With a sharp clang, the clapperboard fell. Zhou Ziheng, facing the two cameras, instantly snapped into focus—a side of him Xia Xiqing had never seen before.
He began pounding furiously on the steel security door, not uttering a word, just slamming into it with all his might. His molars clenched, eyes lowered, the thudding of the metal door instantly drawing Xia Xiqing, who had been watching from the hallway, into the tension.
“Who the hell is that? Is he fucking crazy…” The inner door swung open. Through the iron bars, Xia Xiqing could see Ah Long rubbing his eyes. His dry, yellow hair resembled a clump of late-autumn grass. The moment he spotted Zhou Ziheng, his brow furrowed, his face twisted with disgust. “You fucking lunatic? Coming here to cause trouble? You wanna lose your job? Huh?”
Gao Kun clenched his fists, biting his lip tightly, his eyes still half-lowered.
“Speak up! Did the blood draw make you mute?” Ah Long scratched his head, hand on the door handle ready to shut it. “I paid you what you owed. Stop fucking bothering me…”
A thunderous bang echoed. Gao Kun’s fist slammed against the iron door. Like a caged beast on display at the zoo, he snarled through the bars, eyes bloodshot with fury.
“You fucking… you…” Rage made his voice raspy. “It’s all because of your fucking needles…” “
A Long was startled, feeling a twinge of unease but forcing himself to maintain a tough front. After all, Gao Kun was nothing more than one of their blood donors—a man so poor he had to sell his blood. What was there to fear?
“What are you talking about? You’re just poor and crazy.”
“I’ve got AIDS.” Gao Kun suddenly blurted out. “AIDS! Do you know what that is? AIDS!”
His first words were delivered with unnerving calm, as if the disease didn’t belong to him. But that composure shattered within seconds. His fists pounded relentlessly against the iron door, as if smashing through it would bring salvation, his whole body trembling.
A Long froze in place, speechless for a long moment.
Xia Xiqing, standing nearby, watched mesmerized. But A Long remained silent, then took two steps back, stammering. Gao Kun slammed the door twice more, then grabbed the bars with vicious fury, snarling like a demon, “It’s all your fault! You ruined me! I’ll kill you! Open the door!”
Xia Xiqing’s eyes fell on A-Long. Something was off.
The scene was wrong. Just now, Gao Kun had clearly been saving the day.
“Cut! A-Long forgot his lines. What happened?” Director Kun shouted into his walkie-talkie. “A-Long, adjust. Perfect timing—let’s get a close-up of Gao Kun’s side. It’s fine, we’ll do two takes. No pressure, A-Long.”
Yang Bo’s face twisted with apology and regret as he bent down, repeatedly apologizing to the crew. “Sorry, sorry! I was genuinely startled by Zhou Ziheng just now.”
Xia Xiqing couldn’t help but laugh. Zhou Ziheng’s ability to dive into character in an instant was truly impressive—no wonder he grew up on set. That presence would intimidate anyone.
The makeup artist hurried over to wipe sweat from Zhou Ziheng’s forehead. Zhou motioned for Yang Bo to open the door and discuss the scene with him. The two exchanged thoughts on their characters’ emotions within this scene.
“It’s fine,” Zhou Ziheng patted his shoulder. “Starting with a conflict scene is really tough. I felt the same way at first, but it gets easier.”
Yang Bo felt deeply grateful. Due to his appearance and character portrayal, Zhou Ziheng often came across as imposing and somewhat aloof to strangers. But this interaction revealed the truth: not only was he not cold, he was exceptionally gentle and patient.
“Ready? Take two. This time we’re shooting Gao Kun’s close-up. Gao Kun, watch the camera.” Director Kun glanced at Yang Bo. “Long, stand behind the cameraman and watch first. Seeing it a few times will help you not get startled.”
“Do I look that scary?” Zhou Ziheng’s joke drew laughter from everyone on set, easing Yang Bo’s nerves considerably.
You do look pretty scary when you’re angry. Xia Xiqing stood not far behind him, recalling the night he’d been drugged.
“The Stalker, Scene 1, Take 2, First Take. Action!”
Restarting the scene, Yang Bo positioned himself behind the close-up cameraman, intently observing Zhou Ziheng’s performance this time. simultaneously delivering his lines off-camera. The close-up captured the perspective of Ah Long entirely. Zhou Ziheng’s portrayal of Gao Kun’s emotions was richer than before—from initial dazed confusion to mounting rage, then pain and helpless denial—each emotional shift flowing seamlessly. His bloodshot eyes seemed brimming with tears, yet held none.
