Chapter 7: The Fourth Day (Part Two)

During the lunch break, Shang Yin held some meetings with the executives in his room. As he stepped out, he vaguely heard Su Shengxin speaking in the next room, and his tone was very peculiar.

“...” Shang Yin quietly approached the door.

At the doorway, he overheard Su Shengxin reciting a long passage that was clearly a classic movie line, in English, and he repeated it several times—Shang Yin counted three repetitions.

Then the room fell silent for a moment before the computer played the original audio of that classic scene, complete with background sounds. The line was played once, then again, and then a third time.

In total, Su Shengxin listened to that passage seven or eight times.

For some reason, Shang Yin remained rooted to the spot.

This was obviously a waste of his precious time as the “President Shang,” yet he couldn’t tear himself away. He wanted to see exactly what Su Shengxin was up to.

After a while, Su Shengxin’s familiar voice sounded again.

It was the same passage.

Shang Yin listened intently.

Blessed with a remarkable memory, he quickly noticed subtle changes in Su Shengxin’s rendition.

For several parts, Su Shengxin carefully studied the original actor’s performance—the subtle emotions of the acclaimed actor, the nuanced details—then recited the lines in front of a mirror, even recording himself, comparing and refining his delivery.

Just as Shang Yin suspected, after about a minute, the exact same tone filled the room again. Clearly, Su Shengxin had recorded his own performance and immediately played it back.

He acted repeatedly, watched repeatedly, and refined repeatedly.

Shang Yin realized this was no mechanical imitation.

For two or three lines, Su Shengxin seemed to think his own interpretation was better, more imaginative, and thus did not change them.

Shang Yin had seen this classic war film years ago and thought that in those few parts, Su Shengxin’s detailed embellishments were indeed richer.

“...” Shang Yin glanced at his watch; he had been standing there for half an hour.

He returned to his room, leaned against the headboard, clasped his fingers, and thought: That guy really loves this.

He had never respected pop idols or celebrities.

Empty shells inside, the whole industry was filled with vanity and restlessness. Maybe they’d think about improving their skills when criticized for poor acting, but in reality, whether they put in effort or time, it was all superficial and obvious.

Su Shengxin was different.

This wasn’t something one could fake; others couldn’t even think of these methods, let alone execute them with such precise mimicry and ultimately surpass the original. It was a habit.

Shang Yin recalled that morning when Su Shengxin said he was actually a disgrace to his parents. Perhaps that was because his parents hoped he would bring classic music to the audience, but his choice was to tell many stories.

...

At the same event center on the afternoon of the fourth day, the next activity was about to begin.

Shang Yin did the math and was surprised that the program had already passed a quarter of its course.

If another segment this long came, it would be over half done.

And if yet another segment this long followed? Then only the final two days would remain.

He had thought it would be unbearable, but now it didn’t seem so.

It was going by quite fast.

The afternoon’s arrangement was special and warm—not the usual “ignition” activity, but an opportunity for couples to open their hearts after they could communicate.

Each couple would enter a private room where the husband and wife could each ask one question—the one thing they most wanted to know the genuine answer to—and the other had to answer. Cameras remained on the whole time, but audio recording was turned off. To protect privacy, the production team even hired professionals for notarization.

Afterward, the couples could choose to reveal their exchanged questions or keep them private.

Shang Yin and Su Shengxin were scheduled as the third pair.

The first pair to exchange questions were an NBA player and an older singer. Twenty minutes later, they emerged; the NBA player smiled slightly, while the older singer looked quite bashful.

The second pair was an internationally renowned director and an award-winning actress. They were straightforward; after coming out, they remained so. The actress carried a qipao gracefully and said, “Old married couple, we couldn’t think of anything to ask!”

They chose public questions. On the screen, the actress pondered a long time before finally asking, “What do you want to be in your next life?”

The director thought for a moment and replied, “Your husband in your next life. Human, animal, or plant, whatever.”

When it was the director’s turn, he asked, “What do you want to be in your next life?”

The actress smiled, “Then, your wife in your next life.”

It was meaningless, but very sweet.

Then it was Su Shengxin and Shang Yin’s turn.

The room was simply but elegantly decorated, quiet and refined. The little cabin nestled in a bamboo grove, its interior fitting the scene. Bamboo weavings hung over the windows; the walls featured shelves of various heights holding numerous bamboo tubes in soothing shades of green. On the door hung a sign that read: “The Pact of Three Lifetimes.”

The two sat face to face, each with a cup of clear tea on the table.

Knowing the audio was off, Su Shengxin smiled and said, “This is a bit awkward. Are we really going to ask questions?”

Shang Yin lifted his eyelids and fixed him with a look before suddenly speaking, “What did you mean by calling yourself a ‘disgrace’ the other day?”

