Chapter 28: Trial by Fire

Wang Muzhe looked up and stared directly at Su Xuan. “I want to see what kind of actor Shen Chao thinks can act better than me.”

“I want to try a scene with you and see if you really are better than me.”

Su Xuan was momentarily speechless. He didn’t quite understand this competitive desire between Shen Chao and Wang Muzhe, the two top actors of Starlight Entertainment.

But Wang Muzhe suddenly smiled. He extended his hand to Su Xuan very gentlemanly, and said politely, “Junior Brother Su, after seeing you today, I apologize for my earlier bias. You should really play Rouge Young Master better than I did.”

“At least after I finished ‘Nine Streams,’ Director Qian didn’t react at all when he saw me. I didn’t carry the lingering essence of the character.”

Wang Muzhe teased himself. “Now I regret not paying attention to your performance in ‘Jujube Tree’ back then. It must have been quite good too.”

The lingering essence of a role can remain on a person. When someone fully immerses themselves in a role, even when not acting, their movements, actions, expressions, and even some emotional changes will unconsciously imitate the character—colloquially known as not being able to exit the role.

Qian Huai wasn’t that disgusted by gay people, just as he wasn’t disgusted by Wang Muzhe.

But he was disgusted by Su Xuan—this was the residual character essence on Su Xuan. And the actress who had bed scenes with Su Xuan liked the aura he carried; she smiled whenever she saw him.

That was something Wang Muzhe hadn’t achieved back then—bringing to life a Rouge Young Master whom men hate on sight and women like on sight.

But Su Xuan had done it.

Wang Muzhe said with a mix of defeat and sincerity, “Shen Chao really has an eye for talent. I’ll give him this one. I’m looking forward to acting with you. Keep up the good work.”

Su Xuan shook Wang Muzhe’s hand and smiled radiantly with pride: “Shen Chao is definitely better than you.”

Wang Muzhe: “…Are you a fan of Shen Chao?”

Wang Muzhe sat back down, helpless. “You’re impressive too, Su Xuan. But no matter how good you are, you’ve pissed off Director Qian. He has a terrible temper—he’ll replace actors on a whim. You’d better come up with a performance that can convince him. Also, you should understand Director Qian’s works and style. He’s very different from Hua Na, and he has a strong prejudice against you.”

Su Xuan’s head ached when he heard that. “Is the prejudice because I’m gay?”

Wang Muzhe pressed his forehead. “Of course not. If he had a prejudice against gays, he would have replaced me long ago. His prejudice is because you hadn’t even finished another role when you started preparing for his film. That offended him.”

“Qian Huai is a very distinctive director. His films are like his women. Your approach is like…” Wang Muzhe frowned, looking for an appropriate analogy.

Su Xuan interjected: “…Like I touched another woman and tried to get with his woman before breaking up?”

He had spent a full day with Qian Huai, so he had some idea of the director’s style.

Why did everything sound weird when Su Xuan said it?

Before leaving, Wang Muzhe advised: “You’d better thoroughly understand this director.”

Su Xuan stayed up all night watching all of Qian Huai’s works.

Qian Huai was not a very prolific director.

The women under his lens were charming yet resilient—not the clinging, naive type. The men in his films were unlike himself: some were weak, despicable, contemptible, but in the end, they all erupted with force.

Su Xuan began to understand why Qian Huai had shown appreciation for his explosive dramatic scenes—Qian Huai’s dramatic scenes required immense explosive power and tension to support his style. If the final explosion didn’t come through, the whole scene collapsed.

For example, Su Xuan’s character—vile to the core, a complete scoundrel, someone the audience wished dead. Yet after the climactic scene and his death, they would feel a sense of emptiness.

To use Qian Huai’s words, it was like all the viewers were raped to climax by that character.

Su Xuan felt that after finishing this film with Qian Huai, he would be utterly corrupted.

Su Xuan also searched for Qian Huai’s Wikipedia and Weibo.

He discovered something complicated—Qian Huai’s son had come out of the closet.

Qian Huai had posted a photo of himself holding his son who had come out, laughing heartily, with the caption: “Go to f/u/ck the world man.”

His son replied: “But I want the man f/u/ck me.”

Qian Huai replied: “f/u/ck!”

Then another reply: “As you like!”

Su Xuan finally understood how Qian Huai had developed his gaydar—this director was far more open-minded and liberal than he had imagined.

Not the straight male director he had assumed, but quite humane. Su Xuan couldn’t help laughing as he scrolled through.

