"Master Lin, can you please sign your name? My daughter said she likes your performance the most!" The middle-aged man hurriedly handed the pen and paper to Lin Nanci.
Lin Nanci was stunned and left a line of beautiful words on a white notebook. Looking at the man squeezed away by reporters, he suddenly lost interest and muttered to himself: "Master, what kind of master am I... I'm just an idiot."
"Aci? What's wrong with you? Are you tired from the performance?" A man in a white shirt, who was sweating from the crowd, patted Lin Nanci's shoulder lightly and asked with concern.
Lin Nanci lowered his eyes and whispered: "No, it's nothing, Zhao Ting, I just don't want to be interviewed today."