Li Mu pulled into Jinling's outskirts by 11:40 AM, miraculously dodging traffic cops drawn to the Audi's gleaming frame like moths to flame.
"Your turn." He swapped seats with Chen Wan outside the city limits. She'd been cagey about their destination all morning, but now steered them toward an artsy enclave—a fledgling 798 clone littered with indie galleries and grungy rehearsal spaces.
The sign above their stop read Jinling Noise Factory in graffiti-streaked letters. Inside, a four-piece band tweaked instruments worth more than Li Mu's childhood home.
"That's a Gibson Les Paul Standard," he muttered, eyeing the guitarist's sunset-burst axe. "Slash's model. 80k yuan easy."
Chen Wan's cousin Zhang Kexuan—a man whose hair rivaled his guitar's price tag—greeted them with a rockstar nod. "So you're the Zebra, Zebra guy? Let's cut a demo."
Li Mu shot Chen Wan a betrayed glare.
"It's for your college portfolio!" she pleaded. "And… I really want an MP3 copy."
Before he could protest, the band launched into a carbon-copy cover of Wuhan band Dada's My Angel. Li Mu cringed through three painfully derivative tracks—Beyo nd's The Earth, Black Panther's Don't Bother Me—each butchering the originals with zero originality.
"Your thoughts?" Zhang wiped sweat, expectant.
Li Mu didn't blink. "You're covering 90s hits with 2000s hair metal screech. Your vocal cords sound like a cat in a blender."
The room froze.
Chen Wan choked back laughter. The bassist's grip tightened on his Fender.
"Look." Li Mu gestured at the six-figure gear. "You've got Slash's guitar but play like a subway busker. Ever tried writing your own stuff?"
Zhang's face flushed crimson. "We're entering Ice Power National Band Competition—"
"With covers?" Li Mu snorted. "Next you'll enter American Idol singing Happy Birthday."
A cymbal crashed. The drummer stood, sticks raised like daggers. "Who the hell you think—"
"Enough!" Zhang barked. Turning to Li Mu, his smile turned feral. "Alright, hotshot. Let's hear your masterpiece."
Chen Wan nudged an acoustic guitar into Li Mu's hands—vintage Martin, probably 50k.
He strummed Zebra, Zebra's opening chords, the room's tension melting into hushed awe.
Zhang's earlier bravado crumbled. By the second verse, even the drummer wiped his eyes.