Qian Huai’s Weibo was full of censored words, with lots of “This post does not comply with Weibo usage regulations, has been blocked” and “I f**k** f**k**”—only those in the know could understand.

And the reason: Qian Huai’s Weibo background was rainbow-colored, and he often reposted content about equal rights. If someone said something like “should be executed,” Qian Huai would repost and comment: “I f**k!! Who are you calling disgusting?!”

Reply to “disgusting”:

Qian Huai: “I’m not gay, but I think if I could f**k you to death, I’d be willing to be gay. Ha, if you’ve got the guts, become gay and f**k me back!”

Su Xuan: Hahahahaha f**k!

Su Xuan stayed up all night watching films. The next day, he felt light-headed and sat quietly behind Qian Huai like a ghost, watching the director shoot. His dark circles were heavy, making him look especially eerie following Qian Huai.

Qian Huai initially intended to ignore Su Xuan like the day before, but Su Xuan’s constant following annoyed him—following him during shooting, during meals, even when he looked at the script.

Finally, Qian Huai couldn’t help holding his trousers and bellowing, “Why are you following me to the bathroom!”

Su Xuan stood straight outside the stall: “I want to act, Director Qian.”

Qian Huai roared, “Act, act, act! Wait for me! After I finish my business, I’ll swat you like a fly!”

Su Xuan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Director Qian.”

Qian Huai came out and grabbed Su Xuan by the scruff, throwing him onto the set. “Same scene as yesterday. If you can’t nail it today, then get the hell out!”

It was still the rape-murder scene.

Er Gou, played by Su Xuan, was a gambling addict. After losing four to five hundred thousand, he was about to have his hand chopped off. In panic, he said he had a very beautiful wife at home to cover the debt.

Everyone in the area knew Er Gou’s wife was beautiful. But when a group of debt collectors went over, they caught Er Gou’s wife cheating. The enraged Er Gou chased the lover away with a knife. The debt collectors, losing interest in the wife, left.

Only Er Gou and his wife remained, facing off. Instead of admitting fault, his wife bitterly insulted Er Gou for not being a real man—couldn’t earn money, couldn’t satisfy her. Driven mad, Er Gou killed his wife and hastily buried the evidence.

The debt collectors demanded money. While settling his assets, Er Gou found many jewels at home, likely left by his wife’s lover.

Overjoyed, he pawned the jewels, only to be caught red-handed by a police officer (played by Wang Muzhe) investigating the theft, leading to a series of events.

Su Xuan performed again. This time, he wasn’t as flustered, but Qian Huai was still unsatisfied. Instead of cursing, he frowned and rubbed his chin. “No good. Still not good.”

“Your facial expressions are barely passable, but your physical acting is lacking. It can’t support a close-up.”

Qian Huai asked intently, “How long has it been since you last shot a film?”

Film and television are different forms of dramatic presentation. Films use many close-ups and extreme close-ups, sometimes spending months on a single shot. Many shots are directly pressed against the actor’s face, demanding higher precision from the actor.

An actor needs not only to shock the audience and immerse them in the scene in a very short time but also to cooperate with various post-production elements and composition effects, repeating the shot multiple times. Although TV dramas sometimes require this, the demands are far lower than film.

But Su Xuan hadn’t made a film in four years.

Su Xuan looked up and replied, “I haven’t made a film in four years.”

Qian Huai crossed his arms and exchanged a glance with him. “Su Xuan, call your agent.”

“What?” Su Xuan was confused.

Qian Huai said, “Call him to take you away. You can’t act. We’re terminating the contract.”

“I don’t know why that damn Hua Na said your dramatic scenes were good. To me, your acting is just a little better than dog shit.” Qian Huai pointed at Su Xuan’s nose. “So now, you get the hell out.”

When Liu Pangpang called, he couldn’t believe it: “He makes you get out after officially announcing your joining?! Can’t he be reasonable?! You’re already being fiercely criticized for overlapping shoots. If it comes out that Qian Huai kicked you out, then you’d have been insulted for nothing!”

Su Xuan lay on the bed. “I know.”

Liu Pangpang cursed angrily: “You know nothing!”

After his rant, he fell silent. Then Liu Pangpang said tiredly, “Su Xuan, these past few days have all been about handling your stuff. Get some rest first… I’ll communicate with the crew. If they fire you, they have to pay liquidated damages… I’ll see if I can salvage something.”

After the call ended, Su Xuan weakly draped his arm over his eyes. He was still in the hotel, not yet ready to leave, but Qian Huai had already banned him from the set.

