After the second scene began, Kun Cheng gave Xia Xiqing ample creative freedom, employing and placing unconditional trust in a complete acting novice. This approach represented a significant risk in filmmaking, with the worst-case scenario being the ruin of the entire production.
Though Kun Cheng held the most authority on set, this didn’t mean everyone accepted this approach. Xia Xiqing understood this better than anyone. All he could do was prove himself through his abilities. But what abilities did he possess when it came to acting?
All he had was a fierce determination to dissect himself.
“Action!”
Jiang Tong lay half-prostrate on the ground. Though his posture was the most humble and vulnerable—dusty, disheveled, utterly bedraggled—not a trace of supplication graced his easily bullied face. No matter how the thugs humiliated and beat him, he stated the fact that he was penniless in an unnaturally flat tone.
He truly had no money. His recent paycheck had gone toward rent, basic necessities, and food. The remainder was spent on paints to sustain his extravagant hobby. Even when his bicycle broke down, he couldn’t bring himself to get it repaired.
“I think you’re fucking playing games with me here. I don’t think you’ll know who really runs this street until I teach you a proper lesson today!”
The leader’s patience snapped. He yanked Jiang Tong off the ground and slammed him against the wall, his fist leveled at the pale face. Jiang Tong couldn’t fight back—all strength seemed drained from his body, his stomach twisted in agony.
As the fist hurtled toward him, all he could do was instinctively close his eyes. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d been through this.
As long as he didn’t die, nothing else mattered.
But in the next instant, what met him wasn’t the crushing blow to his jaw. Instead, a deafening crash and a bloodcurdling scream erupted as hot liquid splattered across his face. The grip on his collar loosened, and Jiang Tong slid down the wall. Opening his eyes, he froze in shock. The thug leader who had just moments ago been ranting about teaching him a lesson now lay sprawled before him, face covered in blood. Jiang Tong reached out blankly, touching his own face.
His fingers were coated in blood—this man’s blood.
He noticed a stick that hadn’t been there before, lying near the thug’s feet, rolling slightly.
Someone had hit him with this?
“Brother Wang? Brother Wang, are you okay?” The others were startled by the scene too. They immediately crowded around, supporting their leader—now stripped of his authority, bloodied, yet still stubbornly defiant. “Which son of a bitch did this?! Quick, kill him! Dammit, my head…”
Several heads snapped toward the alley entrance. Jiang Tong, who had been frozen in shock, finally remembered to look that way too.
Under the setting sun, a tall figure emerged from the alley entrance. His hair blazed like fire, glowing crimson. Backlit, his face remained indistinct, the fiery glow forming a mask around his features.
The unexpected intruder approached them silently, uttering not a single threat.
“Beat him to death!”
This sudden intruder approached them without a word, not even a threat.
“Beat the shit out of him!”
The thugs had four men, while he stood alone. No matter how imposing he looked, he was no match for them. Jiang Tong waved frantically at him, his words strained, “Go! Go now!”
The man seemed deaf to his plea, charging straight ahead instead. His boot slammed into the lead thug’s chest, sending him flying backward. The impact felt like every bone in his body shattered.
Only after that kick did Jiang Tong finally catch a glimpse of his face in the backlight—especially those eyes, fierce and ruthless like a lone wolf’s.
His whole body trembled as the words slipped involuntarily from his lips.
“That night… that night…”
The man who had stalked him, who had nearly killed him!
As if suddenly choked, Jiang Tong’s pupils dilated wildly, his body shaking uncontrollably.
In the darkness, those hands had once clamped down on his mouth. He had seen that man’s ferocious gaze up close before—under the moonlight, like a wolf cornered in its last stand.
That towering figure had no allies, yet struck with merciless finality—every punch and kick aimed to kill. Jiang Tong watched in terror.
This man didn’t fear taking a life.
The most dangerous people in this world are those who have nothing left to lose. They are the ones who truly have nothing to fear.
