The Battle for Center

“So what do we do now?”

A group of people sat in a circle on the practice room floor, staring blankly at each other. A staff member, seemingly out of ideas, posed this question from the sidelines.

Because You Youyou’s choice segment had aired, it unexpectedly sparked a lot of online discussion.

The production team purposefully assigned extra hands to their “Neon Confession” Group A, hoping to shoot more material to edit into the next episode.

But what awaited them, once the cameras were set up and batteries nearly drained, was: You Youyou, the captain, lost in thought all day; Su Xingran, maintaining a mysterious smile that revealed nothing; Lev, the clueless foreign friend; Ling Tinglan, whose expression and temper were equally sour; and Jiao Wangshu, who looked like he was about to dissolve in the awkward atmosphere.

The director accompanying the group almost blacked out. Why did he have to be stuck with this team? His future was truly bleak!

Finally, Jiao Wangshu, an introvert forcing himself to act extroverted, took the initiative to speak up:

“Why don’t we first watch the demo the production team gave us from start to finish?”

This wasn’t just a casual remark.

Although everyone present had heard the popular upbeat song “Neon Confession,” hearing it and actually performing on stage were two different things. Most people might be familiar with the chorus, but when the song was originally released, it had a complete choreography and performance stage.

Sure enough, as they watched, problems emerged.

The choreography provided by the production team was already quite different from the original version. The new choreography had removed most of the difficult multi-person fast dance sections, controlling the overall difficulty at a level that normal trainees could master in about one to two weeks.

Of course, that was under “normal” circumstances.

But two “abnormal” trainees both fell silent after watching.

Ling Tinglan tossed the lyric sheet aside. “You guys decide. We’re fine with anything.”

Not holding the team back was the best they could do. In their state of total ignorance, they would just wait for instructions.

“How about we pick the center first?”

Su Xingran suddenly spoke up, resting his chin on his hand.

Hearing this, the director’s eyes lit up. Here it comes! Finally, the material he wanted! This was the essential “fight for center” drama in idol survival shows!

The camera zoomed in, pulling wide shots and close-ups of each person, determined to capture every facial expression clearly.

Then fans could pore over the footage, becoming “micro-expression analysts.”

But none of that happened. The absent-minded remained absent-minded; the silent remained silent.

“Isn’t anyone going to nominate themselves?”

Lev waved his hand emphatically. “Don’t pick me! Don’t pick me!”

His self-positioning, like Ling Tinglan’s appearance, was that of a “cool dude.”

But with a difference: Ling Tinglan was faking it, while Lev genuinely thought so and strived for it.

Although his true nature didn’t match the word “cold” in the slightest, Lev firmly believed that “Neon Confession” clashed horribly with his image. Performing this song for the first public stage was already a huge “damage” to his persona; being chosen as the center would be ultimate social death in his eyes.

So no matter what, Lev wasn’t going to compete for center.

As for Ling Tinglan and Jiao Wangshu, they knew their limits. They would be grateful just to make it through the first stage smoothly; the center was something they’d rather avoid.

And You Youyou certainly wouldn’t compete. It was reasonable to suspect that if he hadn’t been drawn as captain, he would have waited until everyone else chose before randomly joining a group.

So, without a second’s hesitation, everyone stepped back, pointed a finger—and the center was decided.

Su Xingran became Group A’s center for “Neon Confession” without any objection.

The director scratched his head. Your team is way too peaceful!

Wasn’t it supposed to be like this: everyone raises their hands for center, each explains why they should be the one, then they argue, even fall out in front of the cameras, and only after all that—this and that—finally select the center?

What material was he supposed to edit into the main episode with this?

The director felt truly “born at the wrong time.” If he could have foreseen this, he shouldn’t have been assigned to this group. He should have gone to the neighboring group.

Because at that very moment, next door, “Neon Confession” Group B had already turned into a bloody mess over who would be the center.

And Li Shu, the unlucky guy himself, had been chosen for that group.

At ten in the evening, Ling Tinglan and Jiao Wangshu returned to the dorm after a day of practice.

As soon as they pushed open the door, they found Li Shu lying dazedly on his back on the bed, his big eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his whole being like a hollowed-out soul.

“You dead?”

Ling Tinglan’s words were startling.

Jiao Wangshu casually turned on the light, his face full of concern, but his words were no less shocking. “Looks like he’s been gone for a while.”

Seeing this pair of “villainous husbands,” Li Shu couldn’t help but feel sorrowful.

It was already stressful enough sharing a room with two model-like monsters. Now, performing the same song but in the opposing A and B groups, seeing them so spirited while recalling his own day’s torment made him feel worse. He immediately burst into tears with a “woof.”

“Why are you two so mean!”

“I get bullied by my group during the day, and then I come back and get bullied by you two, boohoo…”

Li Shu sobbed uncontrollably. He wasn’t really blaming them; it was just displaced anger under extreme emotional pressure.

Realizing they’d messed up, Jiao Wangshu reacted first, apologizing and comforting him:

“Sorry, sorry, we didn’t mean it that way.”

Ling Tinglan found it unbelievable. He bent down, his handsome face close to Li Shu’s, and asked in astonishment, “You really cried?”

The two sat on either side of Li Shu, one gently soothing him, the other tactfully handing him tissues.

The wronged “child,” the gentle “mother,” the silent “father.”

At a glance, it really looked like a family of three.

From Li Shu’s broken, mumbling account, they finally understood what happened.

That day in “Neon Confession” Group B’s practice room, the team captain was Song Shijun, a trainee from StarLink Entertainment.

StarLink Entertainment wasn’t a big company in Korea, but “a small temple filled with petty demons, shallow waters teeming with hidden dragons.” This company had sent three people to the show. Song Shijun, drawn as captain, naturally picked the other two from his company into his group, along with another South Korean trainee, Zheng Huan.

Because this group had already selected three South Koreans in a row, whether out of guilt or something else, Song Shijun felt compelled to choose one Chinese trainee for the remaining slot. He browsed for a long time and finally settled on Li Shu, who seemed easygoing.

From the start, Song Shijun made his stance clear: he formed the group, and he wanted the center.

But unexpectedly, the others said, “Who says the captain automatically gets to be center?”

Song Shijun’s two teammates—one named Cui Chengxian supporting him, the other named Quan Shangxun allying with Zheng Huan—left Li Shu, who was fine with anything, stuck in the middle.

A small five-person team was forcibly split into three factions. The royal succession drama of a Qing dynasty epic was nothing compared to this.

Song Shijun and Quan Shangxun raised their hands high, neither side yielding. The key issue was that their skills were roughly equal; it didn’t matter who became the center.

So, with four eyes fixed on him, Li Shu experienced for the first time what it meant to sit on pins and needles, have thorns in his back, and a fishbone stuck in his throat…

“Since whichever side you choose will get you targeted by the others, why don’t you just become the center yourself?”