He closed his eyes.

He had let down many people’s expectations, especially Shen Chao’s.

An actor with a bad reputation who had been kicked out of a crew and was overlapping shoots would be shut out by many high-and-mighty directors.

Su Xuan had been looking forward to acting in a film with Shen Chao. He had even promised to deliver a god-level fight scene. But now Qian Huai had called him dog shit and kicked him out.

Suddenly, he wanted to hear Shen Chao’s voice. Although it sounded cheesy, Su Xuan really missed Shen Chao. He wondered what Shen Chao would do in this situation.

If Shen Chao were standing outside his set, what would he say to him who had been kicked out?

Su Xuan dialed Shen Chao’s number. But as soon as he dialed, he remembered he had been blocked.

—But the call went through.

Shen Chao’s voice sounded: “Su Xuan?”

Hearing that voice, Su Xuan’s throat uncontrollably dried and tightened. His eyes quickly reddened, and his breathing grew labored—the suppressed shame, confusion, disappointment, and self-doubt surged uncontrollably.

He had indeed wasted four years, not striving, achieving nothing, spinning around in low-end crews. The four years considered an actor’s golden learning age slipped away. Now he was 26 and hadn’t acted in his first film, unworthy of high art. Qian Huai’s contempt was not unfounded.

Sometimes Su Xuan despised himself.

Was it because he hadn’t worked hard enough that he had lost the right to compete on the same stage with actors like Shen Chao?

It was too humiliating to be kicked out like that—as if those four pale, slovenly years were slapped across his face, leaving him without strength to retort, only able to kneel dazed, head down, thinking: Can I really not act anymore?

For the first time, Su Xuan felt lost about his own ability.

Shen Chao asked again, “Su Xuan, is there something?”

Su Xuan didn’t know what to say. He held back for a long time, but his voice still came out nasally: “Shen Chao… how’s the weather over there?”

Communication skill: when you don’t know what to talk about, talk about the weather.

Su Xuan thought Shen Chao would think he was crazy and hang up, but Shen Chao only said calmly, “Our rainy season came early. It’s been raining nonstop.”

Su Xuan said, “It’s raining here too.”

Shen Chao said, “I know.”

Then neither of them spoke. Only the sound of rain drizzled between their breaths.

Su Xuan didn’t know why Shen Chao hadn’t hung up, but Shen Chao’s breathing calmed him down.

After a while, Su Xuan finally said, “I got kicked out by Qian Huai. He said I can’t act and told me to get lost.”

Shen Chao said, “That’s normal.”

Su Xuan: “…?!?!?”

Su Xuan sat up abruptly, legs crossed, stunned. “Normal?!”

Shen Chao said, “When I was filming ‘Immediate Gray Hooves,’ he also said I’d be kicked out by Old Liu sooner or later.”

“Wait?!” Su Xuan was shocked. “Wasn’t ‘Immediate Gray Hooves’ Director Liu’s work? What does that have to do with him?”

Shen Chao said, “During filming, our location shoots were close, so he came to watch.”

Su Xuan was speechless. “And then he mocked that you’d be kicked out?”

How mean Director Qian was! Had he always been this mean?

Shen Chao: “He’s a very biased director, needing extreme modes of expression. There are very few actors who suit his taste.”

“I see…” Su Xuan sank into thought. “So explosive power is necessary?”

Shen Chao continued, “Yes, but those who can act in his films are all top-tier actors.”

“I think you can do it.”

Su Xuan was silent for a few minutes. Then he took a deep breath, clenched his fist, and said, “I want to try again.”

He called Liu Pangpang. Despite Liu’s complete confusion, Su Xuan told Liu that he might stay a while longer in the crew that had fired him, then hung up.

Then he gathered himself and read the script again. He tried rehearsing in the room several times but always felt something was off.

Su Xuan straddled a pillow, pretending the actress was under him. With a ferocious face, he choked the pillow and shouted, “Die! You damned woman!”

Still not vicious enough, Su Xuan frowned. He felt like he was in an acting exam, demonstrating advanced objectless performance. But the thing under his hands wasn’t a person, and it never felt right—no murderous intent, none of the hysterical, broken anger and fear, and loss of control that Qian Huai wanted. Qian Huai’s original words were: “You have to really let yourself become a murderer.”

Su Xuan knelt on the bed, thinking, or maybe zoning out. Finally, slowly, slowly, he placed his hand around his own neck.

He swallowed, closed his eyes.

Amen.