Soon, the men who had earlier humiliated Jiang Tong lay sprawled on the ground, too drained even to rise and flee. They resembled old dogs clinging to life.
The man gasped for breath, turning his face toward Jiang Tong. In that instant, Jiang Tong also turned his own face away, avoiding the man’s gaze.
Sweat trickled down his forehead, cold to the touch.
He was afraid. This was the first time he’d admitted it. He was truly afraid.
The memory of that night still stirred an overwhelming physical dread he couldn’t overcome.
“Why aren’t you gone yet?” the man suddenly spoke, his voice low and tinged with the faint panting of someone who’d just fought. “Want to stay here and get beaten to death by them?”
Jiang Tong whipped his head around, staring straight into the man’s face. His own lip was split, a gash above his eyebrow oozing a thin trail of blood.
Jiang Tong didn’t know why, but trembling, he spoke. Escaping now would have been enough. Surviving would have been enough. Yet he stared straight into the man’s eyes and voiced his thoughts. “You… you’re…”
The man didn’t close in as expected. Instead, he crouched half a meter away, staring expressionless at Jiang Tong.
“I was the one who followed you that day.” He tugged at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like a defiant gesture.
“I… know…”
Jiang Tong’s reply was strained but resolute. With his back against the wall and no weapons within reach, retreat was impossible. Even if he had something, he knew he stood no chance—just look at those men sprawled on the ground. Against such a formidable opponent, he had virtually no room for resistance.
He struggled to steady his breathing, using the wall to pull himself up. The sharp pain in his abdomen hadn’t subsided, and his right leg, kicked badly, throbbed with every step.
True, he had escaped the clutches of these men, but fear gripped him even tighter.
Because that shadow followed him relentlessly, just like that night. The shadow stretched long and ghostly beside him, appearing as if by magic. No matter how fast he walked, he couldn’t shake it.
Struggling to walk, he emerged from the alley and saw his broken bicycle. Jiang Tong hesitated for a moment, but he dared not linger. Fear made his heart pound so fast it felt like it might leap from his chest at any second.
“You’re afraid of me.”
The voice came suddenly from behind him, sending a shiver through Jiang Tong. Forgetting the old bicycle, he rushed straight toward the alley exit. Without anything to steady him, his steps quickened. Pain and instability overwhelmed him, and he stumbled, falling to the ground.
The man behind him didn’t reach out to help. He merely spoke in an inscrutable tone.
“You should fear me,” his voice carried a hint of despair. “But not now.”
Jiang Tong didn’t understand what he meant, nor did he have any desire to figure it out. Without turning back, the two walked one after the other out of the filthy, cramped alley. Outside lay a street with sparse foot traffic, lined on both sides by tall sycamore trees. In early summer, the sycamore leaves grew wildly, their branches and foliage nearly touching overhead, shading the sky. It felt strangely magical, like two people destined never to intersect were desperately reaching out their hands toward each other.
Whether or not they could embrace, the mere moment their fingertips touched made it all worthwhile.
That’s why Jiang Tong cherished the sycamores in this season—a rare source of hope in his otherwise bleak existence.
He lowered his head. His shadow remained. Every few steps, he could steady himself against a tree trunk, but the gaps between them still made his legs tremble. His pace grew slower and slower.
“Stop.”
The sudden voice behind him startled Jiang Tong again. Without a tree to steady him, he nearly stumbled.
“Turn around.”
The innate fear this man inspired compelled him to obey. Jiang Tong awkwardly twisted his neck, presenting his profile but refusing to meet the man’s gaze.
He assumed this born killer would drag him to some deserted corner—perhaps to slaughter him and dismember his body into countless pieces, or to torture him in every imaginable way to satisfy some twisted pleasure. He couldn’t fathom any other reason why someone would stalk a complete stranger in the dark, not for money, not to fulfill some desire, but purely for the act of killing.
