Chapter 6

After Zhou Siyou, several more hopefuls cycled through the audition room.

When the last one finally left, Zhong Qing covered her eyes by the window, too exhausted to say another word.

Little Lin, standing at her side, was fretting.

“Little Director Zhong, you don’t think… they’re all, all… hopeless, do you?” she ventured haltingly.

“Not quite,” Zhong Qing said quietly.

After a moment’s thought, she sat up straight and drew a stack of cards from her bag.

She had asked every actress, through her assistant while they waited, to write down their understanding of the role. Some had produced long, sprawling passages. Others had simply handed the card back blank.

Flipping through the cards, Zhong Qing’s expression stayed unchanged.

She had given the actresses only the first third of the script, including the audition scenes and the female lead’s backstory.

The relationship between the female lead and the male lead was that of husband and wife, and once, that of teacher and student.

The female lead had suffered school bullying as a student, and it was the male lead who appeared in the guise of a “savior.”

A dispirited young girl, and a handsome young music teacher who stepped in to help. On paper, it sounded like a textbook romance. Many of the actresses had read it exactly that way.

A small handful had sensed something was off.

“A romance with poison in it.”

In the waiting room, Little Lin had watched one actress roll her eyes at a friend. “Teacher-to-student before husband-and-wife? That’s just an ethics violation, plain and simple, no?”

Little Lin had frozen at that, then instinctively jotted down the two women’s names and numbers. Number sixteen, Zhou Siyou. Number ten, Ji Mingxin.

Sure enough, among the pile of cards all declaring ‘the male lead dies, so the female lead must be devastated,’ these two stood out like sore thumbs.

Ji Mingxin’s card: If a character has been hurt, her first instinct should be to resist, to fight back, not to figure out how to submit, shouldn’t it?

Zhou Siyou’s card: There’s no need to preset a perfect protagonist. She’s already endured so much. On what grounds does anyone demand that she still be kind?

Watching Zhong Qing set these two cards apart, Little Lin was baffled.

Then she heard Zhong Qing say, “Ji Mingxin can’t carry a lead role. As for Zhou Siyou,” she frowned, “everyone says her acting is top-tier among the newer starlets, but honestly, I find it thoroughly mediocre.”

Little Lin blinked, at a loss for how to respond.

…One wrong word and this could blow up in her face.

She drew a deep breath and stammered, “Well, after all, she’s still young, and experience takes time, and… uh, when it comes to acting… of course you have to look at the seasoned veterans. He Shuning, Pei Li…”

But Zhong Qing suddenly laughed and flicked out two more cards. “He Shuning. Pei Li. And what, exactly, did they write for their character studies?”

“The first step of acting is a clear grasp of the character. I already gave them her full background. If they still can’t feel her situation, there’s no point in working together.”

Little Lin wasn’t the only assistant in the room.

The others were scattered around tidying props, but every ear was cocked toward the conversation. Some were regulars at the studio, some had been sent over by talent agencies to help out, and with all the tangled connections between them, any one of them might carry gossip back outside.

Sensing the souring atmosphere, Little Lin hurried to smooth things over. “Oh, come on, Teacher Zhong, there are two kinds of actors, right? Method-through-experience and method-through-feeling. Some people don’t get the character at first, but after the director walks them through a few scenes, it all clicks. They improve su, super fast…”

Zhong Qing let out a sigh. It sounded like a sigh, and it sounded like a cold laugh, both at once.

Little Lin didn’t quite dare speak.

Just then she happened to finish sorting the documents in her hands, and she quickly reported to Zhong Qing, “Teacher Zhong, may I head out first?”

“Of course. Thank you for today.”

After a few polite exchanges, Little Lin hurried out of the audition room.

Only to run straight into Zhou Siyou at the doorway.

At the moment of collision, Zhou Siyou looked visibly startled too.

Her eyes were faintly stunned, her bangs blown askew by the draft.

“You…”

Little Lin instinctively stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Teacher Zhou, are you here to see Little Director Zhong?”