At six in the afternoon, on set.

Wang Muzhe followed behind Qian Huai, disapproving: “Director Qian, you shouldn’t have driven Su Xuan away directly. You said you’d give it a try…”

“But you didn’t tell me he’s a kid who hasn’t acted in a film for four years.” Qian Huai took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. “I don’t think someone who hasn’t shot in four years can act in my film.”

Wang Muzhe argued: “But his second performance wasn’t bad.”

Qian Huai sneered coldly: “King Wang, since when are ‘not bad’ performers allowed in my films? I only accept the best.”

Wang Muzhe stared at him firmly: “If you kick Su Xuan out, you’ll have to pay liquidated damages, Director Qian. Our crew doesn’t have extra funds for that.”

Qian Huai couldn’t help but take another anxious drag. Wang Muzhe glanced at his cigarette: “Director Qian, if you have to fire Su Xuan for your own reasons, you’ll have to pay most of the damages. You probably won’t be able to afford such expensive cigarettes soon.”

Qian Huai: “…”

Qian Huai couldn’t help shouting: “You’re so annoying! Call Su Xuan over! I’ll try one last time! If it doesn’t work, he’s out! I’ll quit smoking!”

Su Xuan appeared dazedly behind Qian Huai: “Director Qian, I’m here.”

Qian Huai was startled. He turned and saw Su Xuan looking disoriented, his face flushed like he was drunk, and his neck had some unnatural paleness, like it was covered in concealer.

Qian Huai waved his hand impatiently: “Three strikes—you’re out! Get up!”

Su Xuan walked to the set, looking distracted.

Someone made way for him. Su Xuan couldn’t see who, said thanks, and walked forward. The actress was still sitting on the bed, half-covered, waiting for him.

Su Xuan glanced at her. Then Qian Huai’s voice came from off-set: “Action!”

At that word, Su Xuan’s expression changed abruptly. The corners of his mouth twisted eerily, his fingers spasmed unnaturally. The actress instinctively stepped back half a step.

Qian Huai’s gaze froze.

Su Xuan lunged forward, one foot stomping onto the bedside table, shaking the bed. His eyes bloodshot, he clamped down on the actress’s neck. His lines came out slurred, mixed with saliva flying everywhere. The actress struggled violently, screaming heart-wrenchingly: “Let me go!!!”

Su Xuan pressed her down. The veins in his forearms bulged, his whole body shook with effort, every wrinkle on his face popped, his temples pulsed wildly. His face was even redder than the actress’s, sweat pouring out in waves, nostrils flaring forcefully. His delivery was very soft, almost inaudible, like a mutter to himself. Only a few words emerged from between his teeth: “I’ll kill you!” and “b*tch.”

But the murderous rage was evident in the legs that held her down, the arms that strained, and the thick, throbbing veins on his neck.

Ugly and rampant.

Everyone on set held their breath.

The actress gradually stopped struggling.

Su Xuan released his grip, exhausted. Dazed, with a sick smile, he looked down at the woman on the bed. Then he suddenly raised his hand and slapped her hard, knocking the body over.

He laughed hoarsely: “So you’re cheating again, huh? Cheat! b*tch!” Then he staggered off the bed and collapsed, motionless.

Qian Huai paused for about two minutes. Then he started applauding, his eyes blazing.

“Brilliant!”

Qian Huai took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Su Xuan, you look much more pleasing to me now.”

The actress clutched her neck, climbed off the bed, and said with lingering fear: “I’m much more scared of you now. I really thought I was going to die. I almost called the director. Your acting was too real.”

Su Xuan collapsed backward, breathing heavily, but still smiling, his eyes unfocused: “Really?”

This was the effect he wanted—he was no longer Rouge Young Master.

Wang Muzhe came over and handed a wet tissue to Su Xuan, who was helped by staff to sit on the side. Su Xuan, still out of breath, took it and wiped his face roughly: “Thanks.”

Wang Muzhe said flatly: “That’s not for your face. It’s for your neck.”

Su Xuan’s motion paused. Wang Muzhe handed him another wet tissue: “Wipe it. I can see the marks you made yourself.”

Su Xuan silently took it and wiped. Around his neck was a complete ring of purple bruises, fresh finger marks visible. Su Xuan asked, “Is my concealer not good enough?”

Wang Muzhe shook his head: “No, Qian Huai didn’t notice. I could tell from your state and your lines. Your voice was too hoarse. The effect was great, but it’s not an effect that can be acted.”

