“Cut!” Xu Zhen signaled to the assistant director to replay the previous takes. As they reviewed the footage, Xu Zhen’s eyes sparkled when they reached the scenes focusing on Luo Ding’s expressions.
To help the actors fully embody their characters, the script had intentionally left certain details vague. Xu Zhen had discussed this approach with Cao Dingkun in detail. What he wanted to portray was a character who, unlike traditional assassins, had a real depth of personality.
These assassins didn’t fear or regret taking lives because they had never been taught the value of life. Their existence was tragic from the start, and they were often unaware of it. As tools of the state, they believed they were carrying out justice, even as they committed atrocities.
With no moral education, their lives were reduced to following orders and killing. Despite their hardened exteriors, they still retained some of the innocence of youth—a contrast that only emerged when they were alone on their missions.
Cao Dingkun had understood this perfectly, and when he was set to play the lead character, Jia Da, the character’s age was adjusted to be over thirty. But after Cao Dingkun’s death, Xu Zhen’s vision of Jia Da’s character had also been shattered. In his mind, there was no one else in the entertainment industry who could match Cao Dingkun’s understanding of the role.
But on the first day of filming, his preconceived notions were completely overturned.
Luo Ding’s every glance, every movement, and every line delivered breathed life into Jia Da in a way that was both surprising and impressive.
That youthful mischievousness, juxtaposed with his cold efficiency when killing, fit seamlessly together without feeling out of place!
The assistant director, impressed by the takes but unsure how they aligned with Xu Zhen’s original vision, hesitated. Seeing Xu Zhen deep in thought, he felt compelled to speak up in Luo Ding’s defense. “Director Xu, these takes—”
“They’re good,” Xu Zhen cut him off decisively, nodding toward Luo Ding, who was getting his makeup touched up. “Go call him over.”
The assistant director raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised at how easily Xu Zhen had approved the scene. Xu Zhen was infamous for being a tough director to please. He had expected the opening scenes to be difficult, but now they were done?
Luo Ding, with his eyes closed and head tilted back as makeup was applied to his forehead and cheeks, was momentarily surprised when told that Xu Zhen wanted to speak with him. “What does Director Xu want with me?”
The assistant director was respectful toward Luo Ding, knowing his close ties with the production crew. As a director, he didn’t need to go out of his way to please the actors, but the notoriously harsh producer was always soft-spoken when speaking to Luo Ding. The rumors that Luo Ding came from a wealthy background had been circulating in the industry for a while now, and the assistant director wasn’t eager to get involved. If Luo Ding really had financial backing, his influence would undoubtedly extend beyond the entertainment world.
“I think Director Xu is in a pretty good mood, but it’s hard to gauge his emotions these days. You should be careful. I’ll go with you,” the assistant director offered.
Luo Ding didn’t want to have any more dealings with Xu Zhen than necessary. He had already developed a deep understanding of the script in his past life and had no intention of using his knowledge of Xu Zhen’s preferences to gain an advantage.
When Xu Zhen called for him, Luo Ding kept his distance, his expression indifferent. “Director Xu, you wanted to see me?”
Xu Zhen looked up at him, finally realizing that Luo Ding truly didn’t like him. Before, he had assumed Luo Ding was merely being polite and maintaining a professional distance. In truth, Xu Zhen was a bit upset by it, as he actually admired Luo Ding.
Attributing Luo Ding’s dislike to Su Shengbai, Xu Zhen’s dislike for Su deepened. He tried to make himself appear more approachable, beckoning with his right hand. “Don’t be so formal. Come, sit over here.”
Luo Ding’s smile was faint as he complied. The director’s assistant brought him a small stool, and Luo Ding thanked him warmly, surprising the assistant, who had expected him to be more aloof.
The disparity in treatment was impossible to ignore.
Xu Zhen felt a mix of emotions. Luo Ding was keeping his distance, sitting a full meter away from him, but surprisingly, Xu Zhen didn’t feel angry. Instead, he felt a strange sense of helplessness.
Xu Zhen had always appreciated talent, and Luo Ding’s interpretation of the role had raised his opinion of him so much that even this obvious distancing couldn’t diminish his admiration. If the mountain wouldn’t come to him, he would go to the mountain.
“Luo Ding,” Xu Zhen forced a smile onto his face, a smile that felt foreign after so long. “Tell me, what’s your understanding of the character Jia Da?”
Luo Ding looked at him with slight surprise but remained professional. Personal feelings should be kept separate from work, so since Xu Zhen had brought up business, Luo Ding maintained a more serious tone.
He explained his thoughts clearly, keeping the conversation brief. Some of his ideas had emerged from previous discussions with Xu Zhen, while others were new insights he had developed in the past few months.
As Luo Ding spoke, Xu Zhen was increasingly astonished. Luo Ding’s understanding of the character was even more thorough and nuanced than his own. His grasp of the character’s personality, choices, and tragic fate offered a clarity that felt almost like an epiphany.
Xu Zhen’s eyes grew brighter with excitement as he listened, nodding along. At one point, he even tried to move his wheelchair closer, but as soon as Luo Ding noticed, he stood up.
Quickly wrapping up his thoughts, Luo Ding kept his distance. This Xu Zhen felt different from the one he knew, and Luo Ding had no desire to stay longer than necessary. “Director Xu, I need to finish getting my makeup done.”
