Chapter 5

Auditions for Zhong Qing’s script were scheduled a few days later.

In the bustling film studio lot, the number tag Zhou Siyou drew was No. 16.

She glanced around and, sure enough, spotted plenty of familiar faces.

Young film queens and TV queens, last session’s Best Newcomer, freshly-minted academy starlets…

And, of course, Yu Ning.

The moment their gazes collided, Yu Ning’s lips curled into a smile. “Knew you’d have the nerve to show up.”

Zhou Siyou went to sit by the floor-to-ceiling window and ignored her.

Yu Ning didn’t go looking for more snubs, either.

To tell the truth, she and Zhou Siyou weren’t bitter, deep-seated enemies. It was just that they’d “crashed” into each other so many times over resources that targeting each other had become reflex.

Yu Ning had debuted as a child star, with solid acting chops and a massive fanbase; two years ago, at the very peak of her career, she had married into wealth and faded from the industry.

Some blessed and envied her. Others clucked and jeered.

Marrying young at the height of her career was a rather unflattering line on Yu Ning’s résumé, and plenty of people had waited to watch the show.

Yu Ning had probably slapped those people in the face.

Now, with a great tree at her back for shade, leveraging the so-called “wealthy family,” she’d gained resources she’d never have dared dream of before.

Was this what she wanted? Yu Ning didn’t know.

But she was happy to accept those awed, burning gazes.

Success is made by human hands, and every gain demands a sacrifice—that was how Yu Ning saw it.

At the end of the day, none of this had much to do with Zhou Siyou.

It was just that during Yu Ning’s time away from the industry, Zhou Siyou happened to return from abroad.

Though their styles were worlds apart, they were similar in age; Zhou Siyou was controversy-famous by constitution, generating heat wherever she went. Much of Yu Ning’s sliding resource stream tilted toward Zhou Siyou.

The entertainment industry fights over exactly those few resources. So from the moment Zhou Siyou debuted, their two fanbases had carried a drawn-bows, bared-blades edge.

But what angered Yu Ning most had happened a year ago.

Back then, her team had bought a trending topic—”First Wedding Anniversary”—to test the waters for her comeback.

That very night, another trending topic of Zhou Siyou’s had crushed hers flat.

#Zhou Siyou: Not Even a Dog Would Date

Beneath the topic was Zhou Siyou’s acceptance speech after beating out a whole crowd of male stars for the top spot on the “Most Desirable to Marry” ranking: “Marry? You’d have to be out of your mind to get married. As for dating—not even a dog would do it.”

Yu Ning remembered it as some sham, no-name ranking, decided purely by fan voting or passerby ballots.

Zhou Siyou was blunt by nature, with a bandit’s audacity in her speech and conduct—a “fear neither heaven nor earth; just leave your crimes in the record books” sort of brazenness. Charitably, that was called forthright. Uncharitably, it was called classless.

And yet, against all odds, it attracted fiercely loyal fans.

And that “Not Even a Dog Would Date” trending topic had technically nothing to do with Yu Ning—the problem was that this topic, subtitled “Out of Your Mind to Get Married,” sat above Yu Ning’s “First Wedding Anniversary” for twenty full hours.

Which made the whole thing look like pure comedy.

That night, Yu Ning was so furious she lost the entire night’s sleep.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t investigated Zhou Siyou. Unfortunately, this little actress’s record had been scrubbed spotless.

For all anyone knows, someone’s backing her too, Yu Ning mused.

Zhou Siyou had done her undergraduate studies in North America and returned home right after graduation. No trace of her father could be found; it was said only that, while Zhou Siyou was studying abroad, her mother back home had died in a car accident.

No one else had been in the car. As if she’d deliberately chosen a deserted mountain road, driven straight through the guardrail, and crashed into the pebble beach—burying herself.

A mother that disturbed—no wonder she’d raised a neurotic daughter.

Zhou Siyou sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, Zhong Qing’s script spread open before her.

The script was tentatively titled Achromatous (Colorless)—a self-contained story set in a modern-day church.

It opened with the male lead’s death. And the heroine, as his wife, was the case’s prime suspect.

The male lead had once been a music teacher—he had even taught the heroine music herself. Unfortunately, a chance accident had injured his legs, and he lived out his days in a wheelchair.

Hired by the pastor as an outside pianist, the male lead had arrived at the church only days ago. But on the appointed day, he sat upright at the church piano, eyes tightly shut.

He was already dead.

The audition scene was a memory, as seen through an eyewitness’s eyes.

Living in his wheelchair, the male lead was wheeled out to the lawn for his morning stroll by the heroine every day, as routine. Through some accident, his wheelchair tipped, and he crashed to the ground.

The heroine did not rush to help. She only watched her struggling husband, silently.

And it was precisely that moment of neglect that made everyone treat the heroine as the prime suspect—

The audition’s test was this very “neglect.”

As she mulled it over, the first auditioner emerged from the room.

Many instinctively crowded around—only to find the woman’s face ash-gray.

Someone froze and asked her, “Did Zhong Qing… tear into you that badly?”

“I’d rather she had screamed at me,” the woman sighed. “Right now I don’t even know if the way I’ve always approached acting… was ever right at all.”

“What do you me—”

But before anyone could ask more, she was already drifting away on feeble feet, ghostlike.