Wang Muzhe paused: “Su Xuan, don’t force yourself. This kind of forced experience can produce good results, but you can’t experience it every time. For example, Rouge Young Master’s ‘killing his mother to attain the Dao’ is also a very difficult scene. Are you really going to develop murderous intent toward your own mother just to act?”

Su Xuan didn’t speak. He rested his hands on his knees, looking lost: “…A scene like ‘killing his mother to attain the Dao’… of course that’s impossible.”

Wang Muzhe stared at Su Xuan: “It’s possible. The company I used to work for, UK, they liked to train actors through immersive experiences.”

Su Xuan was horrified: “No way. You mean they make people kill their mothers for a role?”

“Of course not.” Wang Muzhe paused. “You got the causality wrong. It’s not because of acting that they have to kill their mother; it’s because their mother died, so they are cast to play a role where the mother dies. That director deliberately selects actors whose life experiences partly match the character. The results are good, but I really don’t like it.”

Wang Muzhe slowly lowered his gaze to Su Xuan’s neck: “Because that’s not acting; it’s replaying a tragedy on the actor’s own body.”

“Su Xuan, don’t go down that path.”

Liu Pangpang called Su Xuan, completely speechless: “So now they won’t let you leave?”

“Cough, cough.” Su Xuan couldn’t help coughing. His throat was hoarse from choking himself, and he could barely speak aloud. “I just tried the scene again. Maybe I impressed them.”

Liu Pangpang didn’t know what to say and remarked sarcastically, “Qian Huai is like a fickle middle-aged woman. Is he going through menopause?”

Su Xuan thought about his age and temper and agreed: “About that time.”

From behind, Qian Huai roared like a volcano: “Su Xuan, hurry up! We’ll shoot a few more takes while you’re in the zone today!”

Su Xuan responded with an “Okay” and was about to hang up when Liu Pangpang stopped him, incredulous: “Su Xuan, that middle-aged woman Qian Huai actually settled on you?”

Before Su Xuan could reply, Qian Huai was about to explode: “Who are you on the phone with?! Huh?! Are they more important than me?! Get over here!”

Su Xuan replied repeatedly like a pitiful old man caught by his shrewish wife chatting with another woman.

Liu Pangpang’s feelings were complicated: “… Go on, Su Xuan. If you don’t go soon, I think Qian Huai will come and twist your ear…”

…

In the scenic area, night rain continued unabated.

The crew of ‘Nine Streams’ were sheltering under tents. Shen Chao stood alone in the pouring rain. His hair was completely soaked. Water streamed down from the bridge of his nose, across his lips and jaw, finally gathering at the broken sword in his right hand and dripping to the ground.

He turned his wrist, revealing the side inscribed with ‘reeds,’ his eyes cold as stars. “Kill.”

Opposite him, people in black cloaks held chains, forming a circle. They had come to capture Shen Chao, the wanted fugitive.

Hua Na watched the screen intently: “Shen Chao’s condition is getting better and better.”

Song Xiao wrapped a towel around her head, drying her hair. She had also just been caught in the rain. “Yeah. Sometimes I feel a lot of pressure acting with him. But after this scene, our location shooting should be almost done, right?”

She looked worried: “The rainy season came early. It’s been pouring for days. The scenic area staff are urging us to leave, worried about mudslides.”

Hua Na had thought of that too. He nodded. “Let’s speed up. By the way, how’s Su Xuan over there?” He shuddered as if recalling some unpleasant memory: “…Qian Huai is not easy to get along with…”

Song Xiao also shuddered as if remembering something similar: “…Not just hard to get along with…”

Hua Na and Song Xiao exchanged a glance and both smiled wryly. Hua Na spoke first: “You’ve acted in Qian Huai’s scenes before? Not that I know of.”

Song Xiao curled her lip: “I tried out. He didn’t take me. He said even if I pulled strings to get into the crew, he’d kick me out.”

Hua Na said complicatedly: “That sounds like something Qian Huai would do… He has such a sharp tongue. When ‘Nine Streams’ was released, he called my house and cursed my dad for making such a crappy film that messed up the market. My dad was so pissed he almost got into a fistfight with him…”

Hua Na changed his tone and sighed: “Who would have thought someone with such a sharp tongue could create such spiritual characters and shots?”

Song Xiao had a very bad impression of Qian Huai: “But the story is so neurotic—so Qian Huai. I think if you shoot according to his demands, the actors would go crazy. His method really drains the actors.”

She was quite worried about Su Xuan—ever since she learned that Su Xuan had been kicked out and then re-entered the crew, she was even more concerned.

