive they became.
Kiyota already disliked Su Yan to begin with, and now he took the opportunity to speak up:
"Su Yan, didn't you submit a script to the station yesterday, too?
Any updates yet?"
With a gentle smile, Kiyota spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Su Yan paused, aware of all the eyes now on him, and smiled back politely.
"Not yet, Senior Kiyota."
"Ah, come on. You don't have to call me 'senior,'" Kiyota said, still wearing that friendly expression.
"Sure, I'm a bit older than you, but you joined the company two years earlier. We can just call each other by name."
"Anyway, your script only went up yesterday. Maybe the greenlight notice just hasn't reached the screenwriting department yet.
But I believe in your talent—you've had two years to hone it.
I'm sure the station will approve your first submission.
If they do, you've got to tell us so we can celebrate with you!"
Su Yan looked at him with narrowed eyes.
Yep. That's definitely sarcasm disguised as encouragement.
Heh.
"Got it, Kiyota Sanji. If my script gets approved for production, I'll be sure to let everyone know."
Kiyota Sanji: ❓
Did… did he just drop the 'senior' title?
Kiyota's smile froze for a second.
Sure, he said it was okay not to call him senior—but he hadn't expected Su Yan to actually take him up on it.
He studied Su Yan's face carefully. The guy was still smiling—handsome, carefree, looking a little naïve.
Is he really that clueless?
Kiyota hesitated.
But Su Yan didn't care.
He wasn't from Sakura Province.
Calling someone "senior" at Sakura TV was just playing along with the local culture—basic respect, nothing more.
If the other party didn't want it, fine.
Others in the room were also starting to notice the weird tension between them.
Just then, the department receptionist walked in and called out:
"Screenwriter Su Yan, Producer Shinozaki Ikumi from the Production Department, is asking to see you. Do you have time now?"
"…Yes," Su Yan replied, stunned.
If someone from the Production Department wanted to talk to him, what else could it be?
He instantly forgot all about Kiyota's passive-aggressive nonsense.
"Sorry, everyone—I've got something to take care of," Su Yan said to his coworkers.
He quickly headed for the door—but paused midway to grab a document folder from his desk cabinet before rushing out.
Producer Shinozaki Ikumi?
The people in the room paused, trying to recall the name.
When it came to any department, people always remembered the best and the worst.
And Ikumi had left an impression—for all the wrong reasons.
Her drama "Sakura Island Love Song" had been ranked #2 on the Worst Web Dramas of the Year list, and the entire production team had come from their station.
Of course, the screenwriting department remembered her—
Nobody wanted to step on a landmine.
Everyone knew:
When choosing a producer to work with, you need someone reliable.
Someone with connections. Someone who could get you a budget, big-name actors, and a competent crew.
Ikumi?
By their standards, she was still caterpillar-tier.
If she was looking for Su Yan, there was only one reason:
She must have read his script and wanted to discuss "Rurouni Kenshin."
Kiyota realized this too and nodded slightly to himself.
A newly promoted screenwriter who'd spent two years as an intern, paired with a producer known for making legendary flops?
Perfect match.
A recipe for disaster.
If Su Yan's script actually got greenlit, it would be a web drama—
and it might even air at the same time as "Pure Breeze."
Hmm… that might not be bad.
If Su Yan's show flops, won't that just make "Pure Breeze" look even better by comparison?*
Sure, he could ask his uncle to shut down Su Yan's script at the approval stage.
But wouldn't it be more satisfying to crush his project with raw results?
Let the numbers speak for themselves.
Outside the screenwriting department, Su Yan took a moment to straighten his clothes and tidy his appearance.
Then, following the receptionist's directions, he arrived at the guest lounge.
There, he saw her.
A long, pale green dress flowed over sleek black stockings.
Dark hair draped over her shoulders.
Under her sunhat was a porcelain-fair face, and a pair of clear, intelligent eyes that focused on him the moment he walked in.
Her lips curved into a smile.
Shinozaki Ikumi.
Su Yan hadn't expected that the producer everyone had been trashing for days—the one behind the disastrous "Sakura Island Love Song"—would turn out to be this much of a stunner.
On the other side, Ikumi had a similar thought:
So this is the rookie screenwriter who spent two years interning before getting promoted…
Didn't expect him to be this good-looking—and so confident too.