…That’s not a verbal attack, that’s psychological warfare! Soul-demolition warfare!

The second person to go in for the audition was already somewhat unnerved.

The third. The fourth. The fifth…

Without exception, all came out wearing mourning faces.

Panic rippled through the waiting seats.

Number ten was a good friend of Zhou Siyou’s, who fielded a casual question about conditions inside with a single-line review: “More vicious-tongued than you.”

“When Sister Siyou tears into you, it’s a thunderstorm—the rain passes, the sky clears, and nobody feels a thing afterward.”

“As for Teacher Zhong…”

“Hers is the boiling-frog method. A few quiet, flat remarks, and the more you turn them over, the worse you feel. The more you turn them over, the worse you feel.”

“…”

The people around sucked in a collective cold breath.

Zhou Siyou stood among them, feigning ease—but her lips pressed together, and her nails still bit into her palms.

The script in her hands was getting crumpled.

Fourteen. Fifteen…

After a deep breath, escorted by the on-set assistant, Zhou Siyou entered the audition room.

In the empty room, dead center, stood the wheelchair required for the audition.

By the window, Zhong Qing sat upright behind a table, layers of paper stacked before her, a black ballpoint pen in hand.

When she looked toward Zhou Siyou, a trace of weariness had already crept into her eyes.

“You have ten seconds to enter the role.”

As the words fell, Zhou Siyou seemed barely to react.

Eyes lowered, she walked to the wheelchair in a few strides and, as if supposing someone sat in it, closed her hands around the push handles.

The wheelchair rolled forward, Zhou Siyou’s face still cold.

The assistant, Little Lin, was the first to silently wail, We’re done for.

She screamed internally: What part of this is Zhou Siyou playing the heroine? She’s playing herself! In this script, the heroine is a Little White Flower suspected of murder, and the story’s throughline is clearing her own name—but the way Zhou Siyou looks right now, isn’t she broadcasting “I am the killer” loud and clear?

And sure enough.

Within the scene, Zhou Siyou stood behind the wheelchair—and then, abruptly, her foot knocked the rear wheel askew.

The wheelchair toppled onto its side.

—Zhou Siyou was the only one among the dozen-plus auditioners who had tipped the wheelchair over on purpose.

It’s over, Little Lin thought. Zhou Siyou’s understanding of this script isn’t off from everyone else’s by a little—it’s off by a mile.

Where others racked their brains to stage an accident, Zhou Siyou, swift as a cleaver falling, had flipped the wheelchair herself.

Even those inclined to presume her innocence would now have to weigh her guilt.

This one can be crossed off the list, Little Lin figured. Absolutely no chance!

But she stole a glance at Zhong Qing beside her: no anger, no call to stop. Still cold-eyed, silent.

Little Director Zhong must be brewing an even bigger storm, Little Lin assumed.

At the center of the room, Zhou Siyou unhurriedly righted the wheelchair, her gaze resting at her feet.

As if the male lead—played by empty air—were still struggling on his knees there.

Zhou Siyou straightened and extended a hand toward “him.”

“Get up on your own, Teacher. The way you once taught me to.”

Was that line even in there? Little Lin wondered, carefully flipping through the pages.

She vaguely felt she’d heard it somewhere, but flipping to the audition pages, she couldn’t find that line anywhere.

Beside the wheelchair, Zhou Siyou’s manner was dismissive, her outstretched hand held low, her expression faintly arrogant.

Only after a long moment did she finally haul the “person” back into the wheelchair.

Having righted the “man,” she slowly dusted off her palms and returned to her place behind the wheelchair.

When her eyes suddenly met those of the staff in the room, Zhou Siyou was still in character—so, like running into an acquaintance mid-scene, she suppressed the fluster in her eyes and offered a smiling greeting.

“—That’s enough. Stop.”

A few paces away, Zhong Qing raised her eyes, her tone still icy.

She looked over quietly, her face a blank playing card, devoid of emotion. “Zhou Siyou. What were you thinking?”

Zhou Siyou dimly understood now—why the earlier auditioners had said Zhong Qing’s words stung…

It might not have been the words themselves at all.

It was only that Zhong Qing’s delivery was so very cold that everything she said landed with an eerie chill.

Just like now: everyone in the audition room—except, perhaps, Zhou Siyou and Zhong Qing themselves—believed Zhong Qing was about to lose her temper.

But Zhou Siyou wasn’t particularly rattled. “What was I thinking?” she echoed softly, then answered in earnest. “I was thinking… the story’s throughline is clearing suspicion—not clearing injustice. Isn’t it?”

“If you haven’t drawn that distinction cleanly, you can’t pin down the heroine’s character either… right?”

Zhou Siyou looked at her, waiting for a response.

Zhong Qing only said, “Go on.”

But Zhou Siyou stopped there. “That’s all, Little Director Zhong. The neglect of a coward and the neglect of someone full of hate are two different things. That’s my understanding of the character.”

Zhong Qing looked at her, neither nodding nor answering.

She only spun the ballpoint pen and asked her assistant softly, “How many are left?”

The assistant, Little Lin, gave her a number.

Zhong Qing then looked back at Zhou Siyou. “All right, Number 16. Thank you for your earnest performance.”