There are always some people who excel at turning crises into opportunities.

Crisis management is a skillful craft, and perhaps Sister Mai truly was an outstanding agent whose talents were wasted in her role as a director. In most ordinary cases, the typical approach would be to have Qiao Yingna come forward and read a dry statement, but she flatly refused. She would not utter a single insincere word; her silence was already the greatest kindness she could offer the organizers. Of course, this final sentiment was taught to her by Sister Mai to relay to the television station executives. The station had not yet realized the shift in Mai’s responsibilities—she spent the entire afternoon negotiating with them, only gaining authority to handle the matter late in the evening.

Previously, she was merely a regional director, a technical supervisor, while everything else was outsourced to various media companies with different backgrounds, all beyond her command. This is only natural; the larger the enterprise or structure, the more likely even the highest executives cannot direct everyone, let alone a director. The increasingly flustered organizers finally shifted the blame onto Sister Mai: since the incident happened in your division, you settle it yourself. If you can’t, you’ll take the fall and pack your bags!

Her handling was textbook—masterful, subtle, and efficient.

After seven o’clock, she posted several screenshots on her verified microblog. With names obscured, the images showed a mobile QQ conversation where a superior, evidently more senior than Sister Mai, furiously berated her: “Tell that judge to get lost! File a complaint with the local police about this rotten apple! Our station invested tens of millions in organizing this national talent show, and because of this damn so-and-so, it’s all ruined! Make them leave! Any judge or staff member who blackmails contestants—have them all removed!”

The censored expletives clearly belonged to this high-ranking leader, venting his rage: “And you! Make a list of everyone who can be fired or sued. Sponsors, too—sue them! They broke the basic ethical standards in our sponsorship agreement. Once you settle all this, you can pack up and leave as well!”

Righteous enough to be featured on the evening news.

Sister Mai timidly replied, “I’m only responsible for stage performances; I have no overall responsibility. I have no say or authority in selecting contestants, judges, or sponsors. Boss, I’m innocent!”

The other side grew even more agitated: “The local company in Rongdu has already been sued! All contracts with external companies that can be terminated are being stopped. Someone inside our station must be held accountable, and that’s you first. If you can’t calm things down, I’ll be next… Dammit! A bunch of idiots!”

“Bring the champion back! I want her returned completely unharmed. If she suffers even the slightest injury, I’ll end our twenty-year sisterhood and sue you!”

The anger in the screenshots was palpable.

There was also an official letter stamped with the station’s seal, sternly informing Sister Mai that she had been suspended. Her only remedy was to sue all implicated judges and sponsors, terminate relevant contracts, and stop all cooperation as necessary.

Along with chats from work groups in related departments, records showed other divisions complaining about immense pressure, and internal investigations into similar incidents had begun.

How much effort did it take to produce these images? The truth behind them could hardly be verified.

Yet they presented a novel approach to crisis PR.

Anyone seeing these images would think: “Oh, so the leadership is furious. Their workplace is just like ours—full of ups and downs, hard work that goes unappreciated, and one rotten apple spoiling the whole pot. Which company doesn’t have such troublemakers?”

So simply, the organizers’ grievances were displayed through the persona of a frontline manager—informally, at that. The formal response was a partnership with Rongdu police to prosecute the judge, whose guilt was certain and who had already been arrested, as well as an official termination of the sponsor’s contract, retaining the right to sue in proper legal terms.

The aim of public relations is, in the face of any sudden crisis, to immediately align with public sentiment—to smooth things over, as the saying goes.

Online outrage dissipated by half in an instant. At least, the fury sparked by the eliminated singer shifted onto the judge, turning into a personal issue, now under police investigation.

The remaining focus was Qiao Yingna. Her response was to be escorted by Sister Mai into a professional recording studio, where, between the camera and the headset, she sang the song “Promise” again.

This performance was promptly promoted by all PR departments and the TV station, paid for and distributed to every major trending video platform. It completely quelled whatever noise lingered online, because Qiao Yingna sang beautifully.

She wore a simple black dress, her hair in gentle waves as in her previous performances. The only difference was a pair of black wood-grain glasses. Perhaps netizens elsewhere didn’t realize the significance, but everyone near the medical university who knew Hao knew those were his glasses.

Just as she had countless times singing in bars, eyes half-closed, wearing those large recording headphones, calm yet clearly brimming with emotion as she finished the song. When she repeated the line, “Even with gray temples, I’ll recognize you,” more than once, nearly every woman watching the video was moved to tears.

Such profound sincerity, so many unspoken words condensed in her singing, hoping to reach that person’s heart, hoping the man who had vanished without a trace might hear.

Everyone knew what such a song and expression meant.

Ultimately, Qiao Yingna did not immediately depart for Pingjing, but instead returned to the medical university to handle leave and other formalities, letting everyone who cared for her see her current state.

She showed the true spirit of Hao’s wife, booking the usual restaurant where the university’s football team often dined, inviting all staff, players, and friends who cared for her and Hao. In other words, she gathered all of Bai Haonan’s lovers for a feast. She handled the matter with remarkable grandeur, openly thanking everyone for their support and expressing her determination: she would sing for that certain someone, performing this competition for him and, in the future, sing only this one song. Then she would return to her internship as a physician, hoping everyone would accept her: “I’m sorry, I really don’t know his whereabouts. Maybe he has reasons he can’t explain, forcing him to leave. Perhaps, for various reasons, he can’t stay here and continue as a good friend and teammate, but I believe there is a small promise between us in my heart. In the future, I will live well, work well, and sing well. I think one day, I’ll see that man again, who has many flaws, but whose strengths can never be erased.”

The intellectuals applauded warmly, but the restaurant was nearly awash with tears, leaving Sister Mai—who accompanied her throughout—utterly amazed.

Bai Haonan’s role as “second uncle” had gone above and beyond!

And after making his “wedding gown,” what was Uncle Bai up to now?