“Get out here! I’ll kill you!” Gao Kun punched and kicked, even picking up an old mop discarded in the corner and smashing it against the door. “Come out! Get out! I’ll make you pay with your life!” The long handle in his hands swung again and again against the iron door. As time passed, the force of his blows gradually diminished, the final strike halting mid-air.
He lowered his head, clenching his jaw so tightly it made the muscles on the side of his face twitch. The fingers gripping the mop trembled, yet he fought desperately to suppress the shaking.
“I’m nineteen years old…”
Xia Xiqing’s heart clenched. This line was unbearably painful.
A Long’s voice erupted: “This… this… you, you fucking joke! I, I don’t know anything! Don’t blame me! Don’t blame me! I gave you your money! Go find someone else to rage at!”
“Who should I go to!?” Gao Kun lunged at the iron gate again. “Who should I go to!?”
A Long’s voice shook like a sieve. “I… I don’t know! Whoever gave it to you, go find them… Don’t blame me for something I didn’t do! I don’t have AIDS, so don’t come after me!”
Gao Kun trembled with rage, his hands itching to tear through the gauze covering the bars, to reach in and drag this man out. He wanted nothing more than to skin him alive and drink his blood. “Get out here… Get out! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
“Cut!” Director Kun shouted. “Excellent. Gao Kun’s close-up is done. Next take, focus on A Long. His delivery just now captured it perfectly—that sense of panic, fear, and desperate attempts to shift blame.”
Yang Bo nodded emphatically twice. Zhou Ziheng felt the makeup artist pat his shoulder. He turned, bending down to let him wipe his sweat and touch up his makeup. To better match his character, he’d specifically asked for dark foundation and sunburned, chafed marks on his shoulders. But Wuhan’s summer was stiflingly hot; even the slightest movement made sweat break out, let alone Zhou Ziheng’s intense performance.
While waiting for his touch-up, his eyes drifted elsewhere and locked with Xia Xiqing, who was observing nearby. Unaware of his presence until that moment, Zhou Ziheng’s delight was nearly impossible to conceal. His lips instantly curved upward.
Xia Xiqing returned his smile. This man shifted emotions so swiftly on stage, possessing the most natural talent for concealing and masking feelings. Yet in private, he was painfully genuine, every emotion laid bare.
Time was tight. After finishing his touch-ups, Zhou Ziheng immediately began the third take. During the first run-through, Ah Long’s emotional transitions still felt stiff, especially the moment he learned Gao Kun was infected.
“Your panic and fear are two separate emotions—that’s incorrect. Your state right now should be: I can’t believe he really has AIDS, yet at the same time, I’m terrified—not just terrified of him as a person, but terrified of the disease itself.” Director Kun patiently explained the scene to Yang Bo. Only after he fully grasped the character’s emotions did they start again. Director Kun, who was slightly nitpicky about the film, only approved it after six takes.
“Sorry, sorry.” Yang Bo emerged from the house and glanced outside the hallway. Thankfully, the sun hadn’t set yet. “I’ve kept everyone waiting.”
“No problem.” Zhou Ziheng flashed him a smile. “You’re doing great for a newcomer.”
“Ziheng, did you know this is my first film?” Yang Bo sounded surprised. He’d assumed his minor role wouldn’t catch the attention of a top star like Zhou Ziheng, and this unexpected focus made him feel both honored and a bit overwhelmed.
“When I got the cast list, I looked up everyone’s background. Since I don’t always work with familiar faces, it’s better to know beforehand.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, noticed by Zhou Ziheng. He glanced upward and smiled again. “I think you’re amazing. When I first acted in a movie, I couldn’t handle a conflict scene for my very first take.”
Yang Bo was practically idolizing Zhou Ziheng now, even though the actor was only twenty—younger than himself.
He finally understood why so many people adored Zhou Ziheng.
Xia Xiqing approached, instantly reading the expression on Zhou Ziheng’s face. With genuine admiration, he praised him, “You did an amazing job.” Zhou Ziheng was thrilled to hear it, but couldn’t find a proper way to express it. He just gave a small, tight-lipped smile and said to Xia Xiqing, “Can you buy me an ice pop?”
“Go ask Xiao Luo. I’m not your assistant,” Xia Xiqing shot him a glance. “What kind of ice cream? Are you a three-year-old?”
Whenever these two got together, Yang Bo felt like a natural barrier separated him from them, automatically turning him into background scenery that could watch but not speak. He almost wanted to blow pink bubbles over their heads.
Oh my god, was he shipping them? Yang Bo snapped back to reality.
No wonder they had so many shipping fans…
They hurried to change locations before sunset. This scene was set in an alley behind a hotel. After the dolly track was laid, Director Kun briefly explained the scene. Since Xia Xiqing was a newcomer and Jiang Tong was an introverted character,
Contained emotions are harder to portray than outward ones. One wrong move could make the performance flat and lifeless, pulling the audience out of the scene.
