A chill fog blanketed the winter night, with strands of rain drifting through the air.
This was a major night shoot, set on a cramped and bustling old road. At two in the morning, after securing the filming permit, the entire street had been cleared.
Even so, the background scenery still felt cramped and chaotic—abandoned, battered motorcycles in the alleys that no one had claimed, electrical wires overhead draped with laundry that dripped steadily in the damp air.
——This was exactly the shot the director wanted.
Kong Liyuan followed behind the assistant director in her red vest, holding an umbrella as they confirmed the blocking for this big night scene.
Her feet splashed through the slick, wet ground until she stopped in front of a motorcycle shrouded in mist.
It was clearly a prop for the shoot. At the handlebar, a camera had been discreetly positioned, using the rain-streaked mirror of the bike to capture the emotional conflict of the scene.
“What’s wrong, Teacher Kong?”
The assistant director noticed her pause and turned back, her glasses fogged over with mist.
Kong Liyuan smiled, casually pulling a tissue from her pocket and handing it to her. The assistant director blinked in surprise for a second before she laughed heartily and took it.
“Teacher Kong is always so thoughtful.”
The new assistant director was a young woman. As she spoke, she took off her fogged-up lenses. But with one hand holding the umbrella, she fumbled awkwardly to clean them.
At that moment, Kong Liyuan took the umbrella from her and held it over her head. Seeing the surprise in her eyes, she casually lifted the umbrella handle a bit higher.
“Just a small thing. No need to thank me.”
This made it much easier for the assistant director.
Still, she didn’t dare let a big star hold the umbrella for her too long. She wiped haphazardly, put her glasses back on, took the umbrella from Kong Liyuan, and finally, her lenses were much clearer than before.
Satisfied, she grinned. “Wiping them down really does feel better. People really can’t afford to be lazy.”
Kong Liyuan smiled too. “The roads are slippery in the rain. Better watch your step.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” The assistant director nodded and started leading the way again.
But Kong Liyuan reached out once more, idly tapping the handlebar of the motorcycle.
“This camera angle is a bit off. It’ll show through.”
Then she positioned herself at the rear of the bike and pointed casually into the distance.
“The background there doesn’t match.”
“Huh? No way? I just double-checked it. What’s wrong with it?”
The assistant director followed her to the spot in a daze, turned around, and figured Kong Liyuan must have made a mistake after just a quick glance.
But sure enough, she hadn’t.
Looking in the direction Kong Liyuan pointed, toward the street corner, there it was—a glimpse of tall, glaring skyscrapers peeking through the gaps between a few scattered, rundown low buildings.
The angle was extremely tricky. Unless you looked closely, you wouldn’t spot that sliver of a view.
For this night shoot, the closed-set permit had come through in a rush. In her haste to position the camera, she’d somehow chosen exactly this spot.
“Whoa, you’re right.” The assistant director pushed up her glasses in astonishment, her face flushed red from the cold.
“I never noticed before. From this position, at this angle, you can actually see those skyscrapers way off in the distance.”
Kong Liyuan smiled without a word.
“I’ll have someone adjust it later.” The assistant director wiped the rain from her face.
She glanced at Kong Liyuan, who emerged from behind the bike’s tail, blocking the problematic corner. Dressed in a thin shirt with just a coat thrown over it, she stood there like she was already in character—the female lead, Ayang, from the movie.
With a sigh of admiration, she said, “Teacher Kong really is so observant. You just walked by and spotted it.”
“It’s not really about being observant.”
Kong Liyuan tilted the umbrella slightly upward, gazing at the massive, brightly lit skyscrapers visible through the open gap, then at the dark, narrow alley. At its mouth were a few dimly lit shops selling smokes and sundries.
“Then what is it, if not observant?” The assistant director clearly disagreed.
Kong Liyuan stepped through a puddle on the ground. Gray, murky water splashed onto her shoes, chilling her to the bone.
She stepped over it nonchalantly, gave a light, insignificant laugh, and then said,
“I just happened to come by here a few times before. I knew about that view.”
She also knew that Fu Tingli must have stood in that rainy alley many times, staring at that open gap.
——In those moments, what was Fu Tingli usually thinking? Did she hate her? Despise her? Or… did she think of her at all?
~~~
“Teacher Kong, have you been to this place before? It’s pretty out of the way. When I was scouting locations, people told me the streets around here aren’t very safe. There are often street chases in the area.
“That time I came by, I happened to see a group of middle school kids in uniforms beating each other up around the corner. Whoa, it was like something out of an action flick.”
There was still some distance to the next mark. The assistant director mentioned it offhand.
“Oh, right—someone told me Little Fu lives around here. Back when we were shooting at the Film and Television Base.
“She had to take a two-hour subway ride to get here, then another two hours back after wrapping. She probably got home around this time every night.”
Worried Kong Liyuan might not know who she meant, she turned and explained,
“I’m talking about that sculpture assistant who monitors the shots for you on set.”
Kong Liyuan let out an “Mm,” saying, “I know.”
Then, without missing a beat, she emphasized in a lazy tone, “But Teacher Wen told me she’s the sculpture director. Actually just an assistant, though?”