Su Shengxin was momentarily taken aback.

Shang Yin had asked a deeply personal question outright.

But the show’s rules required that questions be answered. After thinking for a moment, Su Shengxin began, “It’s a simple story. My family and parents... Mr. Shang, you should know, you investigated my family before we got married. Both of them have dedicated their lives to promoting our country’s music to the world. I was raised along that path.”

Shang Yin said nothing.

Su Shengxin continued without hesitation, “I was once their pride as a child—participated in many competitions, won some awards. But one day... when I was sixteen, something incredible happened. I was on the street—really on the street—when a company scouted me. They said I could enter showbiz, become a star, make big money, and that I could become famous because of my face. My parents dismissed it, thinking I wasn’t that shallow. They believed I would rise to the top with skill, earning everyone’s respect, just like them. They thought their profession was the best in the world. But—”

He paused, then said, “I contacted the agent myself and agreed to shoot a short drama. The drama was boring and even tacky. My parents thought I just wanted some experience and didn’t stop me. After that drama, I suddenly had fans and praise. Then in my senior year, I wanted to apply to film school.”

Shang Yin’s eyes twitched slightly.

Su Shengxin’s voice was calm: “The family, of course, exploded. I was stubborn, or you could say foolish and headstrong, determined to go my own way, drifting further from the original path, with no chance of success. My parents were very disappointed. They thought I was lost in vanity. They’re old-fashioned and conservative, considering actors as mere ‘performers,’ not respectable. They occasionally watched TV but found it utterly dull. And the more famous I got, the angrier they became. As I said, they’re old-fashioned, believing we so-called stars make kids abandon their duties, wasting their time chasing celebrities, not studying. We are a social toxin, a hazard to the country.”

“Besides, they occasionally see news about the entertainment world—who cheated, who slept with fans, who gambled, who used drugs—and think the industry is chaotic, low-class, not a place for decent people.”

Shang Yin looked at him calmly and suddenly said, “Because you never liked sitting quietly playing the guqin, never really did. That’s just your nature. You prefer more comprehensive forms, more direct impact, and complex stories. You want to live a thousand lives in one.”

“...” Su Shengxin looked up.

He didn’t think his earlier words implied that. In fact, he only stated objective facts—his parents’ views and ideas—without mentioning himself at all.

And they’d only spent a few days together.

The recording was off, yet Shang Yin continued, “I heard you’re an immersive type, fully entering every role. Many people, even directors, think this is harmful to the actor. But I think for someone like you, it might not be so bad. You enjoy it.”

“...” For the first time in days, Su Shengxin looked at Shang Yin seriously.

Shang Yin’s expression remained unchanged.

He was very perceptive, especially after observing Su Shengxin closely these past few days.

“Do what you love,” Shang Yin said, pouring Su Shengxin another cup of tea and handing it over. “Better than forcing yourself through life. Acting has age limits; once past, it’s over. You were only sixteen when you contacted that agent without hesitation. That was decisive.”

For the first time, Su Shengxin received affirmation for that rebellious act and said, “...Thank you.”

“No problem,” Shang Yin replied, looking at him. “If you hadn’t entered this industry, I wouldn’t have met such a good spouse.”

“...” Su Shengxin looked up again, their eyes meeting.

A breeze blew outside, carrying the scent of bamboo inside. Su Shengxin’s hair swayed slightly in the wind. Shang Yin suddenly smiled; Su Shengxin smiled back. After the smile, they both sensed the subtle intimacy and quickly lowered their gazes.

It was Su Shengxin’s turn to ask.

The two were always at odds, and Su Shengxin wanted to ask something very private. But he didn’t really know Shang Yin well. After fiddling with his tea stalk for a few seconds, he finally looked up and asked, “Mr. Shang, where exactly is the tattoo you said is in a ‘hidden place, impossible for the production to see’? What does it look like?”

He wondered: Could it be...?

Shang Yin looked at him with a half-smile and answered plainly, “Lower abdomen. Groin.”

He wasn’t worried about being overheard. His team wouldn’t dare spy.

“...” Su Shengxin asked, “What’s the tattoo?”

Shang Yin kept the half-smile: “A chain. A metal chain. I got it in middle school, around eighth grade.”

“A metal chain?” Su Shengxin didn’t understand. “What does it mean???”

“Nothing much,” Shang Yin said. “At that time, I just started to understand things. My desires were intense and frequent—much stronger than others, several times a day. I was young but realized this wasn’t right. I was practically a primal beast and wanted to restrain myself, so I got this tattoo on my lower abdomen. Given my outward condition then, if I didn’t find a way, I’d have caused trouble later.”