After signing the agreement with Guanjun Century, Jian Xiaojun realized what a hellish place she had entered.

Several screenwriters who were selected along with her were assigned to the company's dormitory by Guanjun Century. It was called a dormitory, but it was actually an eight-person dormitory. There were no private bathrooms; the showers and toilets were at the other end of the corridor.

Guanjun Century requires its screenwriters to strictly adhere to the "closed-room writing" rule. During each writing session, each screenwriter is taken to a separate small room. These small rooms are partitioned off from a large office by numerous plywood partitions. One room after another.

Judging by appearance alone, these creative rooms look like public toilets; sitting inside, the smell of formaldehyde and cheap paint can quickly make you dizzy.

The screenwriters adhere to a clock-in/clock-out system, with deductions for absences. During the creative process, personal communication devices are confiscated, and they can only use company-provided computers to access information. Backstage staff monitor each person's computer screen, and anyone daring to use a company computer for inappropriate activities is immediately stopped.

The company requires screenwriters to submit a fixed number of words daily; failure to meet this requirement results in salary deductions or even dismissal.

Of course, the screenwriters weren't just writing randomly like headless flies. These naive and dream-filled young people were divided into several groups by the company, each with five to ten people, all affiliated with the senior screenwriter.

Jian Xiaojun was affiliated with a screenwriter named Yu Bei. Yu Bei was known for her prolific output and high-quality work, having written many well-received pieces. Initially, Jian Xiaojun was overjoyed. If she couldn't become Zheng Bohan, becoming Yu Bei would be a good alternative. She eagerly anticipated receiving guidance from this renowned screenwriter. However, she never even saw Yu Bei.

In addition to their work hours, screenwriters are also monitored in their daily lives.

After being selected by Guanjun Century, the screenwriters signed a confidentiality agreement, promising not to disclose the details of their work or they would be bankrupt. However, Guanjun Century was still not at ease.

The company provided all screenwriters with modified cell phones, allowing them to access information and use communication functions only within designated times. Each screenwriter's apartment was assigned a supervisor. The supervisor would periodically check the screenwriters' phones, and anyone found making unauthorized calls or secretly taking photos would be severely punished.

Shower time must not exceed thirty minutes. Each time you go to the toilet, someone will be waiting outside to monitor you. You must have a legitimate reason to go out; you are not allowed to go out without permission.

Pork belly and pickled cabbage was a child with a sweet tooth. She'd always been like that since she was little. Her free spirit didn't understand why such a strange system existed in the world, so she didn't take it seriously. Not long after moving into the apartment, Jian Xiaojun secretly went out to the supermarket to buy snacks.

This audacious overstepping of authority was, of course, discovered by the company. The bag of snacks was confiscated, and half of Jian Xiaojun's first month's salary was deducted. Her roommates, who were also screenwriters, were punished by having one-fifth of their salaries deducted for helping Jian Xiaojun cover it up.

This exorbitant price finally made the audacious young man realize the reality.

She became composed. And she became silent.

Soon, Jian Xiaojun got used to the high-oil, high-calorie, cheap fast food in the cafeteria and stopped buying her beloved Xingyuan food.

She sits at her desk "creating" every day, spending more than eight hours a day in front of the computer, living a monotonous life between the cafeteria, dormitory, and workstation; coupled with rarely going out and lack of exercise, her body has rapidly expanded horizontally, leaving her breathless when going up and down stairs, and even climbing into bed is difficult.

Cervical spondylosis, lumbar spondylosis, and spinal diseases successively appeared, tenosynovitis followed her like a shadow, and her glasses prescription experienced a second small peak after her senior year of high school. Excessive thinking caused her to have premature gray hair; to save time on washing up, she quickly cut her ponytail into a buzz cut.

She sends money to her parents every month, proudly announcing with lots of cute, bouncy emojis, "This is the money I earned as a screenwriter." Her parents are delighted, but when they video chat with her, they're surprised at how much their daughter has changed. Jian Xiaojun chuckles and replies: "It's happy weight gain."

Aside from that time, she rarely smiled.

Such a life was bleak and hopeless. The only thing that sustained Jian Xiaojun—and all screenwriters like her—was one thing.

Be famous!