Huayu: I Have a Doraemon

Chapter 34 A Rough Era

The next day, the sky was bright.

Lin An was awakened by the cold.

In mid-September, the temperature difference between day and night in Beijing had widened to an appalling degree.

He groggily pulled the blanket over himself, wrapped himself up in it, and began to wriggle like a maggot.

Lin An originally planned to take a nap, but he couldn't resist the temptation of money. After struggling for a few minutes, he got up and started washing up.

There is no private bathroom.

This is the thing that he finds hardest to get used to after moving into Old Man Zhao's small building.

Lin An walked to the corner of the room, where there was a small sink with a tap, the only "modern facility" in the entire room besides the electric light.

After washing up, he walked to the mirror in the wardrobe and wiped himself haphazardly with a towel.

The mirror reflected a slightly pale face with a faint bluish-black tinge under the eyes.

A 24-hour pill can never replace real sleep; long hours of continuous practice still leave its mark on the body.

"Even a nuclear-powered donkey has a limited amount of fuel..."

Lin An muttered something, draped the towel over the back of the chair, turned around, walked to the desk, picked up his schoolbag, and left the room.

The latch snapped into the keyhole, Lin An stuffed the key into his pocket, and as he turned around, a clanging sound of metal clashing came from the room behind him.

Lin An smiled knowingly.

But before the smile could linger on her face for even two seconds, a sticky cat meow came from inside the room.

"Meow..."

Lin An's smile froze.

Immediately afterwards, Doraemon's voice squeezed out from the crack in the door, his tone extremely lewd:

"Little Mimi, hehehe... don't run away..."

Another meow came, even more seductive than before, with a rising tone at the end, carrying a hook.

Meow~~

Lin An's lips twitched. He took a deep breath, pretended not to have heard anything, and quickly walked towards the stairwell.

The convenience store is open.

Old Zhao was squatting next to the counter, taking boxes of drinks out of the cardboard boxes and stacking them on the shelf.

Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he raised his eyelids slightly, but his hands didn't stop working.

"Health is the foundation of everything. Don't think you can do all sorts of things just because you're young."

Was this a reminder not to stay up late? Lin An subconsciously touched the dark circles under his eyes and whispered:

"I'll go to bed early tonight."

Old Zhao nodded in satisfaction, squatted down to unpack the cardboard box, his back hunched.

Lin An sighed softly.

Although the old man was stingy and shrewd, he was not a bad person; in fact, one could say he was quite kind.

Sigh, let's just take it one step at a time.

If they could make money, they would lend it to the other party by mortgaging the convenience store; if they couldn't make money, then the matter would simply be dropped.

He is ultimately just an ordinary person, needing to struggle in the mundane world, and cannot be as pure as Doraemon.

……

……

Nine o'clock in the morning.

Lin An, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, carrying a backpack, leisurely walked into the Beijing Film Academy office building.

Because it was Saturday, the corridor was quieter than usual.

I walked all the way to the third floor and turned into the corridor.

The door to Zhang Hua's office was open.

He stood at the door and raised his hand to knock on the door frame.

Knock knock knock.

"Come in."

Zhang Hua's voice came from inside, as steady as ever.

Lin An pushed open the door and entered.

The office is small, only a dozen square meters, with an old-fashioned desk by the window, piled with several stacks of documents and open books.

The bookshelves against the wall were crammed with various works on film theory, some of which were already falling apart and held together with rubber bands.

"You're here pretty early."

A woman's voice came from the sofa.

Lin An tilted his head.

Lin Cong sat on the old sofa against the wall, wearing a dark gray hoodie and with slightly messy hair.

"Director Lin." Lin An nodded.

"sit."

Lin Cong raised his chin, gesturing for Lin An to sit down in the chair opposite the coffee table.

Lin An glanced at Zhang Hua, and after receiving permission, pulled out a chair and sat down, placing his schoolbag beside his feet.

Lin Cong pulled a brown paper envelope from the canvas bag beside him and got straight to the point:

"I brought the contract with me, in duplicate. Please take a look."

Lin An took the envelope, tore it open, and pulled out a stack of A4 papers.

The paper is crisp and the layout is neat; it should be a standard contract.

He looked down and flipped through the pages.

The contract terms were not complicated; in fact, they were quite rudimentary, containing only a few core clauses:

I. The copyright of the script "Not Watching the Spring Festival Gala" is transferred to Party A (the production company designated by Lin Cong);

II. Party A owns all related rights to the script, including the rights to film it, adapt it, and distribute it.

III. The transfer fee is RMB 8,000, payable in full at once;

IV. Lin An retains the right to be credited.

……

Although he had anticipated this before coming, Lin An still couldn't hide his disappointment when faced with this rough contract.

The more you engage with it, the more you discover the harshness of this era.

The terms are vague, the rights and responsibilities are not clearly defined, and the crucial legal protection is practically non-existent.

Sometimes it's no wonder that the film and television industry has so many family-style management and clique-based operations.

When legal provisions are difficult to enforce, there are really no good ways to avoid risks other than relying on acquaintances, social circles, or that thin layer of face.

Before coming to Beijing Film Academy, Lin An would never have signed such a flawed contract.

But at that moment, he had no other choice.

If he really had to nitpick over every word and negotiate point by point, he would find it impossible to move an inch in this circle.

Lin An flipped to the last page of the contract, his fingertip lingered for a second above the signature line, then he took out a pen from his bag and quickly signed his name.

"Aren't you going to take a closer look?" Lin Cong raised an eyebrow.

"Need not."

Lin An pushed the contract back, smiling obsequiously, "I trust you and Teacher Zhang Hua."

Lin Cong's lips curled up slightly as he took the contract, then pulled a bulging brown paper bag from his canvas bag, placed it on the table, and pushed it over.

Lin An glanced at her, reached out and pulled the paper bag over, opened the crease at the top of the bag, and peeked inside.

Stacks of hundred-yuan bills, bound with rubber bands, were neatly arranged in a paper bag, emitting the distinctive smell of ink and paper mixed together.

That's the smell of money!

Lin Cong said, "You can count them."

This time, Lin An did not refuse.

When real money is involved, being cautious is beneficial for both parties.

The crisp new banknotes rustled between my fingers, producing that pleasant crunching sound you only hear at a bank counter.

After counting, Lin An randomly picked a few more bills and checked the watermarks against the light coming in through the window.

Lin Cong watched his smooth and effortless movements, and his expression turned strange:

"Your technique doesn't seem like it's your first time."

Lin An coughed and said, "A gifted individual."

Lin Cong scoffed and looked at Zhang Hua expressionlessly, saying:

"Your student is indeed extraordinary."

Zhang Hua picked up his thermos, took a sip of water, and pretended not to hear.

The transaction is complete.

The atmosphere in the office relaxed.

Lin Cong put the complete script into his backpack, but instead of leaving immediately, he shifted to a more comfortable position, crossing his legs and resting them on the edge of the coffee table.

"To be fair, your script is worth more than eight thousand, but since you are not famous and the script does need polishing, this is the price I can only offer."

Lin An nodded slightly: "I understand."

Screenwriters can also boost the promotion of a work; well-known screenwriters can even directly influence the amount of investment from the production company.

If the producer this time is a coal mine owner, his script will most likely not even pass the first review.

In contrast, Huang Lei's scripts could be directly presented to investors.

That's the difference in reputation.