T/N[1]
Brother Hu had used his lavender Hongmeng X2 for almost three months and loved every second: vibrant screen, instant shutter, zero stutter in games. When Tangren's manager Cai Yinong phoned to say that Huaxing Technology wanted him as the face of the entire Hongmeng line—at ¥10 million (≈ $1.38 million) for the first year, with a tidy million-yuan bump every year after—he stopped pacing the set and shouted, "Yes, yes, I'm in!" His assistant thought someone had proposed.
Cai hung up smiling. A rich, future-proof partner and a comeback narrative that matched Hu Ge's rise from near-retirement—perfect symmetry. She marched her business team into a war room, drafted counter-offers, and fired the first e-mail volley at Huaxing before midnight.
The next day at company HQ, Secretary Xiao Ai led a shy young man into Heifeng's office: Hoodie, low bill of a hip-hop cap, eyes fixed on the carpet. Hardly endorsement material at first glance, yet Heifeng knew the kid was a dormant nuclear reactor.
"President Heifeng, this is Jay Chou from Bay Bay," Xiao Ai said.
"P-president Heifeng, h-hello, I'm … Jay Chou." The newcomer spoke so softly that the vowels tripped over each other. There was no stage presence or media polish, but inside that awkward frame lived the songwriter who would one day dominate Chinese pop for a decade—if someone believed in him early.
Backstory mattered: Jay had entered a glitzy talent show last year, mumbled his way through the quarter-finals, and was bounced for unclear diction. A tiny label signed him for peanuts, then locked him in a storage office, sure he had no market. That ignorance let Heifeng buy out the contract for ¥800,000 (≈ $110,000)—the bargain of the century.
Seeing Jay's rigid shoulders, Heifeng gestured to a chair. "Relax. Have a seat." The kid perched on the edge like a crane afraid of snapping a twig. To break the ice, Heifeng flicked a finger across his Hongmeng S-prototype and asked, "Ever dreamed of releasing a full album? Getting your music out to the whole world?"
Jay's head jerked up. Under the cap brim, his eyes burned with hope and disbelief. "Really? I could release an album?"
"I believe you can," Heifeng said, voice warm but firm. "Here's the challenge: write three songs in thirty days. If even one hits the standard I want, Huaxing will bankroll a debut album and—assuming you agree—make you the sole spokesperson for our stylish Hongmeng S series."
Shock turned to elation; the thirty-day deadline didn't scare him. Inspiration was cheap at twenty-two, and the promise of a real studio lit his heart like stage lights. He stood, almost knocking the chair. "President Heifeng, I'll deliver a song you'll never forget!"
Across the room, VP Liu Jianyu watched, mystified. A third-tier singer, tight timeline, unproven popularity—why was the boss betting marketing assets on this greenhorn? Yet Liu kept his doubts private. If Heifeng said the kid was gold, the kid was gold; Huaxing's rise had already rewritten half the industry's rule-book.
That evening, Heifeng balanced two endorsement tracks:
Flagship Hongmeng X → Hu Ge, resilience-meets-innovation story, ten-million opening fee.
Fashion Hongmeng S → Jay Chou, fresh creativity, fees still negotiable but peanuts compared with the impact.
Different demographics, zero cannibalization: business people and esports fans would gravitate to Hu Ge's urbane cool; students and trend-setters would chase Jay's street-pop vibe. A third lane—Dove-flavoured Hongmeng L for selfie lovers—could wait until Jiang Li's low-light algorithm hit the test bench.
Heifeng e-mailed Cai Yinong an official invitation: a five-year contract, performance bonuses tied to quarterly sell-through, and complete creative control over commercial shoots. Minutes later, Cai replied—tertian counters, but the tone already leaned yes.
Two floors down, Jay locked himself in a demo room crammed with Huaxing's latest production monitors and a brand-new synthesizer. He hadn't seen gear this good even on the talent-show stage. Fingers hovered over keys; melodies snowballed in his head. The first working title—Clear Day—rolled out in a shower of chords. Xiao Ai peeked through the glass and shivered: the sound was raw, but goose-bump raw.
March ticked away. Legal teams traded draft contracts with Cai Yinong; marketing shot mood-boards of Hu Ge in graphite overcoats beside a skyline of neon dots. Upstairs, Jay delivered rough cut after rough cut—spry rap verses, baroque string hooks, impossible syncopation. On the twenty-seventh day he handed in " 星晴 / Starlit," a ballad that made even stoic Liu Jianyu exhale, "Damn, that's a hit."
Heifeng tapped Replay three times, then smiled. Challenge met.
On April 1 and 2, the Hongmeng S3 press conference opened under pastel lights. The stage music—yes, Jay's "Starlit"—swept across the hall as the new spokesperson strode out in a lavender jacket, hat brim still low but voice now steady. Cameras popped, hashtags exploded, and older journalists scribbled "dark horse" in their notes.
Half an hour later, Hu Ge appeared on a separate screen, all midnight blue and slow confidence, to tease the flagship X3 for Q: twoo comebacks, two phones, one unstoppable brand.
Standing backstage, Heifeng watched the crowd's energy swell and knew the strategy was already paying off. Some companies hired idols after they became legends; Huaxing preferred to catch legends at the moment of ignition, and then light the fuse for everyone to see.
[1] Not proofread yet