Chapter 36#

The Performance

All the props and set pieces were in place, the lights and cameras were ready, and with the executive director’s shout of “Action,” the camera began to slowly pan.

The first thing to enter the frame was a lamp, casting a warm yellow glow in the room that had been darkened by heavy curtains, creating a sense of relaxation and security.

The camera slowly pulled back. The small room contained only a desk and a reclining chair. A young man lay on the recliner, wearing a plaid shirt with his hair dyed a flashy color. His hands were folded over his chest, his eyes closed, and his pupils moved restlessly beneath his eyelids.

A doctor in a white coat stood beside him, bending slightly and using a magnetic voice to soothe him softly. Soon, the young man relaxed, still keeping his eyes closed, and began a slow narration.

The camera pulled back again, then slowly zoomed in, this time focusing directly on the doctor’s face. Beneath the white coat, he wore a formal shirt and dress pants, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses framed his handsome face. As the young man spoke, the doctor’s expression gradually shifted—anger, sorrow, hatred, ferocity… eventually settling into a calm stillness.

The young man’s voice stopped. The doctor leaned in again and whispered near his ear, “I’ll count to three. When you hear a click, you can wake up.”

Sure enough, after a snap of the fingers, the young man opened his eyes. The doctor’s expression had already returned to a gentle calm, as if all the emotions he had shown moments ago were a mere illusion.

The doctor asked gently, “How are you feeling now?”

“Much better,” said the young man. “Thank you, doctor.”

“It seems this treatment is quite effective,” the doctor said with an even warmer smile. He flipped through the notebook beside him and then added, “Then come back for a follow-up in three days.”

“Okay.” The young man thanked him and walked out.

Once the door closed, the doctor’s smile immediately turned cold. He stared at the closed door for a long moment, then slowly lowered his head and opened a drawer. Inside was a turned-over photo frame. The doctor gently stroked the frame, as if recalling something through it, his face softening with tenderness and nostalgia. Gradually, that expression froze, eventually transforming into a sharp, cold edge at the corner of his tightly pressed lips.

A “cut” rang out, and the scene was finished—once again smoothly completed in one take.

Lu Yan relaxed, shedding his intense demeanor. He straightened his white coat and walked out of the three-walled set room.

Gao Xizhe gave him a thumbs up and laughed loudly. “Lu Yan, brilliant! That last bit of improvisation was amazing.”

Lu Yan smiled and said wittily, “Just had a sudden idea. Hope it didn’t waste too much of your film, Director Gao.”

“Ha ha,” Gao Xizhe laughed even louder. “More sudden ideas like that are welcome. I can afford to waste that much film. But you, kid, didn’t give me any warning with that ad-lib. Weren’t you afraid I’d cut it without noticing and waste the whole thing?”

Lu Yan replied with a smile, “Just got carried away by inspiration. Luckily, Director Gao didn’t actually cut it.”

“Alright, alright,” Gao Xizhe waved his hand. “Let’s stop flattering each other. Come, come, let’s take a look at the next scene we’re about to shoot. Do you have any thoughts?”

Lu Yan pursed his lips slightly. “I actually do have some ideas about this part.”

Then the two of them started discussing it together.

After formally working with Lu Yan, Gao Xizhe discovered that Lu Yan was also a mystery enthusiast and had unique insights into suspense dramas. He even pointed out some flaws and hard-to-find foreshadowing and highlights in Gao’s previous works, showing that he had put serious effort into studying them. It was almost a meeting of kindred spirits.

This time, working together, Gao Xizhe pulled Lu Yan aside on the very first night to re-discuss the script, making better adjustments to some of the details. Throughout the filming, Lu Yan kept surprising him. As Li Ran had said, Lu Yan had a great sense for acting and could get into character quickly—that alone was impressive. But even more remarkable was that every actor who shared a scene with Lu Yan unconsciously performed better than usual. The most direct result was that scenes with Lu Yan had far fewer NGs and achieved a more perfect effect. As for sudden improvisations like the one just now, they weren’t the first, and each burst of inspiration better expressed what Gao Xizhe wanted to convey.

Gao Xizhe knew this wasn’t accidental. He realized that Lu Yan’s familiarity with and understanding of the script were no less than his own as the original creator. It was easy to imagine just how much time and effort Lu Yan had spent behind the scenes to study and master it. In Gao Xizhe’s memory, only the older generation of artists, whom one could call true artists, were so meticulous. Back then, a TV series or a film would take years to produce, unlike today’s fast-food era where a movie or show could be churned out in a few months. So now, young actors like Lu Yan, who were willing to put in such hard work, were far too rare. Without genuine passion, it would be hard to make such a sacrifice.

Gao Xizhe himself was extremely passionate about film, so he held Lu Yan in even higher regard and approval.

Soon, the next scene was ready to shoot.

When facing the actor for this scene, Lu Yan felt a bit conflicted. The first time he saw the other person on set, he was taken aback—what a coincidence to run into him on this particular project.