Xu Zhen seemed to want to say something to stop him but didn’t get the chance before Luo Ding had already turned to leave.
It wasn’t as if he could shout for him to come back. Xu Zhen sighed and reclined in his wheelchair, his thoughts drifting back to his memories of the past.
Before the tragedy, Cao Dingkun had often sat with him, discussing the characters’ psychology. Every film Xu Zhen had directed bore the mark of Cao Dingkun’s insights and contributions. They had often disagreed, sometimes even fighting physically, as Cao Dingkun had a fiery temper. Just like Luo Ding, Cao Dingkun was never one to quietly accept being wronged.
But emotional relationships rarely remained the same forever. While Xu Zhen found intellectual satisfaction in their collaboration, he had, for a time, become infatuated with Su Shengbai’s younger body. If only he had known…
His gaze unconsciously drifted to the young man, who stood with his back to him, chatting with Yuan Bing and the others. Xu Zhen was momentarily dazed before realizing he was thinking of Cao Dingkun again.
It suddenly occurred to him that in certain ways, Luo Ding was quite similar to Cao Dingkun—not in appearance, but in essence. Luo Ding’s talent, his personality, even the way he spoke—it all gave Xu Zhen the illusion that his former lover was still standing before him.
But once someone is gone, they’re gone. No matter how much someone may resemble them, they will never be the same person.
*******
T City wasn’t large, and the film base was close to the city center. Thanks to Triumph’s funding, the production’s living conditions were quite comfortable.
The hotel they were staying at had a restaurant that catered specifically to film crews. The hotel frequently hosted production teams, and as long as they brought their own chefs, the hotel would accommodate them. Triumph had hired two chefs on a temporary but high-paying contract.
The line for food was long, and the kitchen offered a wide variety of dishes. A young actor, eyeing a large plate of spicy chicken in the middle of the serving area, salivated at the sight of the fiery red chilies mixed with the golden chicken. The dish was dotted with peppercorns, and the rich aroma wafting through the air made his mouth water.
But most of the crew weren’t fond of spicy food. The actors, in particular, preferred lighter meals. Despite the dish’s enticing appearance, most refrained from indulging, knowing it could cause breakouts or be too much for their stomachs. As the spicy aroma filled the air, many cast members kept their distance, though a few quietly complained about the excessive oil.
One young actor mumbled, “What’s the point of making such heavy dishes? Who here can eat this? It’ll just make you break out in pimples.”
“Not to mention how oily it is,” another chimed in, though they were clearly tempted by the dish.
“Exactly,” the first actor sighed, glancing longingly at the food. “It’s such a waste. Who’s going to eat it all?”
As soon as the main actors and director appeared, the murmurs quickly died down. Luo Ding, never one to demand special treatment, joined the line with his tray like everyone else. The two chefs Triumph had hired were excellent, and when Luo Ding spotted the spicy chicken, his eyes lit up. He quickly loaded two portions onto his tray, only adding a side of steamed vegetables to balance it out.
Seeing him grab so much spicy chicken, the earlier whispers came to a halt. Luo Ding returned to his seat, and Yuan Bing, noticing the amount of food on his tray, rolled her eyes. “Seriously? That’s so heavy.”
Luo Ding chuckled, mixing the rice with the spicy sauce. Finding such an authentic Sichuan flavor was rare, even when dining out. As the only one at the table who could tolerate the heat, Luo Ding felt a pang of regret that he wouldn’t be able to finish the entire plate.
Seeing him enjoy his meal, Yuan Bing teased, “Your old buddy Duan likes spicy food too. No wonder you two get along so well. You even have the same taste in food. Birds of a feather, huh?”
Luo Ding was long used to these teasing remarks about their close relationship. “You don’t know what you’re missing if you can’t handle spice,” he said, smiling. “You’re missing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures.”
As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the door, where Xu Zhen was being wheeled in, flanked by assistants. Even though his wheelchair was electric, it was difficult to maneuver in a crowded space.
Luo Ding wasn’t surprised to see him. Xu Zhen’s stubborn pride meant he would never allow himself to be fed like an invalid. Despite his growing physical limitations, he insisted on joining the cast for meals in the dining hall.
But Luo Ding’s appetite diminished the moment Xu Zhen entered the room. He quickly finished his meal and set down his chopsticks, waiting for Yuan Bing and Pan Yiming to finish.
Xu Zhen took two bowls of porridge, and his assistant pointed out some lighter dishes that were suitable for him. Glancing at the large plate of spicy chicken, Xu Zhen frowned. “Why is there so much left?”
The assistant leaned in and whispered, “It’s Sichuan food. Most people can’t handle it—they’re afraid of breaking out or feeling too full. It’s always left over.”
“Then why do they make it every day?” Xu Zhen asked.
“It’s for Luo Ding,” the assistant replied softly, looking around before continuing. “At first, they were going to send the Sichuan chef home, but Triumph insisted on keeping him. Apparently, the chef was hired specifically for Luo Ding, and Triumph told us not to make any decisions without consulting them.”
Xu Zhen was stunned for a moment, his gaze scanning the room until he spotted Luo Ding at a distant table, his plate filled with fiery red chicken.
“He eats spicy food?” Xu Zhen muttered, glancing back at the dish. After a pause, he sighed softly, “He eats spicy food too…”
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thank you for the chapter 🤭☺️