“Ready?”
Xia Xiqing, standing by the hotel’s rear entrance, nodded in acknowledgment. As the clapperboard sounded, he naturally lifted two bulging garbage bags and walked from the door into the alley. He lifted the lid of a dark green trash bin, pulled the bags up, and stuffed them inside. His hands were filthy. He glanced around but found nowhere to wipe them. Moving slowly, he reached a small tap in the alleyway and fiddled with it for ages before a trickle of water emerged.
He held both hands under the thin stream, scrubbing the grime off his palms with care.
Suddenly, something slammed hard against his head. Jiang Tong turned, his expression dazed. The setting sun cast a crimson glow on his face. Against the light, he saw several grumbling thugs approaching. The one in front held a can of beer. Spotting him, he began cursing, “Mute, you’ve been hiding from us these past few days?” With that, he hurled the can violently. Jiang Tong, startled, raised his hands to shield his head. The can slammed into his wrist, spilling the remaining beer onto his clothes.
He’d just finished his shift at the hotel, still wearing the establishment’s white apron and uniform—baggy, worn, ill-fitting, and now stained.
Jiang Tong’s mouth moved, but no words came out.
The men closed in around him. “Where’s the money? Hand it over willingly, and we won’t beat you today.”
Jiang Tong frantically gestured with his hands. The leader kicked him squarely in the stomach. “Stop gesturing! Speak!”
“I… I don’t have any money…” Jiang Tong clutched his stomach and collapsed against the wall. His hand plunged into his pocket, pulling it clean out. He frowned at them. “I… I don’t have any…”
“No? I think you just deserve a beating!”
“Cut!” Director Kun called out. “Jiang Tong’s expression is off—too stiff. You should look scared at this moment.”
Xia Xiqing rose from the corner. The kick to the stomach earlier had been a feint. He’d been worried about looking unnatural here and getting a retake, but never imagined it would be because of his expression.
“Jiang Tong has endured protection money extortion and bullying from these thugs for so long. Seeing them should trigger habitual fear. Your performance just now was too composed.” Director Kun, unusually patient for a director, added, “It’s fine. Let’s do another take. Xiqing, relax a bit more and immerse yourself in Jiang Tong’s role.”
As everyone prepared for the next take, Xia Xiqing spoke up. “Director Kun, I don’t think this is right.”
Even the actor playing the gang leader shot him a look. In China, most films revolve around the director—the director reigns supreme on set. Many actors have had scenes cut or even ruined their careers by offending directors, so they rarely challenge a director’s suggestions on set.
But Xia Xiqing wasn’t planning on doing much acting anyway. He had no worries about offending anyone.
“Jiang Tong isn’t weak or timid. If he were, he’d be dead by now. His father gambled and beat him and his mother mercilessly since childhood. His mother was a prostitute who took clients at home to make ends meet, and she was eventually beaten to death. He’s worked alone to support himself ever since. Anyone else with that kind of background would have killed themselves long ago.”
Xia Xiqing’s tone remained calm, yet Zhou Ziheng felt an inexplicable ache in his heart.
“He isn’t afraid, but he lacks the power to fight back. So he endures. Just as you said, Jiang Tong has been bullied by these thugs for so long he’s grown accustomed to this life. If he’s habitually accepting harm, portraying a heart as dead as ashes might actually feel more authentic.”
Not a single person among the film crew—lighting technicians, cameramen, stagehands, or waiting actors—voiced an opinion. Everyone knew Director Kuncheng had a good temperament, but they knew even better that he was a stubborn director.
“I agree,” Zhou Ziheng’s voice broke the silence. “In fact, Jiang Tong is braver than Gao Kun. The one who’s truly afraid is Gao Kun, not the seemingly weaker Jiang Tong.”
Director Kun stared intently at the ground, his brow deeply furrowed. After a long moment, he stood up, glanced at the sky, then looked at Xia Xiqing’s resolute expression. In that instant, he truly felt that the person standing before him wasn’t Xia Xiqing, but the real Jiang Tong.
“I concede,” Kuncheng shrugged, laughing as he ruffled the hair at the back of his head. “The Jiang Tong you envision is closer to the character. Excellent. Absolutely excellent.”
A fire ignited within him. How he wished this film could be directed by him, fully revealing its essence for the audience to see.
“Yes, that’s exactly how we should shoot it,” Kun Cheng repeated excitedly. “Shoot it like that!”
Xia Xiqing’s lips curved upward. He knew that look on Kun Cheng’s face all too well.
It was the supreme yearning for artistic creation.
