`Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Gu Jizhou lived in a cultural village on the outskirts of Tan City. Small Western-style houses with white walls and blue tiles were arranged among camphor trees, with winding bluestone paths between them. Occasionally, young people carrying sketchpads and wearing headphones would brush past. This place was far from the bustling city, rich in artistic atmosphere, a retreat for freelancers.

Wen Jinhe had arranged the visit in advance and brought Shi Yin to call on him.

Shi Yin followed closely behind, her palms sweating lightly from nervousness. She had long heard that this director had a strange temper and was strict on set. Standing outside his door now, her heart raced, unsure if she could make a favorable impression.

Shortly after the doorbell rang, the heavy wooden door creaked open.

Shi Yin froze for a moment—different from what she had expected. Gu Jizhou looked no more than thirty-five or thirty-six, extremely ordinary-looking. Thick black-framed glasses covered nearly half his face. He wore the simplest white cotton T-shirt, exuding a dull aura, more like a programmer buried in code at a big tech company than a brilliant director.

“Hello Director Gu, I am Shi Yin.” As soon as the door opened, Shi Yin lifted a charming smile, her voice sweet as honey.

Gu Jizhou raised his eyelids slightly and nodded coldly, “Come in.”

Shi Yin obediently replied, “Okay,” and her eyes inadvertently glanced over his head—then she stumbled slightly, nearly tripping over the threshold.

Favorability -1.

What the heck? How did it drop by one? She hadn’t even done anything! No, how can someone start with a negative favorability value?!

With a head full of scrambled question marks, Shi Yin followed him inside, her previously prepared enthusiastic and cheerful “e-person” mode completely crashed.

She dared not “show off” anymore. Gu Jizhou gestured for them to sit on the fabric sofa in the living room, and she sat rigidly at the edge, hands neatly folded on her lap.

Wen Jinhe glanced over, puzzled, and lightly pinched Shi Yin’s arm—speak up, isn’t your mouth usually very chatty? Why go mute in front of the director?

Shi Yin frowned, unable to speak her frustration. Losing one favorability point for a single sentence—who could tolerate that? She feared she’d be kicked out after saying fewer than ten sentences!

For this meeting, Shi Yin had styled herself in Chen Xiang’s manner: long straight black hair arranged in an elegant princess hairstyle, light-colored top paired with a plaid school-style skirt, looking fresh as if just stepped out from campus. But with Wen Jinhe’s pinch, she forced herself silent, her expression caught between a smile and a frown, corners of her mouth twitching awkwardly.

Gu Jizhou sat across from them in a rattan chair, scanning Shi Yin from head to toe with an inescapable scrutinizing gaze.

“I’ve read your resume,” his voice deep, giving off subtle pressure. “I have a few questions for you.”

Shi Yin immediately straightened her back, sitting upright like a student awaiting a teacher’s questions.

“Do you think Chen Xiang has an Electra complex?”

Shi Yin almost jumped out of her skin.

He was using professional terminology. She wasn’t sure if this was also part of his test, but as a soon-to-be freshman in the psychology department at Yue University, Shi Yin happened to know about the “Electra complex”—commonly referred to as a daughter’s sexual attachment to her father.

Danger! Danger! A warning blared in Shi Yin’s mind. Director, you can’t mess around—this won’t pass review!

This was clearly not in the script. It was a psychological analysis extended from Chen Xiang’s upbringing, requiring the actor to think and incorporate her own insights. Gu Jizhou’s question was obviously leading. Another more compliant actor might just answer “yes.”

Shi Yin lowered her eyelids, dense lashes casting a faint shadow on her cheeks. She thought carefully for a moment, then cautiously spoke:

“Chen Xiang’s biological father was a gambler who sold her into a casino when she was five. She witnessed his cowardice and unworthiness firsthand, which formed a strong admiration for the strong. Her later reverence and attachment to her adoptive father Chen Shouzhuo stemmed from this. Chen Xiang drove away Chen Shouzhuo’s lovers out of fear of losing this sole ‘strong protection’ she had, not out of sexual attachment to a father figure.”