“…No. I wasn’t looking for her.”

Zhou Siyou’s manner softened unexpectedly. She raised a hand to hold the door half-shut, looked at Little Lin, pulled out her phone, and then, seemingly a little embarrassed, lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together.

“Little Lin, you… could I add you on WeChat?”

“Huh?” Little Lin went blank.

But Zhou Siyou’s face was simply too beautiful, her expression too earnest, and Little Lin felt herself floating a little.

With a soft ding, they were connected.

Zhou Siyou then said, “Could you share Little Director Zhong’s WeChat with me?”

Little Lin: “…”

So after all that, she was here for Little Director Zhong!

~

After the auditions, Zhong Qing gave no decision.

Not even a vague hint of one.

She simply went home, drew the heavy curtains, curled up on the sofa with her laptop, and watched one film after another.

Every single audition actress, in her eyes, had problems. The only differences were how many, how large, and how fixable.

The ones with good acting fell short in understanding. The ones with understanding fell short in execution.

She wasn’t familiar with these actresses, so for now, the bluntest method was the best one: watch their work.

By the time she got to Zhou Siyou, night had nearly fallen.

In the dim room, a progress bar was buffering.

In truth, compared to the others, Zhou Siyou’s filmography was pitifully thin.

Partly because her career was so new, and partly because her resources were genuinely abysmal.

Still, Zhong Qing dutifully clicked open Zhou Siyou’s debut work.

It was a film shot overseas, translated loosely as Anti-Hunt, though the original English title was more direct still: KillMen.

Zhou Siyou had made it while studying in North America, a collaboration with one of the academy’s professors, a boldly themed commercial piece. Flashy, eye-catching, all technique.

The film had made a decent splash abroad and was set for distribution back home, until, with one clean snip, it was banned. Subject matter, pure and simple. Judging from the title alone, it was a small film paying homage to Quentin’s Kill Bill and its aesthetic of violence, or perhaps a hybrid offspring of carnal art and schoolyard youth. The female lead maintained a blood-drenched, half-mad posture from beginning to end, which naturally did not suit mainstream ideology.

In short: the theme was bold, and the censors didn’t like it.

The protagonist had once been the victim of violence in her school days, a video of her assault circulating online. The film opened on revenge. Her former bullies were erased one by one, and the person who spread the video died as well.

Bloody vengeance throughout. Stand in my way and die.

Morally speaking, a murderous protagonist flouts mainstream values. But there are always creators who, in the name of art, refuse to be bound by ethics.

At the film’s end, the protagonist put her black school uniform back on and stood in the night rain, letting the downpour wash the blood away.

Fresh blood on her face. Muddied tear tracks beneath her eyes.

It couldn’t quite be called a great vengeance fulfilled.

Because the audience understood all too well: even with the filth cleared away, life does not necessarily escape the nightmare.

Lost in thought, Zhong Qing watched the progress bar on her computer finish downloading.

Zhong Qing’s face was reflected in the pure black screen.

Truthfully, there was no longer any need to watch. Zhong Qing knew how Zhou Siyou performed in this film.

An expressionless girl, standing on a street of endless flowing traffic, like a machine drained of life. Only a pair of Bluetooth Earphones glowed faintly at her ears, blue light flickering, the sole sign of anything alive.

Zhou Siyou had a pianist’s hands.

And yet when those hands picked up a blade, they carried a strange grace.

Shrill screams. Leaping notes. An enemy collapsing beneath a snow-white piano.

On the black and white keys, the killer was playing Für Elise.

Was it art? Perhaps it was.

Did the protagonist’s soul ascend? Zhong Qing didn’t know.

It was revenge, yes, but the blood on her hands was real all the same. And if a life could only be defined by the word “revenge,” then after the revenge, all that remained was confusion and despair.

It was the despair in the character’s eyes during that final rainstorm, too deep and too real, that left Zhong Qing vaguely unsettled every time she watched.