The actor who made Lu Yan feel a bit complicated was Song Lian.

At this time, Song Lian was still a second- or third-tier actor. Landing the role of the male lead’s friend (second male lead) in Gao Xizhe’s film was already a considerable achievement.

But Lu Yan knew very well that if it weren’t for his own involvement, the male lead of Sniper would have been Song Lian, and he would have won the Best Actor award at next year’s Cannes Film Festival, opening a new chapter in his acting career. However, all that had changed because of Lu Yan’s presence.

Lu Yan didn’t think what he had done was wrong. He wasn’t a saint—there was no reason to give up an opportunity when he knew it was one, especially when the opportunity had come to him on its own. As the saying goes, “Heaven-sent gains, if not taken, bring misfortune.”

Yet all this logic couldn’t stop Lu Yan from feeling a vague, indescribable sense of apology when facing this man.

That’s why Lu Yan couldn’t help but pay a little more attention to him.

Song Lian’s acting skills were decent; otherwise, even with Sniper being the Best Picture, he might not have won the Best Actor title. His appearance was sunny and robust, fitting the role of a hot-blooded detective in this film.

Song Lian had debuted a few years before Lu Yan, but in the entertainment industry, both seniority and fame mattered. At this point, Lu Yan was more famous than Song Lian, and he was the lead actor of this film, so when they met, Song Lian always respectfully addressed him as “Brother Lu.”

Today’s scene was their first face-to-face acting together.

Another “Action” was called, and the cameras were in position.

The doctor, wearing a white coat and a professional smile, sat on the sofa in the meeting room. “Officer, your sudden visit—how can I help you?”

The plainclothes detective sat across from him and got straight to the point: “Do you know a man named Xu Yuan?”

“That name sounds familiar. Let me think,” the doctor said with a thoughtful expression. “If I remember correctly, I have a patient by that name. But he hasn’t come for a follow-up in three months. Has something happened to him?”

“He’s dead,” the detective said bluntly, keeping a close eye on the doctor’s expression.

“Dead?!” The doctor looked shocked, frowning. “How did he die?”

The detective was disappointed to find nothing beyond surprise on the doctor’s face. If this was acting, the doctor’s performance could win a Best Actor award. “Along with him, five other young people died. The way they died… is a bit strange.”

The doctor’s frown did not relax. “I’m sorry to hear that. So, why are you here to see me, Officer?”

The detective said, “I’d like to see Xu Yuan’s treatment records.”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor refused. “Protecting patient privacy is a basic professional ethic. Of course, if you have a search warrant, Officer, that’s a different matter.”

“Fine, I’ll apply for a warrant.” The detective stood up and extended his hand to the doctor. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The doctor shook his hand with a smile. “It’s my duty.”

At the door, the detective suddenly turned back and asked, “Do you still remember Fang Yuchen?”

“Who?” The doctor showed an appropriate expression of surprise and doubt. “Who is Fang Yuchen?”

The detective said, disappointed, “Nothing. Just asking.”

The door opened and closed. The doctor’s expression again fell into stillness, but his eyes held a particularly intriguing look.

“Cut.” Gao Xizhe raised his hand, and the camera stopped.

The two walked over. Gao Xizhe said happily, “Not bad, Song Lian. Very steady performance today.”

Song Lian showed a shyness that didn’t match his appearance. “I felt like I was in great shape today. Maybe it’s because I was acting opposite Brother Lu—I felt totally drawn into it.”

“Don’t say that,” Lu Yan laughed. “Your acting itself is excellent.”

“Alright, both of you,” Gao Xizhe said generously, giving each of them a pat on the shoulder. “Stop flattering each other. Everyone’s in good shape today. We’ve finished our tasks—no extra scenes. We’re wrapping up early. I’ll treat you to drinks tonight.”

“We still have to shoot tomorrow,” Lu Yan said with a smile. “Are you sure it’s okay to drink too much?”

“I’m the director. If I say it’s fine, it’s fine. Let’s go—no going home sober tonight.” Gao Xizhe waved his hand, particularly bold.

In the days that followed, Lu Yan felt completely in his element. Acting was what he loved, and being able to incorporate his own insights and make his ideas part of the film felt incredible. Especially with a suspense film—every scene, every prop, even every line and every look, could be a planted clue, a question, a puzzle awaiting the audience to discover and solve.

Besides acting, Lu Yan spent most of his time studying the script with Gao Xizhe, figuring out how to make the plot more logical, the puzzles harder to crack, and how the death traps could be more captivating while maintaining some plausibility.

Time quickly arrived at October. Filming was entering its final stretch. During this period, apart from necessary, unavoidable public appearances, Lu Yan stayed in the crew. Lu Yan himself was more than happy to endure the tough life on set, though it was tough on Song Hui, who had to run back and forth arranging Lu Yan’s daily needs.

October also brought a major event that Lu Yan couldn’t miss: the Golden Bull and Hundred Herbs Film Festival’s award ceremony.