Shi Yin paused slightly, sneaking a glance at Gu Jizhou’s reaction. His expression remained blank. She forced herself to lay out her point fully:

“In the broad sense, an ‘Electra complex’ is a combination of father attachment and mother resentment. But in Chen Xiang’s life, the mother role is completely absent. She has no one to resent, let alone replace. So I believe…”

Shi Yin took a deep breath and boldly continued: “Chen Xiang’s feelings for Chen Shouzhuo are not a sexualized father complex, but an extreme, pathological possessiveness born of insecurity. Like a child clinging tightly to her only toy, afraid it will be taken away. The motivation behind this behavior has nothing to do with sexual fantasy.”

The living room fell into a brief silence, only the occasional chirp of birds outside. Shi Yin could hear her own heart pounding, unsure if her daring interpretation had just dropped Gu Jizhou’s favorability from -1 to -10.

Gu Jizhou’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the script cover, his eyes behind the glasses deep and unreadable, as if reassessing the girl in front of him.

After a long silence, Gu Jizhou flipped to a page in the script, the paper making a crisp sound.

“Perform this scene.”

He paused, then added carefully, word by word:

“I’ll act opposite you.”

What Gu Jizhou handed over was the scene in which Chen Xiang drives away her adoptive father’s lover and confesses to Chen Shouzhuo.

“Father, I’m sorry. I was wrong.” After reading the content, Shi Yin immediately dropped to her knees with a “thud.”

She knelt so quickly that Gu Jizhou barely reacted. Wen Jinhe, startled, reached out to stop her but, mindful of the situation, quickly lowered her head to check the script, confirming where this sudden kneeling scene had come from.

“Tell me, what do you think you did wrong?” Gu Jizhou sat upright like a statue, his tone flat, reading the lines mechanically.

Shi Yin’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly—fortunately, this all-around director who wrote, directed, and supervised the film had no urge to “act as well.” He truly had zero talent for it!

In the script, “Chen Shouzhuo” was a man with extreme control tendencies; using contemporary terminology, he would qualify as a top-level Dom. He should have worn a crisp black trench coat, with horse boots that stepped silently yet exuded authority; he should have methodically trimmed a cigar, amber whiskey swirling gently in the glass, every elegant, deliberate movement suffused with suffocating pressure.

But Gu Jizhou neither acted nor performed in the slightest, and had the audacity to read lines like a primary school student reciting a textbook.

Shi Yin quickly suppressed all distractions and fully immersed herself in the performance: “I… I shouldn’t have made Aunt Zhao angry, but she’s so annoying, always asking roundabout questions… I don’t like her appearing in the house.”

She crawled forward on her knees two steps, movements slow but resolute, pressing her forehead lightly onto where “Chen Shouzhuo’s” knee would be—though in reality, there was nothing there, just air. Yet she performed with utmost sincerity, her fingers even mimicking the subtle act of gripping the edge of a pant leg, demonstrating complete submission and attachment.

As she slowly lifted her head—tears instantly broke free.

Shi Yin’s crying was multi-layered: first, the tip of her nose turned slightly red, like plum blossoms blooming in the first snow; her eyelashes trembled lightly, like butterfly wings fluttering; once her eye sockets filled with tears, she let each droplet fall precisely, as if aiming to strike the viewer’s heart. Rain-kissed pear blossoms, delicate and moving, yet retaining the stubbornness of a young girl.

Gu Jizhou’s eyes flickered slightly as he observed her performance, letting this silent test continue. Shi Yin thought that her -1 favorability might plummet further. After a long pause, he finally spoke:

“You passed.”

His voice remained cool, but the obvious previous sense of rejection had quietly faded. He pushed up his glasses, his gaze settling on Shi Yin’s face like solid matter: “I don’t like others shoving people into my crew. It’s a matter of principle. I chose you solely because your acting convinced me.”

“Before you, four actors came to audition for this role. Without exception, they all played Chen Xiang as shallow, brainless puppets who only obeyed instructions.”

His gaze sharpened suddenly: “Does a role like that need to be specially preserved? Chen Xiang has a complete personality; her growth and corruption require a clear arc.”

At this point, his tone softened, as if dropping a guard: “Your understanding of Chen Xiang is correct. You can act in this direction.”

Gu Jizhou paused, letting the words sink, then emphasized: “For this reason, every emotional outburst of Chen Xiang needs precise control. My requirements for you will be stricter than for others.”