Because she knew that despair belonged not only to the character. It belonged to…

A chime rang out, her phone buzzing with messages, an incoming call seizing the screen.

Though her thoughts were cut off, Zhong Qing still stared at the screen, dazed.

She didn’t know whether giving this role to Zhou Siyou was a good thing or a bad one. After all, the character in Zhong Qing’s script was, to a certain degree, cut from the same cloth as Zhou Siyou’s debut role.

But…

Mechanically, she picked up the phone, and facing the computer, her finger pressed pause almost without thinking.

On the screen were Zhou Siyou’s emotionless eyes.

It suddenly came back to Zhong Qing: a small overseas tabloid piece about Zhou Siyou.

“Zhou’s eyes are too striking. Like a leopard’s. When they fix on you, a shiver runs through you before you know it,” the article’s subtitle had read. “A kind of beauty that is natural, fierce, and alive.”

Still thinking it over, she swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Little Director Zhong! How’s the casting coming along?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, but the tone was breezily familiar. “This is Boss Li’s assistant.”

“…Boss Li?”

Who was Boss Li?

“The boss of your film’s biggest investor this time around. Li Yin. Oh, right, and Yu Ning is our boss lady. I’m calling because I’d like to discuss the casting with you…”

“…………”

~

It wasn’t until that night that Zhong Qing accepted Zhou Siyou’s friend request.

At the time, Zhou Siyou was propped against the headboard, counting off on her fingers, her eyes mournful and pitiful. The Little Match Girl, practically.

The instant her phone screen lit up, Zhou Siyou jolted upright.

[Zhong Qing has accepted your friend request. You can start chatting now~]

She slapped on the bedside lamp and flopped onto her stomach, fingers trembling as she typed and deleted in the chat box.

“Zhong Qing, what’s with the act? Pretending you don’t even know me.”

…No. Delete.

“Well, well, Little Director Zhong, so terribly busy these days. I sent that request this afternoon and you only approve it at midnight? Think you’re something special?”

…No. No no no. What is even WRONG with me!!

After agonizing forever, she’d drafted dozens of openers and couldn’t bring herself to hit send on a single one.

Zhou Siyou dropped her head into the pillow and flung the phone away in self-defeat.

Maybe Zhong Qing will message first, she thought.

Clinging to that sliver of hope, she snatched the darkened phone back up, flopped onto her back, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

A long while passed. The phone stayed dead silent.

Zhou Siyou sighed in resignation.

She didn’t even know how she and Zhong Qing had ended up in this standoff, where neither side would move until the other did.

Seven years ago, if you asked who was at fault, maybe no one had done anything truly wrong. But that she owed Zhong Qing something, that much was an unspoken truth between them.

Zhou Siyou was the one in Zhong Qing’s debt.

With Zhong Qing this cold now, Zhou Siyou didn’t dare overstep. Reuniting at all was already an unexpected gift. If they could only start over as friends… then friends it would be.

Anything was better than seven years of silence.

Drowning in old memories, drowsy and heavy-headed, Zhou Siyou was on the verge of sleep when her phone chimed.

Her eyes snapped open and she rolled over instantly.

Zhong Qing: “Are you free these next few days?”

…Huh?

Zhou Siyou didn’t quite follow, so she didn’t reply right away, holding back with dignity, waiting for what came next.

But Zhong Qing said nothing more.

Zhou Siyou waited left, waited right, got no follow-up, and finally lost patience, ready to fire back, ‘What is it about?’

But when she opened the chat box, all she managed was a single “?”

Zhong Qing: “Are you free these next few days?”

Zhou Siyou: “?”

Zhong Qing: “…”

Zhong Qing seemed a little speechless.

She tried again: “Your current address. Send it to me, would you?”

…My address?

Zhou Siyou stared at the screen, brain crashed, utterly stunned.

Yet when she lifted her hands, out came that same aloof, icy posture.

Zhou Siyou: “?”

One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes…

Zhong Qing had stopped replying to her!!