The assistant director chuckled vaguely. “Director, assistant—it’s all the same thing.”
She scanned the misty rain around them.
“But she doesn’t seem to be here today. Makes sense, though. We’re not shooting any of the professional scenes today, so no need for her.”
“Why wouldn’t she come?” Kong Liyuan asked.
“It’s not like we pay her extra for every day she shows up.” Realizing she’d spoken too freely, the assistant director spilled it all.
“The budget’s solid this time, but you know, we shouldn’t waste it on stuff that doesn’t matter, right?
“Whoops, that came out wrong—like I’m saying the art department isn’t important.”
She smacked her forehead. “That’s not what I meant, Teacher Kong. Just that we’re not shooting those scenes today, and there are other art folks on set to handle it.
“So Little Fu not coming makes sense, and her pay here isn’t much anyway.”
Kong Liyuan understood the nuances.
The production paid the sculpture director a flat “consulting fee,” which naturally went to the highly reputable Wen Yingxiu Studio, responsible for the overall work.
Fu Tingli, on the other hand, was likely just an outsourced on-site assistant—maybe not even on contract, paid only by the days she showed up.
——That was standard in the industry.
It was probably why Kong Liyuan had struggled to spot Fu Tingli on set lately.
As the plot moved into the emotional conflict sections, the need for specialized knowledge had dwindled.
Fu Tingli’s appearances on set had become fewer.
Even when she did show up and ran into Kong Liyuan, she’d greet her openly, with that soft, clear voice calling out “Teacher Kong.”
Her attitude was neither servile nor overbearing. No more dodging her awkwardly or bringing up personal matters.
Nothing else.
As if there had never been anything else between them—no unforgettable California, no winter night when she asked if there had been love back then, and received that casual “Maybe.”
As if she had forgotten it all, even that flat “Maybe.”
Kong Liyuan had smoked a few cigarettes late into those nights, and amid the scattered sparks, she’d sometimes think coolly that this was a truly ruthless and decisive person.
——A “Maybe” that should have been thick with ambiguity, tangled like sinew on bone.
Yet she’d said it with a smile, pure and innocent, as if there had never been any possibility at all.
“Then she—”
Kong Liyuan suddenly spoke two words, then cut herself off.
They had just reached the next mark. The assistant director didn’t turn, stamping her foot on the wet spot, and asked hurriedly,
“Huh? What about her?”
Kong Liyuan stared at the ground. Rain drifted onto her face. Her eyelashes lowered, and she gave a faint, thin smile.
“Nothing. This is the last mark for the upcoming shoot, right?”
Suddenly, she couldn’t bring herself to ask further. She did want to know how much Fu Tingli earned per day.
But if she heard the number, if it was even cheaper than she’d imagined, if the gulf between them in Fu Tingli’s eyes was so vast…
She couldn’t imagine herself resorting to some repulsive, hateful way…
Of trying to keep her close, treating her like an innocent, pretty, but ultimately hollow little bird.
~~~
The night grew darker and thicker as the fine rain intensified. By the time filming officially began, the road was sheened with pooled water, the misty drizzle cleansing the air until it felt piercingly cold.
In the dim light and shadow, the director—clad in a raincoat—peered through the viewfinder at Kong Liyuan’s face, smeared with grit and fake blood, and sighed in admiration.
“Beautiful!”
This was a scene brimming with raw emotional intensity.
Kong Liyuan, playing the female lead Ayang, had lost a finger in a car accident. Now in a state of utter dejection, she found herself cornered in a narrow alley by Xia Yue, the actress portraying her sister. Rain poured down relentlessly. Ayang was shoved against the wall, her face scraped raw with wounds that bled under the downpour, the blood mingling with rivulets of water streaming over both sisters’ faces as they bared their souls in heart-wrenching confrontation.
There was also a slapping scene where Xia Yue had to strike Kong Liyuan across the face. To capture the full emotional weight, the director opted for a single unbroken shot, starting under the flickering sign of a tobacco and sundries shop and sweeping toward the alley mouth.
If that final slap fell flat, all the buildup beforehand would be wasted.
To that end, Kong Liyuan had spoken with Xia Yue in advance, insisting that she hit for real.
Though Xia Yue had only just entered the industry, she was generous by nature and understood that hesitation would only drag things out. She apologized ahead of time with a cheeky grin, saying that since Teacher Kong had given the green light, she wouldn’t hold back.
Later on set, Kong Liyuan noticed Xia Yue practicing on a cloth doll she’d made herself—rehearsing over and over, studying slap scenes from various films. She even tested angles on her own face, figuring out how to make it look convincing without too much sting. Patting her chest, she promised she wouldn’t let Teacher Kong suffer in vain.
But when they rolled cameras for real, everything went south in a hurry.
Xia Yue was clearly off her game. The director called cut several times, and she bowed repeatedly in apology, panic-stricken and on the verge of tears.
In the final take, beneath a rickety old street sign swaying precariously, Kong Liyuan was pinned hard against the wall. She locked eyes with Xia Yue’s reddened gaze and the trembling hand clamped on her jaw. Rain washed over her features, revealing the raw panic beneath.