“I hope you can handle it.”

Shi Yin remained kneeling, looking up at this seemingly ordinary yet quietly commanding director. She suddenly realized that Gu Jizhou might have no acting talent, but his eye for performance was razor-sharp. His strictness at this moment was the highest recognition of her correct understanding of the character.

~

In early September, Shi Yin went to Yue University to report for enrollment.

After completing the registration, she specifically explained her situation to the adviser and requested leave. Yue University had always been liberal. Although the adviser was not a fan of celebrities, he verified Shi Yin’s identity online.

Upon confirming that the freshman before him was indeed an actor, the adviser was quite surprised but readily approved the leave, only reminding her: “Do not fall behind in professional courses; maintain basic attendance.”

The opening ceremony for Reverse Scale was scheduled at the Millennium Zen Temple in Yunxi Town. At dawn, the crew had already assembled, waiting silently in the morning mist. A venerable monk presided over the ritual, and investors, producers, directors, and lead actors went forward in sequence, holding long incense sticks, bowing to the four directions, silently wishing for a smooth shoot.

When the auspicious moment arrived, Gu Jizhou personally removed the red cloth from the camera. Everyone shouted “Good luck with the shoot,” and after the firecrackers, they completed a group photo. The short yet solemn opening ceremony concluded successfully.

This was Shi Yin’s first full day with the crew. She imitated everything everyone did, bowing at exactly the same angles, following instructions perfectly, not daring to overstep.

During a break in the ceremony, Shi Yin saw the two male leads of the drama.

Liu Chuan stood by the incense burner, speaking quietly with the assistant director. He had a long, memorable face; though not traditionally handsome, the depth of experience in his eyes made one overlook the plainness of his features—the charm of a skilled actor, capable of convincing the audience regardless of playing a hero or villain.

Nearby, Liang Yicheng presented a different impression. He wore a well-tailored dark suit, posture erect, exuding the aura of a calculating dual-faced underworld boss, matching his role in the drama. At forty, he had shed youthful naivety, letting the years condense into profound elegance. Whether standing calmly or slightly nodding while conversing, every gesture radiated measured refinement.

Aside from the highly anticipated male leads, the other focus was the starlet Ye Peiqian. This actress, praised by fans as “affable and polite,” looked completely different today—arriving a minute late to the ceremony, her oversized sunglasses covering most of her bare face. She only briefly greeted the director and producer, received three sticks of incense, slightly bowed to the altar, and left immediately, escorted under black umbrellas back to her car.

Shi Yin silently withdrew her gaze, marveling. She recalled a piece of gossip she had picked up two months ago:

[Ye Peiqian Gossip (White) x1]

[The married Ye Peiqian had long lost interest in her official spouse at home, favoring “new grooms” on set, playing a thrill game of “limited-time marriage.” Each new project triggered her automatic three-month marriage mode—from table reads to the final shoot, fully immersed in a temporary on-set marriage. Genuine emotions appeared on camera, while off-camera, it was real, with the final scene marking automatic divorce. Delete the chat, and both went on quietly, leaving no trace.]

Wow! She’s seen the source of the gossip in person! Shi Yin’s eyes lit up, her inner self already setting up a tiny bench, cracking sunflower seeds.

Ye Peiqian had romantic lines with Liu Chuan and Liang Yicheng in the drama, so… who would be this “new groom”?

Shi Yin’s scenes were not scheduled in the early days of shooting, but she stayed on set daily to be ready for any sudden changes. Unexpectedly, just by lingering a few days, she had seen quite a bit of fresh gossip—the sparks between the two male leads were already flying before the cameras rolled.

Liu Chuan played the righteous cop Zhou Mu, while Liang Yicheng played the underworld boss Chen Shouzhuo, natural rivals. Although Liu Chuan carried some fame, discerning eyes saw that Liang Yicheng’s role was more complex and dramatically compelling, a guaranteed fan magnet. While they maintained superficial politeness, whenever they acted opposite each other, their gaze exchanges practically sparked real flames.

The tension between the male leads, combined with Gu Jizhou’s perpetual gloom, cast a low-pressure atmosphere over the entire set. Shi Yin walked cautiously, fearing any misstep might make her cannon fodder.