But he hadn’t anticipated that after issuing his command, the killer in his mind would bend down and sit on the curb, tilting his head up to look at his face. “Sit.”
What on earth was his motive?
Jiang Tong clutched his stomach and turned, unable to sit down yet too afraid to remain standing.
The man shot him another look—fierce and utterly non-negotiable. Jiang Tong could only move sluggishly, bending down to sit beside him.
“Don’t get too close to me.”
Jiang Tong looked at him inexplicably, his eyes full of confusion. But he didn’t want to question anything. He silently endured the pain and sat down. Better to be farther away.
His eyes darted timidly across the man’s face. The blood that had earlier trickled only to his upper eyelids now flowed down to beneath them, like water traversing a deep ravine. His eye sockets were profoundly hollow, resembling the plaster busts art students used for drawing practice. But Jiang Tong had no money for lessons, not even the chance to touch those plaster heads.
Jiang Tong’s gaze steadied slightly, though his heart still pounded. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rolling.
He turned his head back.
“Cut!”
Kuncheng stood up, his face radiant with unchecked delight. “Excellent, excellent! That long take just now was superb.”
You two don’t need any rehearsal at all. He’d intended to say that, but somehow, the words didn’t come out.
They’d shot the earlier fight scene from multiple angles, capturing it from different perspectives. The results were excellent, and they’d only needed five or six takes—remarkably efficient for such an intense action sequence. What surprised Kuncheng most was the complete shot of Gao Kun following Jiang Tong as they walked down the street, one in front, one behind, after Jiang got up.
The dramatic tension between these two felt almost innate, surpassing even his best expectations for their chemistry. Even Gao Kun’s offhand line delivered from behind had perfect timing and rhythm.
What a treasure he’d stumbled upon.
Xia Xiqing exhaled a long breath. The tension that had been coiled within him suddenly unraveled, leaving an oddly unsettling sensation. He now understood why so many actors developed emotional baggage on set—this job truly wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Xiao Luo approached, holding a palm-sized pink fan. Just as he opened his mouth, Zhou Ziheng snatched it away. Without a single puff, he handed it to Xia Xiqing beside him. “Hot? Blow on yourself.”
Xia Xiqing turned his head to look at Zhou Ziheng, whose forehead was glistening with sweat. “You’re the one who’s hot.”
“I’m not hot.” Zhou Ziheng turned off the fan and tossed it into Xia Xiqing’s lap. The makeup artist beside them chuckled, smacking Zhou Ziheng’s forehead. “If you’re not hot, then stop sweating! Look at us—we have to touch up your makeup after every take. The makeup runs off with your sweat!”
Zhou Ziheng tilted his head back with an embarrassed smile.
Xia Xiqing gripped the fan’s handle, a faint smile playing on his lips. He flipped the switch, shifted his hips to sit beside Zhou Ziheng, and pressed close. Holding the small fan between them, he teased with the line from earlier.
“I’m going to stay this close.”
Zhou Ziheng quickly caught on, shifting slightly to the right and echoing Gao Kun’s line, “Don’t get so close to me.”
“I will.” Xia Xiqing shifted again.
“Stop messing around, you two. I can’t touch up your makeup like this.” The makeup artist giggled uncontrollably at the two childish pranksters, while Xiao Luo beside them wore a look of disgust, careful not to let Zhou Ziheng see it.
“Isn’t it a pain playing Jiang Tong?” Zhou Ziheng still worried about Xia Xiqing.
Xia Xiqing raised one eyebrow, his gaze lazy and roguish. He lowered his voice beside Zhou Ziheng, “Having someone who spends all day beating people up at school play the one getting beaten… really…”
Zhou Ziheng also lowered his voice. “Who told you to look so delicate?”
Xia Xiqing shot him a fierce glare, practically ready to tear him apart right there in front of everyone. Seeing this, Zhou Ziheng immediately apologized. “I was just joking, sorry, sorry.” He found it amusing himself. “I never got into fights at school.”
