Chapter 6: The Recording

“What’s going on?”
Yu Tu gave him a look—half-accusing, half-bored, like someone who’d just caught a lazy neighbor gossiping about nothing.

“Your simulation isn’t even finished yet. Still got time for drama?”

“This *is* what makes it real drama.”

Yu Tu didn’t even blink. He brushed past, striding straight into the conference room. Huan Huan followed, swaying slightly behind, already mentally recalibrating his orbital trajectory data.

Qiao Jingjing hung from the wire, utterly defeated, barely touching her lunch. Only after Xiao Zhu applied gentle pressure and firm persuasion did she manage to swallow a few bites.

No微信 today. No one asked, “What did you delete? What happened?” No wild guesses. Just silence. And only Xiao Zhu seemed to care—because only he truly understood how much she meant to her.

Yu Tu’s project and thesis were in full sprint mode. He’d gladly live in the lab if it meant finishing faster. The new apartment? Forgotten. Completely.

Then came a long email from a coworker—water levels, electricity usage, spots needing touch-up during renovation, appliances left behind for him to do with as he pleased.

At noon, Yu Tu called. Two no-nonsense engineers, both fluent in practicality, hammered out the deal in two minutes flat. A double-door refrigerator was ordered, shipped directly to Shenzhen. Everyone happy.

After that, Doctor Yu had no choice but to eat cafeteria food.

That evening, when he finally had a spare moment, he ran across the street to the neighboring residential complex. A loop around the central garden took exactly eight minutes—perfect timing.

The elevator climbed to the top floor. He turned the key. His colleague had cleaned thoroughly before leaving. Aside from the stale air from weeks without ventilation, everything else was… just right.

He filmed two short clips of the apartment. Thought about it. Then sent one—just one—to… Qiao Jingjing.

"Just bought a place near work. Has a rooftop where you can see stars."

"Wait—you said you were super busy yesterday. Today you’re buying a house?"

Reply came fast. Followed by a chubby-faced emoji, wide-eyed in shock. She must’ve wrapped up early today. Probably hadn’t suffered too much.

"Really busy. Gotta get back to the lab."

As he spoke, Yu Tu quickly scanned the spots coworkers had mentioned. Got a rough sense of things. Locked the door, headed down.

"Eight minutes back. Perfect workout."

Qiao Jingjing was already curled up in bed, blissfully relaxed. Not hanging from wires anymore? That was happiness enough.

She’d already sent “Good night.” Clearly, she was staying up all night in the lab.

She switched to Douban to read reviews of her new show—savoring the high scores, swinging her bare feet happily. Then, out of habit, flipped back to WeChat, scrolling through old messages:

“Didn’t say I’d buy a car last Tuesday. Said winter coats beat cars last week. Lunch line photos posted multiple times. And today… food, clothing, shelter, transportation…”

She looked at her raised fingers—four of them.

“Check.”

Mr. Steve, a titan in global aerospace, had visited the observatory. The museum included his visit in their latest promotional video—short, just over ten seconds.

Yu Tu’s tall, sharp-featured frame stood out beside the round-headed, white-haired elder, radiating quiet confidence. When the director reviewed the footage, he grinned and added two extra frames—then paused, smiled at himself. Not bad at all.

The audio used two lines of Steve’s praise, translated into smooth, professional English narration.

Director slapped his thigh: “Forget hiring an outside voiceover. Save money!”

Yu Tu heard the voicemail from his boss the second morning after escaping the lab for some fresh air—and breakfast. He opened the voice message while eating.

“Boss, should be fine. Just let me know the recording time and location. Send me the script in advance… Oh, Chinese version too? Sure.”

Recording scheduled for next Monday afternoon—standard studio space at Qiao Jingjing’s production house. The boss stuck to his frugal principles with military precision. No complaints from the studio. After all, the boss could always tweet about it later.

Translating the narration took Yu Tu most of the day. Especially the “elegant” part—the one where meaning, accuracy, and beauty met. When he finished, he read it aloud. Satisfied.

He sent it to the teacher and the director.

Teacher replied: “Nice. Really nice. But… you still have time to help *him* with this? Is Case 37 in your paper really best practice?”

Director: “Perfect! Yu Tu, you’re born for science communication!”

Academician Zhang messaged the director privately: “What’s going on? You’re stealing my talent…”

The recording went smoother than expected. Deep, resonant voice. Flawless American accent. The boss, ever vigilant, corrected a single word: “Yu Bo, want to do another take? Just in case.”

Finished. Then the boss insisted on listening to both versions again—just to savor the moment.

Yu Tu listened to the familiar female voice—familiar, yet subtly different.

“Boss,” he said, “the Chinese version is…”

“The Chinese version? That’s Jingjing. Our Qiao Jingjing from the group chat. Big star. You haven’t met her yet?”

Yu Tu’s mood lifted instantly. Those two extra nights of sleeplessness? Worth every second.

“Met her. At the Space Club event.”

His usually calm expression suddenly lit up—no smile, no movement, but something bright sparked in his eyes. The whole studio crew felt it. One whispered: “Dude, I’m kinda dizzy.”

The boss reported back to the director with pride: “Amazing. Harmonious. Let’s release it this year. The Space Day isn’t until next year anyway. Yeah, December’s perfect.”

Yu Tu waited patiently for the goodbye.

“I’ll head out now. If anything changes, call me anytime.”

Paused. Then, with academic precision: “Actually, you might consider a mixed-cut version—Chinese as main track, English as background. Should work beautifully.”

The result was overwhelming. The directors listened to all three versions. Silence followed. Then a female deputy director hesitantly spoke: “We’re not paying *any* promotion fee… doesn’t feel quite right…”

Everyone nodded. Too stingy. Unfair.

The director beamed: “Yu Tu? Think of me as your mentor. No hard feelings. But… maybe we *should* pay something?”

“Three or four thousand per version. This quality? Market value would be tens of thousands. Translation fees? Yu Tu won’t mind. Ha-ha!”

Qiao Jingjing saw him in the studio group chat—finally. The photo showed him wearing headphones, mic angled halfway across his jawline. Looked thinner than the last time she’d seen him—on the mountain peak, where they’d exchanged four words in less than half an hour, surrounded by others.

Silence stretched. Until Yu Tu had to go back to the lab. Still no reply on WeChat.

Colleagues passed by, coming and going. Old Zhou returned from fetching files, eyeing Yu Tu oddly: “Why so slow today? Hurry up.”

One more glance at the dark screen. Yu Tu locked the cabinet. Old Zhou clapped him on the shoulder and guided him inside.

Before the second playback ended, the assistant director called out: “Jingjing! Scene 2!”

She dropped her phone and sprinted over. The director was already speaking.

“Exactly. That light. Quick, Jingjing—let’s nail it in one take.”