Zhuang Qin had just finished showering. He was lying on his bed in pajamas, reading the script, surrounded by highlighters and red and blue pens for making notes and annotations. Beside him was an open notebook, where he jotted down key points.
He had only flipped through a few pages when the phone rang—it was perfect timing.
“Director Guo.”
“Good evening, Teacher Zhuang.”
“Good evening. I was just reading the script. By the way, Director Guo, could you send me a digital version?”
“Sure, I’ll send it right away.” Guo had just gotten home and opened his computer to send the script to Qiu Ming, but Zhuang Qin was the first person he wanted to update about the audition.
“An audition? For Jiang Zhuo?”
“Yeah, I just decided yesterday. There are several actors, and I’m having trouble choosing.”
“Great. When is it?” Zhuang Qin raised an eyebrow, wondering if Li Mu would show up.
Guo said the exact time wasn’t decided yet, but he just wanted to give Zhuang Qin a heads-up so he could be there to help choose. Zhuang Qin agreed and hung up the phone, continuing to read the script.
He leaned his head against the bed’s headboard, his body pressed against the wall, doing a headstand while flipping through the script upside down.
Daily practice had been his routine for years.
With his legs spread in the air, Zhuang Qin continued reading the script, page by page.
Before he knew it, half an hour had passed.
The more Zhuang Qin read, the more he felt something was off. Some of the descriptions in the script were unusually explicit, directly portraying human “desires.” It was mostly dialogue-driven, with few inner monologues, but there were a lot of action cues.
Zhuang Qin could tell from the dialogue that something wasn’t right. But then again, this was a same-sex film, and a little ambiguity didn’t seem too out of place.
That was until he came across a scene where the two characters kissed.
His entire body tensed up as he focused on the words, confirming that it really was a kissing scene.
What…?
He quickly flipped through the script, scanning ahead. Before long, he found more key moments.
Kissing scene, kissing scene, kissing scene… bed scene?!
Zhuang Qin felt lightheaded and fell off the wall, landing on the floor.
As a dedicated actor, he believed he could handle any scene, no matter how intense. He loved acting, and even though he had retired from the industry in his past life after the Ding Dong Feng incident, he never gave up on performing. In fact, he spent years honing his craft in solitude.
But those performances had been solo, without any real interaction.
Instead of immediately calling Guo Baozhen to demand changes, Zhuang Qin patiently finished reading the entire Cang Xin script.
In the version of the film he had seen in his past life, the relationship between the two male leads was a deeply suppressed one, never explicitly stated. It could be interpreted as ambiguous if one looked deeply enough, but on the surface, it seemed like a bond forged through mutual survival.
But now, the script in his hands was different.
The plot had more tension, with only minor changes, filled with thrilling action scenes that leaped off the page.
However, the emotional scenes were much more direct, bursting with intensity and passion. The relationship between the two male leads had nothing to do with gender, and the descriptions of their sexual encounters felt so natural, as if they were meant to be that way all along. Anke’s role was also significantly expanded compared to the movie.
Zhuang Qin quickly immersed himself in the role, using his unique method of acting that was different from others.
He always reflected on the character with his eyes closed, fully putting himself in the character’s shoes. It wasn’t about how he should act but becoming the character in that moment. Every movement had to have a reason behind it. If he kept thinking about it as acting, it would remain superficial. For authenticity, he had to detach from reality and enter the realm of imagination.
He would first think from the character’s perspective and then step back to look at the bigger picture.
This was the method he had developed during the seven years he spent obsessively studying acting. He watched thousands of films, both good and bad, and, apart from editing to make a living, he spent his free time studying this craft. He had almost gone mad, living in a world of drama while ignoring his own miserable life.
This form of escapism worked, but it left him mentally unstable. Layer upon layer of imaginary walls trapped him in a maze, one he couldn’t escape, and no one could enter.
It wasn’t until his Shidi, Xiao Dao, took him to see a doctor that he began to recover. The doctor noted his unstable mental state and used hypnosis to pull him back into reality.
As Zhuang Qin read the script into the night, he remembered that Su Min had been asking for it. He fought off his sleepiness, sat up, and opened his computer to search for ways to convert PDF files into Word documents.
