Chapter 371: The Movie King’s Impromptu Performance

That bright red qipao looked somewhat empty on Chen Yi.

In the makeup room, she stared at herself in the mirror, her gaze drifting.

The makeup artist was holding a set of delicate manicure tools, wanting to do something to prettify her rough nails.

“Miss, your hands—”

Chen Yi suddenly pulled her hands back and hid them tightly behind her.

Those hands did not belong to the woman in the mirror wearing the qipao.

“No need.” Her voice was very low.

The makeup artist looked troubled and appealed to Lin Wan for help.

Before Lin Wan could speak, the makeup room door was pushed open.

Jiang Ci walked in.

He waved at the makeup artist, signaling for them to leave first.

After the door closed, Jiang Ci took a crumpled pack of cheap cigarettes from his pocket,

along with a tacky plastic lighter, and tossed them onto the makeup table.

“Prop.” He was succinct.

Chen Yi stared at that pack of cigarettes without moving.

Jiang Ci stood behind her and looked at the two reflected figures side by side in the mirror.

“Stop hiding.” He looked at Chen Yi’s hands concealed behind her,

“The calluses and scars on those hands are Liu Piaopiao’s badges of honor.”

Chen Yi’s body stiffened.

She slowly brought her hands out from behind her and opened them under the harsh light of the makeup table.

The knuckles were thick, the skin darkened from years of wind and sun exposure.

The scene was set up quickly.

Gu Zhiyuan had turned an abandoned workshop into the backstage of a nightclub,

neon tubes flickering with an eerie light.

The plot called for Liu Piaopiao to scold several newly arrived dancers, then meet Chen San who came forward to volunteer.

“First scene, second act! Action!”

Chen Yi leaned against the mottled wall, an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

Several young background actors played the dancers, silent and cowed before her.

“Standing there like a bunch of logs?” Chen Yi spoke, her lines clear, but her aura cold as ice.

She didn’t look like a veteran who had been in the world of vice for years, yet her expression was exceptionally severe.

“Cut!” Gu Zhiyuan’s voice burst from the walkie-talkie, “Chen Yi, I want the scent of everyday life, not murderous intent!”

Chen Yi pressed her lips together and nodded.

“One more take!”

…

“Cut! The emotion is wrong! You’re scolding people, not interrogating criminals!”

…

“Cut! Relax a bit! Your body is too tense!”

Five consecutive no-goods.

Chen Yi’s patience had been worn away; she irritatedly twisted the lighter in her hand,

pressing it again and again with a crisp “click, click.”

She was used to racing the clock when delivering food, one command, one action, pursuing absolute efficiency.

She could not adapt to this performance state that required repeated “refinement.”

Gu Zhiyuan also sensed the problem and was preparing to go on set himself to communicate.

Just then, a figure unexpectedly burst into the frame.

It was Jiang Ci.

He didn’t follow the script’s flow at all,

a flattering smile on his face,

rubbing his hands together as he came up to the fidgety Chen Yi.

“Sis, want to learn acting?”

Chen San, early to enter the stage.

“Guaranteed lessons—if you don’t get famous, it’s free.”

Chen Yi’s acting rhythm was thrown off,

Jiang Ci’s enlarged, cheeky face reflected in her pupils,

and every emotion got stuck in her throat.

Behind the monitor, Gu Zhiyuan’s mouth, about to shout cut, froze,

he stared at the screen, afraid of missing this sudden chemical reaction.

Jiang Ci’s roguish demeanor completely ignited the anger Chen Yi had long suppressed.

Instinctively, she grabbed the cigarette pack by her side and threw it at Jiang Ci’s face.

“Get out! I’m pissed off!”

That line wasn’t in the script at all.

It was Chen Yi’s own words.

Jiang Ci didn’t dodge; he didn’t even blink. He calmly caught the flying cigarette pack.

He held the pack like it was a treasure,

not offended at all, he even pulled out a cigarette, slightly testing, and offered it to Chen Yi’s lips.

Then, flustered, he rummaged in his pocket for the plastic lighter,

brought it up, and with a “click” lit the flame for her.

“Sis, have a smoke to calm down.”

“Getting angry easily makes wrinkles, not pretty.”

The flickering flame lit up Jiang Ci’s face, his expression seriously playful.

Chen Yi watched him.

From initial anger to bewilderment,

when she saw Jiang Ci’s calm eyes, it suddenly all dissipated.

Chen Yi lowered her head, used Jiang Ci’s hand to steady herself, and took a deep drag.

Smoke burst out and curled upward.

The tense, resisting delivery rider Chen Yi vanished.

She became the woman who had rolled in the mud, covered in thorns yet utterly exhausted—Liu Piaopiao.

She came alive.

Gu Zhiyuan behind the monitors trembled with excitement.

“Don’t stop! Keep rolling!”

According to the script, Chen San should have used a clumsy imitation to make Liu Piaopiao laugh.

But Jiang Ci understood that for this Chen Yi, any outward “performance” would be superficial.

What she needed was an emotion she could feel.

So he chose not to dance.

He walked to the corner and leaned against the same mottled wall,

the cigarette he had “won” from Chen Yi between his lips.

He tilted his head to watch the flickering pink neon.

The light illuminated half his face while the other half sank into shadow.

His body was relaxed, but the sense of being abandoned by the world

seeped from every pore.

They have the bustle.

I have nothing.

Chen Yi watched Jiang Ci’s performance, thoughtful.

She imitated his posture, leaning against the opposite wall, trying to mimic the feeling.

But she soon realized Jiang Ci wasn’t acting—he was that person.

She had to break out of imitation.

Just as everyone thought the scene would end quietly, Chen Yi suddenly moved.

She bent down, took off the cheap high heels that had been cutting into her feet, and tossed them aside.

Barefoot, she stepped onto the rough concrete.

The sting under her soles brought back a real sense of being alive.

She didn’t dance those seductive steps.

On that small patch of ground, she staggered and spun.

There was no beauty, only struggle.

Her skirt whipped up, revealing calves that had grown a bit thick from years of delivery work.

Those were not a dancer’s legs, but the legs of a woman who had run for her life to make ends meet.

“Close-up! Get a shot of her feet!” Gu Zhiyuan grabbed the walkie-talkie.

The cinematographer hoisted the camera and rushed forward, the lens fixed on Chen Yi’s feet.

Her toes curled, the soles of her feet raw and reddened from rough ground.

Yet she kept spinning.

The shoot was in full swing; everyone behind the monitors held their breath.

At that moment, car horns blared from outside the set—long, relentless, deliberately antagonistic.

Then came the metallic clang of steel struck by blunt objects, one roar after another.

Seconds later, shouting finally pierced through the iron gate: “Damn it! Who’s blind and blocking the road! Get out here!”

Several set assistants’ faces changed; they hurried out to check.

Behind the monitors, Lin Wan’s brow knotted.

This didn’t sound like fans causing a scene.

It sounded like a group of real… hoodlums.

Trouble sent by Zhang Dezhi?

The noise grew louder, and finally, the already rickety iron gate of the set was kicked open from outside.

A few men with tattooed arms, swinging steel pipes, stumbled in.