“You bet, you’re the one who always calls the cops.”
Zhou Ziheng turned his head in surprise. “How did you know?”
Xia Xiqing smiled with a hint of childishness. “I just know.”
Zhou Ziheng stopped teasing, his smile fading slightly as he changed the subject. “Just now… when you were pretending to be scared of me, how did you make it seem so real?” He paused to choose his words carefully. “I mean, you don’t usually get scared of anything. I bet you’ve never even been afraid during a fight.”
The other person remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
“I’m afraid of the dark.”
Xia Xiqing’s laughter was faint, yet it fell heavily into Zhou Ziheng’s heart.
“Borrowing that feeling makes it easier.”
Borrowing emotion from his deepest fear—Zhou Ziheng couldn’t fathom it.
The small fan whirred softly. Xia Xiqing stared at the circular pattern it cast when someone touched his cheek.
“Sweat.” He looked up to see Zhou Ziheng smiling, his expression apologetic. “Ah, it seems dirtier after I wiped it.”
“Get lost, you’re annoying me.” Xia Xiqing lowered his head to wipe his face, a smile involuntarily spreading across his lips.
Kuncheng reviewed the long take of the character emerging from the alley onto the road once more. Satisfied, he approached. “That shot just now was really good. Handheld really does capture that walking sensation.” He hurried off to the other side, discussing the camera angles and composition for the next shot with the director of photography.
“Trying a long take on your first shoot? Impressive.” As soon as Kuncheng left, Zhou Ziheng teased Xia Xiqing, “Genius newcomer.”
“Isn’t that you?”
“I was ground out,” Zhou Ziheng replied, several tissues stuck to his forehead. “I figured it out bit by bit.” His hands rested on his bent knees. “Back then, so many directors told me I could play life-and-death roles, but not everyday life. I could handle any intense emotion, but I couldn’t portray an ordinary, everyday person. Because I simply didn’t understand them—I didn’t understand my characters.”
His eyes scanned the street. “So back then, I’d sit right here on the curb like this, sometimes for an entire afternoon. I was still young, in high school, not very famous yet. During breaks, I’d just sit there, watching the passersby. Watching them, I realized everyone is a bundle of emotions. So many feelings pile up inside them, so complex that they can only choose to grind those emotions against each other to live like mature adults. That’s how they get worn down.”
As he spoke, Zhou Ziheng turned to look at Xia Xiqing, a smile on his face. “Later, I understood. What I needed to portray was that kind of calm.”
The warm yellow sunset outlined every contour of Zhou Ziheng’s face, yet wrapped them in such softness. Xia Xiqing just watched him, a slight smile on hsi lips, saying nothing.
He too wanted to say something, but found his own words utterly inadequate to describe what he felt for Zhou Ziheng in this moment. It was too good, too perfect—beyond the threshold of what language could capture. If only he had a brush and paints—preferably soft, gentle watercolors—he’d sketch this very instant, capturing the Zhou Ziheng before him, burning with passion for the performing arts.
“What are you looking at?” Zhou Ziheng glanced at Xia Xiqing, who had been staring at him, a hint of confusion in his eyes.
Snapping out of his daze, Xia Xiqing raised an eyebrow at him. “Just admiring your good looks, handsome.”
“More like super handsome.” Zhou Ziheng deliberately nudged Xia Xiqing’s toes with his own foot before removing the tissue from his forehead. The makeup artist had left, and the next scene was about to begin.
Xia Xiqing sat up, returning to a similar position to wait for the start, when suddenly Zhou Ziheng’s voice reached him.
“I don’t want you to be that kind of flat.”
His body froze. Xia Xiqing stiffened, able only to stare at Zhou Ziheng’s shadow on the floor.
“I want to see all your emotions—the good, the bad, no matter how complex or sharp. Don’t suppress them. Just let them out.”
The last sentence was deliberately hushed, low enough that only the two of them could hear it.
“Give them to me. I can handle it all.”
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