Director Guo had sent him the electronic version, and Zhuang Qin, yawning, began editing out the kissing scenes. If Su Min saw those, there was no way he’d be allowed to do the film.
By the time the night had passed, Zhuang Qin was exhausted. He had to rush to an event in another city, and he didn’t even know when he had fallen asleep with his head resting on the desk. The alarm woke him up, and he groggily got ready, feeling sore as he called Guo Baozhen.
“Director Guo, I’ve finished reading the script.”
“Haven’t you already read it?” Guo yawned, looking at the clock. It was only 7:30 AM. He had spent half the night drawing storyboards.
“…Last time, I didn’t notice there were so many intimate scenes.” Zhuang Qin muttered, having barely slept.
Guo hesitated. “You’re not thinking of changing the script, are you?”
“No, I think the script is brilliant. The emotions are deep and powerful. I just wanted to ask about the limits on the nude and love scenes…”
“Oh, that! Don’t worry. You’ve never done scenes like that before, right? We’ll be careful. Everything will be shot with clothes on—at most, we’ll show a bare shoulder. Relax, you’re still young. We’ll take it easy. I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
Zhuang Qin had thought it through. The hugging scenes didn’t bother him, and most of the kissing scenes could be done with camera tricks. Even if it came to real physical contact, it wasn’t too hard to accept. Sacrificing for a role was part of being an actor. What worried him were the more intimate scenes, like the one in the bathtub and the bed scene.
He even considered dropping the script, but quickly dismissed the idea.
He couldn’t give up on it. He loved the script and the character. He loved acting and longed to experience a life that was different, deeper, and more interesting than his own. If he was serious about being an actor, separating fiction from reality was the most basic professional ethic. Whatever the role, it was just acting.
So, it didn’t matter what kind of role he played.
Zhuang Qin flew out of town for an endorsement event. When he got off the plane, there were many fans waiting to greet him. As the bodyguards escorted him out, wearing a baseball cap and showing only half his face, the crowd screamed, “Aaaahhh! Qin Qin, ahhhhhh!!!”
“Mama loves you!!!”
The noise was so deafening it felt like the airport ceiling might collapse.
He had expected the fan reception, so he wore a gentle smile, took the pen Xiao Lian handed him, and began signing names in gold ink on notebooks and photos that fans pushed toward him.
A girl tried to push her way through the crowd, only to fall and get stepped on. Zhuang Qin hurried over to help her up. “Are you alright?”
“I’m… I’m okay…” The girl looked up at his face, so close and so perfect. He was even more handsome in person than on TV, and the impact made her heart race, leaving her breathless.
Zhuang Qin smiled kindly and said, “Everyone, please be careful. Safety first—don’t get hurt.”
To his fans, he was the perfect idol—gentle and caring.
Once inside the car, all the gifts and letters from fans were set aside without a glance. He sat quietly in the back, the dim light casting shadows on his face, wiping his fingers repeatedly with a wet wipe.
Too many people had touched him earlier.
Xiao Lian noticed this unusual behavior.
In fact, he had noticed it for a while now. In the past, Brother Zhuang would always open fan letters, reading them carefully with a smile. He cherished his fans, genuinely enjoying their support. He even used to eat the homemade food they sent, never wasting their efforts.
But now, something had changed. It was as if nothing mattered to him anymore. The once sunny personality was clouded by an invisible shadow, growing in the dark but disappearing in the light.
Of course, being a celebrity was like that—bright and shiny on the outside, but who knew what happened behind the scenes?
When they arrived, Zhuang Qin first went to get his makeup done and changed clothes for the endorsement event. The luxury watch brand he endorsed was opening a new store in Rongcheng, and they had invited him to cut the ribbon. Thousands of people gathered, snapping photos and chanting his name, shouting that they loved him.
Zhuang Qin bowed slightly and smiled sincerely. The flashes of the cameras lit up his eyes, capturing the image of the perfect brand ambassador.
–
Director Guo had scheduled the auditions around Zhuang Qin’s availability.
After leaving the company, Zhuang Qin had the driver take him straight to the theater.
Guo had arranged the auditions at a small Beijing opera theater, primarily because it was always empty and had no audience. Renting it for half a day was cheap—far cheaper than other theaters.