She couldn’t help recalling the Blockbuster Prophet prediction for Reverse Scale: 78% audience satisfaction, 9.0 baseline popularity, 9.0 directing skill, 9.0 actor lineup—a perfect annual blockbuster setup—yet paired with an 80% chance of a bad ending.

Sure enough, the ratings are solid, but the ending is unreliable—a truly miraculous drama!

In the evening, when reporting to Wen Brocade Lotus about her work, Shi Yin mentioned the subtle atmosphere on set. Wen Brocade Lotus, being quite perceptive, immediately warned her: “Be smart, watch more, listen more, speak less. Don’t get involved in their open or hidden conflicts, or you’ll be used as a pawn.”

Shi Yin nodded vigorously: “Got it, I totally got it!”

“By the way, I’ve arranged an assistant for you,” Wen Brocade Lotus said. “An intern pulled from Star Agency. Free of charge; just make do for now.”

When Shi Yin heard the three words “free of charge,” her eyes curved into crescents: “Great, great!”

At first glance, Shi Yin’s impression of Xiang Tingyan wasn’t bad—freshly graduated girl, fair and pretty, looked neat and capable.

But the next day, reality smacked her in the face. It turned out this girl was only “visibly” capable.

On Xiang Tingyan’s first day on duty, she caused a small but not insignificant problem for Shi Yin. The crew’s designated hotel was near the filming base; except for the director and several leads in suites, everyone else stayed in standard rooms. Shi Yin, who found it convenient, brought only a simple travel bag with toiletries and a change of clothes, planning to rest there during night shoots.

Unexpectedly, Xiang Tingyan dragged three enormous 28-inch suitcases, loaded with bags, across the street. Shi Yin glimpsed this in the hotel lobby, her eye twitching, and almost bolted. But Xiang Tingyan spotted her from across the crowd, waving excitedly and shouting, “Yin Yin! Help me with this! The wheel of this suitcase is stuck!”

Shi Yin felt her vision go black, already imagining the trending hashtags: #ShiYinIsActingHighAndMighty, #LittleActressThrowsTantrum. Curious crew members glanced over. She had no choice but to grit her teeth, tip her hat, and take the suitcase, nearly dragging Xiang Tingyan into the elevator with her.

“What did you bring?” Closing the room door, Shi Yin leaned against her forehead and asked.

Xiang Tingyan sat cross-legged on the bed, excitedly rummaging through her luggage like opening treasure chests: “Everything’s necessary. This suitcase is kitchenware, with a rice cooker and a small steamer! We can steam buns and bread in the morning. This suitcase is snacks, for when you get hungry during shoots…” She suddenly pulled a half-human-high plush bear from the third suitcase, presenting it like a treasure to Shi Yin, “You can hug it at night for a sense of security!”

Shi Yin looked at the luggage, almost filling half the room, speechless: “……”

“You won’t need the cooker; the hotel doesn’t allow cooking, and all the restaurants are nearby,” she tried to keep her tone calm. “I don’t eat chips or instant noodles either…”

Xiang Tingyan blinked confusedly, pulling out a new package: “This flavor is really special. Don’t you want to try?”

“It’s not about taste,” Shi Yin’s heart raced, “I don’t eat any puffed snacks.”

Xiang Tingyan didn’t grasp the problem, pouted, burying half her face in the plush bear: “I went to three supermarkets just to get everything…”

“Yan Jie,” Shi Yin took a deep breath and reasoned with her, “we need to be low-key while working outside. You brought so much luggage; if we’re photographed, people will think I’m a small actress acting high and mighty. It won’t be good for my reputation.”

“But bringing luggage when traveling is normal!” Xiang Tingyan defended herself confidently.

“I’m here to work, not to travel,” Shi Yin reiterated.

“Got it—” Xiang Tingyan dragged her words, then her eyes suddenly lit up. She raised the small steamer: “Let’s steam red bean buns first? I specially brought them from home; they’re really delicious!”

I say east, you say west. I say duck, you say chase the chicken.

Watching her completely out of sync, Shi Yin closed her eyes in despair.

Great, I’ve encountered a “pseudo-adult”!

Author’s note: To sum up the Reverse Scale crew in one sentence: gloomy director, crazy male and female leads, unreliable assistant, shattered little 11.