Director Guo sighed in regret and said to Zhuang Qin, “I’ll think of another way. His appearance is more suitable for the role than Tao Chong, and his acting shouldn’t be that far off either. I still have his friend’s number, so I’ll try to get his contact info.” Tao Chong was the most suitable actor that Guo Baozhen had originally found for the role.
Zhuang Qin was confident that Guo could come up with a solution. After all, how else had Li Mu agreed to take on the role in his previous life?
Outside the theater, Qiu Ming and Li Mu got into the car.
“That junior director actually watched such an obscure film,” Qiu Ming said as he pulled the car out of the parking spot. The low growl of the sports car’s engine filled the air. “You were interested in the script, right? Why didn’t you give them your contact info when they asked?”
Li Mu replied, “The script is interesting, it might be worth investing in.”
Becoming immersed in another role was a special and enjoyable experience, but it was just a personal hobby for him. He had no intention of seriously becoming an actor and filming movies.
It wasn’t just a matter of wasting time; the short film Yongheng Tianti didn’t require much interaction with other people or physical scenes, which was very different from this project.
He wasn’t fond of physical contact with others.
Qiu Ming said, “But from what I saw, this film crew doesn’t look reliable. It’s obvious they don’t have money. They must have hired a dozen actors for the auditions, and those people weren’t exactly great.”
Li Mu’s voice remained calm. “If you invest, take over the crew. You don’t need to put in too much—just enough to get things moving and get the cast together. Then production can start.”
“Damn, are you serious? Why? This movie probably won’t even be released in the domestic market. It’ll only be shown overseas and won’t make much money. We might even lose some. Actually, it’s highly likely we’ll lose money. That director doesn’t even know how to direct.”
Li Mu responded lightly, “How much could we lose?”
Qiu Ming shut his mouth.
For this kind of movie, most of the cost would likely go into the action scenes later, especially since there were gunfights. Even so, a budget of 20 million should be enough, and that wasn’t a lot to Qiu Ming, let alone Li Mu.
His big brother had a peculiar personality—maybe because of his high IQ. Since childhood, Li Mu seemed to see everything clearly and always found the world boring, with nothing or no one truly interesting to him.
With such high intelligence, everything came easily to him. If he had pursued science, he might have become a scientist; if he had studied music, he could have been a musician. For him, making money was simple. Very few things ever posed a challenge, and it was hard for him to stay interested in anything for long.
This led to him often doing unexpected and unpredictable things.
Qiu Ming muttered to himself, rubbing his chin, “Actually, I do want to try acting. I’ve never done it before. Did you see the guy in the audience today? The one in the hat? That must have been Zhuang Qin. Heh… Judging by the scenes in the script, acting with him… seems like I’d be the one benefiting.”
Li Mu glanced at him.
Qiu Ming steered with one hand and fumbled for a cigarette box with the other. “Hey, Mu Ge, what kind of person do you like? I’ve never seen you with anyone. Should I find someone for you? It’d be a waste of your 20 centimeters if you don’t.”
Li Mu ignored him.
Qiu Ming lit his cigarette and continued, “You came out to your family so early, but I’ve never seen you date anyone. Seriously though, aren’t you worried about… rusting? Or… maybe you just don’t function down there?”
Li Mu: “Get lost.”
—
Xiao Lian dropped Zhuang Qin off at home and, after confirming his schedule for the next day, left.
Zhuang Qin lived in a residential complex called Golden Coast, an apartment provided by the company. It was close to work and not very big—just two bedrooms in a two-level loft. The security was excellent, and sometimes Xiao Lian stayed over.
After taking a shower, Zhuang Qin put on a fluffy coral velvet pajama set and sprawled out on his soft bed, writing character notes for the script. Actually, he had already thoroughly understood this character in his previous life when he had plenty of free time.
What he hadn’t expected was that this unaltered script would have so much intense romantic content. Romantic scenes were something he had never tackled before, making it far more challenging than simply understanding a character.
Thinking about the red carpet tomorrow, he was just about to go to sleep when he received a message from Director Guo.
“You there?”
“I just called Qiu Ming, and he said he’ll think about it. He didn’t give me a straight answer.”
Zhuang Qin couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “You didn’t get his number?”
Guo Baozhen rubbed his temples. “It might be tricky.” He hadn’t been resting much these days, focused on storyboarding, and now with even more to consider, he was feeling utterly exhausted.
“Is there any other way? Do you know where he lives?” Zhuang Qin asked.
Guo replied, “I’m still thinking. Earlier, I Googled him, but I couldn’t find much under his Chinese name. I only know his surname is Li, and his English name is Henry. I found his school—he graduated from MIT—but I couldn’t find anything else. He looks like the kind of person who only wears bespoke double-breasted suits and drinks hand-brewed black coffee.”
