Chapter 406: With Just One Line — “Stretched Too Thin” — He Dominated the Entire Scene!
The atmosphere suddenly turned heavy.
It wasn’t just the audition room within the play,
The entire abandoned theater film set outside the play was also plunged into a deep silence.
Everyone’s gaze uncontrollably converged on that one spot.
The split seam of Chen San’s suit, the dazzling red inside, and those four golden, glittering characters: “Great Luck and Great Profit.”
“Pfft…”
The actor playing the assistant director couldn’t hold back, the water he’d just sipped nearly spraying out.
On the monitor screen.
Jiang Ci froze for roughly half a second.
His face flushed crimson, reddening to a deep purple.
But he didn’t straighten up to cover his rear, nor did he frantically try to pull up his pants.
He still maintained that forward-leaning posture,
Only, his right hand, with extreme naturalness and smoothness, grabbed the back hem of that tattered shirt and gave it a sharp tug downwards.
The shirt was too short to cover everything.
Jiang Ci then naturally placed his left hand behind his back,
His two hands overlapping, just managing to block that glaring flash of red.
Then, he slowly straightened his back.
The flush of embarrassment from the blood rushing to his face hadn’t faded, but he forced out a smile.
A sheepish, awkward smile.
“Teachers, pardon my… appearance.”
Jiang Ci’s fingers clenched tightly on the shirt hem.
“This is what you’d call… ‘pulling at the lapels to cover the elbows’.”
He pointed at his own backside, then at his elbow,
His tone carrying a heartbreaking kind of frankness:
“No other way. It’s my zodiac year, just trying for a bit of luck.”
“These red underpants were also a bargain find, ten yuan for three pairs from a street stall. The quality’s a bit lacking, but… the meaning is good.”
In front of the monitor, Lin Wan’s breath hitched.
Incredible.
The idiom “pulling at the lapels to cover the elbows” was being interpreted by him in a way that bordered on performance art.
The “interviewers” were stunned.
The surrounding background actors who had been covering their mouths and snickering also froze their smiles on their faces.
Right at that moment.
“Tap, tap, tap.”
The sound of high heels rang out.
The curtain at the side door was pushed aside, and Song Mei walked out.
She was wearing that signature beige trench coat,
Her face somewhat pale, clearly having just argued with someone.
She looked at Jiang Ci standing in the center of the room, hands covering his rear, her gaze indescribably complex.
“Sister Juan…”
Lu Ming, the “traffic idol” who had been silent the whole time, suddenly spoke up.
He pinched his nose, taking a half-step back with a look of utter disdain.
“What’s there to see with this clown? Just have security throw him out already, don’t dirty this place.”
Lu Ming’s eyes were contemptuous. “That move just now was practically visual pollution.”
“This is the actor with ‘life experience’ you talked about? Looks more like ‘mental issues’ to me.”
These lines were utterly punchable.
They perfectly brought to life the arrogance of a resource-backed star.
Chen Yi stood behind Jiang Ci, her fists clenched, glaring at Lu Ming,
If looks could kill, Lu Ming would have been shredded into a QR code.
Song Mei ignored Lu Ming.
She walked straight up to Jiang Ci.
Her gaze fell on his hands, still tightly gripping the shirt hem.
“Chen San.”
Song Mei’s voice was cold.
“I ask you, what were you thinking the moment your pants split?”
Jiang Ci was taken aback.
He answered instinctively, “Thinking… thinking ‘don’t let everyone see the red underpants, it’s too embarrassing.’”
“And?”
“And…” Jiang Ci licked his dry, cracked lips, his eyes darting away, “These pants cost fifty yuan, I can still sew them up and wear them.”
“Ha!” Lu Ming let out an exaggerated laugh.
Song Mei turned her head, those eyes that had seen countless storms piercing Lu Ming’s face.
“Shut up.”
Two words, unleashing her full aura.
Lu Ming shivered in fright.
Song Mei turned back, staring at Jiang Ci.
“You said earlier you could act out the smile after life smacks you upside the head?”
She took a step back, crossed her arms, and lifted her chin slightly.
“Act.”
“Right here, right now.”
“If you can’t act it well, forget security, I’ll personally kick you out myself.”
No script, no prompts.
This was the real final exam.
The set was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Gu Zhiyuan’s palms were sweaty, his eyes fixed on the monitor screen.
Jiang Ci closed his eyes.
Two seconds.
He was summoning muscle memory.
He immersed himself in the terror Chen San felt that day in the small theater when the tungsten bulb above his head came crashing down.
He recalled the humiliation Chen San felt when Producer Zhang stripped off his suit.
He recalled the shame he felt the moment his pants split just now, that feeling of being stripped naked and stared at by the whole world.
Suddenly.
Jiang Ci’s body swayed.
He stumbled forward, his knees buckling, nearly falling to the ground.
He didn’t bother with the still-splitting pants seam.
