Don't Call Me a Superstar

At six in the morning, the high-speed train station was already bustling. The bullet train glided into the platform, and travelers hurried about, each heading toward their own destination. Amidst the throng, a peculiar group drew curious glances from the passersby.

Leading the group was a handsome but sullen-looking boy, about sixteen or seventeen, backpack slung over his shoulder, his expression dark as he strode into carriage number seven without a word.

Trailing behind him were several cameramen and staff, all hefting heavy filming equipment, making it clear they were shooting a show.

The boy found his seat, sat down, and immediately pulled his cap low over his face, lying back as if to sleep—a clear message for everyone to leave him alone. Yet, undeterred, one of the cameramen set up the camera directly in front of him, capturing his every move.

Other passengers in the carriage craned their necks, watching with open curiosity. The young woman with her hair in a bun in the front row couldn’t resist turning around to ask, “Are you filming a variety show?”

At her words, the boy opened his eyes, his face darkening further. He seemed to want to say something, but in the end, no words came out.

The cameraman beside him replied, “Yes, we’re from the Transformation Project team.”

Transformation Project? At that, the young woman gave a knowing “Oh~,” and then stared at the boy like he was some sort of exhibit. So he was a troubled youth after all—what a waste of such a face.

Oh, what’s that supposed to mean! The boy shot her an