There was some traffic, so the driver took the highway.
Zhuang Qin closed his eyes to rest, the Cang Xin script on his lap. His phone buzzed, and he opened his eyes to answer.
Su Min: “Are you in the car?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get President Shen to agree?” Su Min sounded incredulous. How could the higher-ups know he was taking a same-sex role and not react?
What did Zhuang Qin do?
“I just had a talk with President Shen.” Zhuang Qin replied.
“This doesn’t seem like a good sign.” Su Min had a keen sense of the big picture. She knew that such an unusually lenient move from the higher-ups likely meant something.
Had Zhuang Qin’s disobedience shifted the company’s focus to Zheng Fengbai instead?
It didn’t make sense. With Zhuang Qin’s level of fame, the company couldn’t possibly make such a foolish decision.
Zhuang Qin considered telling her about the unfair agreement he had signed but decided against it. Su Min was still puzzled. “I read the script. Didn’t you say there were no kissing scenes?”
“There… shouldn’t be? Did I not delete all of it?”
“You didn’t check carefully. I did! I’m sending you screenshots. The writer needs to cut this! You can’t film this, it’s outrageous!”
“Alright.” Zhuang the scriptwriter agreed.
“Make sure you get some rest tonight. You’ve got to be ready for the red carpet tomorrow. And no drinking water in the evening.”
The call ended, and Zhuang Qin put away his phone as the car arrived outside the theater.
This theater was small, built in the 1990s, not nearly as famous as the Chang’an Grand Theater or the Mei Lanfang Grand Theater. Few people came in or out, and the area was quite remote. Zhuang Qin put on his hat, pulled up his mask, and stepped out of the car.
He was a bit late and noticed a bright purple sports car parked outside the theater—it stood out.
“That’s a pretty cool car.” Xiao Lian couldn’t help commenting.
“Let’s go.” Zhuang Qin said, leading the way inside.
He had been to all the major theaters in the capital, including this one. They passed through a dark hallway, beyond which was a small courtyard that led to the main hall of the theater.
In the courtyard, a dozen people sat scattered on stone benches, casually scrolling through their phones—probably the extras Guo had hired.
Zhuang Qin pulled his hat lower and pushed open the door.
The Spring Festival had just ended, and red lanterns still hung inside the theater. The main hall wasn’t large, and though there were balconies on the second floor, the entire venue could only seat around three to four hundred people.
Only Guo Baozhen was seated in the audience, watching as an actor performed on stage. The character of Jiang Zhuo didn’t have many lines; most of the role relied on eye contact and physical action, making it a real test of the actor’s skills.
Zhuang Qin didn’t walk over right away. He stood at the back, watching for a few minutes. The performance was a bit over-the-top, like watching Ma Jingtao play a stoic assassin.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Guo called out. “You don’t need to continue, thank you.”
“Huh? Oh, director, did I pass?” the actor immediately stopped.
Guo mumbled, “We still need to discuss it. We’ll notify you in a few days.”
“Thank you, director.” The actor left backstage.
“Next, number 34.”
Zhuang Qin walked up to the front row and took a seat. “Director Guo.”
Guo noticed him and stood up. “Ah, Teacher Zhuang, you’re here. Come sit.”
Zhuang Qin sat next to him and flipped through some documents, casually asking, “You’ve reached number 34 already?” He was surprised by the number of people auditioning.
Guo lowered his voice. “Not really. To make it sound like more people were auditioning, I started numbering from 30.”
Zhuang Qin: “…And those people outside, they’re hired extras?”
“Yep.”
“How many are actually auditioning?”
“Just six.” Guo didn’t seem embarrassed at all and instead went on about the expenses. “I told them the morning group was from numbers 1 to 30, and they missed it. The theater only gave me two hours, and they charged me 1,000 yuan!”
Zhuang Qin: “…”
This audition felt like a joke.
He had a slight headache. How could someone like Li Mu take part in a production like this?
The two kept their conversation quiet as number 34 stepped onto the stage, bowed, and greeted, “Hello, director.”
Guo remained composed and responded, “Hello. Please feel free to perform any scene you like. You have ten minutes.”
Zhuang Qin looked up at the stage, surprised to realize—
He recognized actor number 34.