His first reaction was to hunch his arms, protecting something against his chest.
That space was empty.
He hunched his back, breathing heavily, violently.
Then.
He lifted his head.
Towards the invisible “abuser” in the void, which was towards Gu Zhiyuan behind the camera.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Once, twice.
His eyes rapidly filled with tears.
On the verge of falling.
Jiang Ci suddenly took a sharp, forceful sniff, making a “hiss” sound.
Those tears were forcibly held back by him.
Swirling in his eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall.
Finally.
That smile took shape.
Uglier than crying.
But he said with a smile:
“It’s… it’s fine.”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Really not hurt.”
“Your… your hand must be hurting, right?”
These lines slammed into everyone’s chest.
The mockery on Lu Ming’s face completely froze, turning into shock and fear.
He couldn’t comprehend this kind of performance.
In his world, pain meant screaming, meant exaggerated facial contortions.
He had never seen this kind of performance where pain was chewed up, swallowed down, and then the actor had to turn around and appease the abuser.
Chen Yi had long covered her mouth, tears silently flooding her face.
She knew Jiang Ci was acting as Chen San.
But she also knew this was Jiang Ci himself.
Song Mei stood there.
She looked at the man before her, smiling with an ingratiating expression that shattered hearts.
That familiar aura of being “one of the same kind” washed over her.
“Good…”
Song Mei let out a long, slow breath, her voice hoarse.
She strode forward.
She was no longer the lofty, famous director, but merely a senior who cherished talent like her own life.
She reached out her hand.
In front of everyone, in front of the dumbstruck Lu Ming.
She helped Jiang Ci adjust that dirty, tattered shirt with its misshapen collar.
“Still that same stubborn, pig-headed Chen San.”
Song Mei said softly.
Then, she turned around, pulled out a document from that expensive briefcase.
A proper, formal actor employment contract.
On the cover of the contract were printed several large characters – “The Unknown” Male Lead.
“I’ve been carrying this contract in my bag for half a month.”
Song Mei slapped the contract into Jiang Ci’s arms, right over the empty space he was protecting.
“That Producer Zhang wanted to replace you. I slapped my resignation letter on his desk.”
Song Mei gave a cold laugh, her gaze sweeping over the pale-faced Lu Ming beside them:
“I told the capital, if anyone but you acts in this film, they’ll ruin it.”
“Anyone who dares touch my male lead, I’ll let this film rot in storage!”
The script’s Sister Juan had finally preserved the original scene of “The Unknown”.
The entire venue erupted in an uproar.
Lu Ming stared in disbelief:
“Si… Sister Juan? For this beggar… for these red underpants, you’d offend the capital?”
“Beggar?”
Song Mei turned her head, looking at Lu Ming, her eyes filled with pity.
“Lu Ming, do you know where you fall short compared to him?”
Song Mei pointed at Jiang Ci’s split pants, at the sweat still not dry on his face:
“This thing called acting skill, he’s rolled in the mud his whole life, practiced his whole life.”
“And you, you’ve been acting in a greenhouse your whole life.”
“What do you have to compare with him? That face of yours?”
Lu Ming opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t utter a single word.
In the face of that absolute, overwhelming skill, any defense seemed pale and powerless.
So-called traffic, capital.
In front of this madman who could even turn a split crotch into art, shattered into nothing but dust.
In the center, Jiang Ci, portraying Chen San, held that contract.
His hands were trembling violently.
He looked down at the words on the contract, his vision blurring.
He wanted to laugh, wanted to use Chen San’s usual cheeky grin to cover it up.
But the moment the corner of his mouth twitched upward, a tear “plopped” down onto the contract cover.
“Sign it.”
Song Mei handed him a pen.
“Sign it, then go buy a new pair of pants.”
“As for these red underpants…” Song Mei paused, “They really are quite lucky.”
Jiang Ci took the pen.
He roughly wiped his face, suppressing that urge to cry.
He turned to look at Chen Yi.
Chen Yi had long cried herself into a mess, but she still gave him a fierce nod, mouthing the words: Sign it! You idiot!
Jiang Ci uncapped the pen.
In the signature box, he heavily wrote two characters.
Chen San.
As the final stroke landed.
Gu Zhiyuan leaped up from behind the monitor,
His bearded face filled with fervor.
“Cut—!!!”
“Perfect!!”
With that call of “Cut.”
The pen in Jiang Ci’s hand slipped, sliding down the wall.
But he was still smiling.
Smiling while still tugging at the hem of that tattered shirt, trying to cover that breezy backside.
The surrounding staff members swarmed forward.
Someone offered water, someone handed a towel, someone brought a coat to cover his shame.
Jiang Ci leaned against the wall, looking up at the ceiling.
He grinned.
He touched the red underpants on his rear that had performed a great service.
He silently thought to himself:
“Great Luck and Great Profit, tonight… we eat meat.”