It was becoming clear to Guo. Qiu Ming showing up for the audition in a multimillion-dollar sports car wasn’t about the audition at all—he was just there for fun. It wasn’t uncommon for rich kids to dabble in acting, but that was usually for idol groups. Who comes to be an actor? Acting is tough and exhausting.
Guo sighed. “I’m guessing… it’s pretty unlikely he’ll take the role.”
Zhuang Qin had to admit that Director Guo had a keen eye, probably from his days as a journalist, able to immediately discern a person’s habits and lifestyle.
Feeling somewhat lost, Zhuang Qin even wondered if he had set off some kind of butterfly effect by wanting Li Mu for the role, which was now leading to this mess. “What if I really want him to take the role? It has to be him. No one else will do.”
Director Guo chuckled. “You really like him that much?”
“Yeah, I think he’s the best fit. You have to trust my instincts, Director Guo! I’m not wrong about this. He’s perfect for the role. Maybe the reason he’s hesitating is really simple—maybe he just doesn’t like the romantic scenes? If you’re willing to cut those out, he might agree. Please, Director, try again. We have to get him to accept.”
Zhuang Qin speculated that Li Mu’s hesitation probably wasn’t about money. It was more likely the script interested him, but he had some reservations, which is why he hadn’t immediately agreed.
However, Director Guo had no intention of cutting out the romantic scenes. Doing so would go against the core of the project. Unless some rich investor threw a couple of million—no, 20 million—at him to rewrite the script, he wouldn’t even consider it.
But that afternoon conversation with Henry had left him with the impression that Li Mu was definitely interested in the script. However, his interest might lean more toward investing in the movie than playing the male lead.
Then again, there was another possibility: maybe Li Mu was interested in the other male lead—Zhuang Qin.
Guo pondered the conversation carefully.
[“Director, are you asking for my number, or is someone else asking?”]
Could the “someone else” he referred to be Zhuang Qin, who was sitting next to him during the audition?
It suddenly clicked. Feeling a sense of clarity, Guo sent another message: “I’ll try to think of something. Alright, you have work tomorrow, right? Get some rest.”
“You too, get some rest,” Zhuang Qin replied.
After sending the final message, Zhuang Qin tossed his phone on the charger, set it to silent, turned off the lights, and put on his steam eye mask to sleep.
Under the cover of night, Li Mu sat in his study wearing a black silk robe. His long, toned legs stretched out from under the robe, and he sat in an office chair with his legs extended under the desk. A laptop sat in front of him, and the study in the hotel suite was small, with only a few literary books on the shelves.
A copy of Shakespeare’s Four Tragedies lay open, face down, on the desk. Li Mu’s long fingers held a lit cigar, both hands resting on the table.
On the computer screen, a search engine was open. The search bar had two characters entered: “Zhuang Qin.” Below, a video was playing—Zhuang Qin’s hit historical drama.
Qiu Ming had been rambling on about how his mom adored the role this “little fresh meat” played in the show.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Li Mu glanced at it. It was a local number he didn’t recognize.
He swiped across the screen and put it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Hi! Mr. Li, hello, hello. This is Director Guo. We met this afternoon—do you remember?”
Did Qiu Ming give away his number?
Li Mu replied, “I remember.”
He didn’t hang up?
Great!
“Thank you for taking my call during your busy schedule. I won’t take up too much of your time—just a few quick words.”
Li Mu: “Mm.”
“Actually, this afternoon, the person sitting next to me was the male lead of this film, Zhuang Qin. He saw you and asked me if I’d seen Yongheng Tianti. Yes, he recognized you. He said he’s a huge fan of yours…”
This film hadn’t been released in theaters. It seemed to be a student production, though the director was quite famous. But it was probably the most obscure film by that director, so obscure that even though Guo had seen it, he hadn’t immediately connected the dots to Li Mu.
—
The next morning, Xiao Lian arrived at Zhuang Qin’s place at ten o’clock, preparing breakfast before waking him up.
Zhuang Qin groggily reached for his phone, glanced at the time, and got up to wash.
Tonight was the biggest event for one of the country’s largest video platforms, and Zhuang Qin had been invited to attend. In the afternoon, he would go to the red carpet event. After waking up, he would need to try on his outfit and visit the salon to get styled.
With his messy hair, Zhuang Qin came downstairs while Xiao Lian was busy in the kitchen of the loft. Zhuang Qin sipped some water and checked his phone.
There were several missed calls from Director Guo, both last night and this morning.
Zhuang Qin saw that Guo had left three WeChat voice messages, spaced out over time, and assumed it was news about yesterday’s situation. He opened the messages to listen.
“Hey, he said he wants to try a scene. What do you think? Can you handle it?”
“You there? Asleep?”
“Doesn’t matter, I already agreed to it. It’s just a screen test, not a kissing scene! Teacher Zhuang, I agreed to it!”
Wait! What did you agree to?! Zhuang Qin choked on his water and began coughing violently.