He had caught Qian Huai’s eye, and Song Xiao didn’t think that was a good thing.

The relationship between director and actor is magical. When working with a director like Hua Na, they are on the same side, both serving the audience.

But when working with a director like Qian Huai, the director and actor feel like they are on opposite sides. Qian Huai seems to have a grudge against the actors, constantly tormenting them to achieve his desired artistic effect.

This approach can’t be called good or bad; it’s a personal style. Song Xiao had encountered this style before—with Old Liu.

That is, the director of ‘Immediate Gray Hooves,’ an old director who only made historical TV dramas. The torment he put them through—Song Xiao’s scalp still prickled thinking about it.

If Qian Huai was a hysterical middle-aged shrew, Old Liu was an inscrutable eunuch of the palace. Directing was as terrifying as sticking a needle in your thumb, and he never let go until you achieved the effect. After finishing the show, Song Xiao had lost more than ten pounds. She screamed as she left the set and swore never to act with Aunt Liu (Song Xiao’s nickname for him) again.

Shen Chao had it worse—after finishing, he was completely emaciated.

But there were benefits—’Immediate Gray Hooves’ had many action scenes for a historical drama, mostly on horseback, requiring high professionalism. Aunt Liu hated using stunt doubles. He would rather wear you out than use one. Shen Chao’s current ground fighting skills were all honed by Aunt Liu.

Shen Chao went from a complete novice to being able to sit on a galloping horse and shoot an arrow hitting the bullseye at a distance—no need for post-production editing tricks like cutting from the archer to the arrow hitting the target to create dramatic effect.

It was all trained by Aunt Liu.

But works from directors like that were generally of high quality. Just like Qian Huai and Aunt Liu, ‘Immediate Gray Hooves’ and Qian Huai’s films were all outstanding works.

But this excellence, in Song Xiao’s view, came at the cost of the actors’ professional lifespans to some extent. After shooting ‘Immediate Gray Hooves,’ it took her about half a year to recover before taking new roles. After Shen Chao finished, he was covered in injuries.

So when she heard that Su Xuan was overlapping shoots, especially for a Qian Huai film, Song Xiao instinctively thought… it was a bit overreaching. Quickly switching between commercial dramas and huge, consuming art films—she felt it wasn’t advisable.

But it wasn’t impossible. There was a precedent.

It was Shen Chao.

Song Xiao rested her chin on her hand, lost in thought: “…When do you think Su Xuan will come back?”

“I don’t know,” said Hua Na. “But knowing Qian Huai’s doggy temper, if Su Xuan makes too many mistakes, he’ll probably kick him out. Probably come back soon. We’ll see later.”

“No, he won’t.”

Hua Na and Song Xiao both turned. Shen Chao was wiping the dripping water from his hair with a towel draped over his shoulder. His expression was calm: “Su Xuan won’t be back anytime soon.”

“Qian Huai won’t let him leave.”

Hua Na asked, puzzled: “But isn’t it said that if an actor makes more than three mistakes on a scene, Qian Huai will explode and kick him out? That seems unlikely for Su Xuan.”

Su Xuan made quite a few mistakes on the ‘Nine Streams’ web series. At least a scene with fewer than three takes was rare.

Shen Chao’s eyes dripped water from his lashes: “Why is it unlikely?”

Hua Na said: “If he couldn’t achieve it here, there’s no reason he can do it there… And here it’s TV, over there it’s film…”

“That’s because you didn’t demand it from him,” said Shen Chao.

Hua Na was taken aback.

Shen Chao slowly lifted his eyes, his light-colored pupils shining in the rainy night: “If you demanded it, he could do it.”

“Su Xuan is capable of making films.”

“But you’re not making a film, so you can’t use that to say Su Xuan is incapable.”

After Shen Chao left, Hua Na was still stunned. He looked at Song Xiao, also dazed, and said, “Am I wrong… but did Shen Chao just defend Su Xuan?”

Hua Na was confused: “Shen Chao and Su Xuan seem like an average pair at best. And it’s not like such a simple comment would trigger Shen Chao… That’s more protective than for a wife…”

Song Xiao looked at Hua Na: “Have you ever seen Shen Chao with a wife?”

“Isn’t that you?! In the drama and out, you are!” Hua Na pointed at Song Xiao with both hands, joking. “When I scold you every day, he doesn’t react at all. Sometimes he even nods while watching.”

Song Xiao: “…”

Shen Chao, you’ve lost your good sister forever.

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