Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The air fell silent for a few seconds.

Chi Tuo’s abrupt movement of sitting up and pulling back was so sudden that he didn’t notice An Jiujiu freeze in response to his action.

He hid in the shadows, concealing his body’s reaction in the darkness.

Inopportunely, his mind flashed to his carefree deskmate, who would decompress by watching adult films and mock Chi Tuo for lacking any urges despite being a teenager.

He did have urges—An Jiujiu’s breath on his ear had him standing at attention instantly.

Chi Tuo raked his hair in embarrassment.

Too flustered, he didn’t notice that An Jiujiu hadn’t spoken for a while either. She wasn’t even looking at him in the dark, just lowering her head and clearing her throat lightly. “Maybe we should just forget it. I really can’t act with you.”

“You can’t act with me, but you can with the director?” Chi Tuo’s tone sounded normal, though his already husky voice was now even lower and rougher.

“Let’s try again,” he said, but instead of lying back on the floor, he grabbed a cushion from the sofa and placed it where he’d been.

“I’ll watch you act from here.” He blew out two candles and sat in the sofa’s corner, a mere shadow in the dark. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

An Jiujiu stared at the cushion.

“Try it,” Chi Tuo urged. “I should’ve practiced with you sooner. Two people are better than one.”

Both their families had been busy lately, leaving no time even for their secret base. With An Jiujiu’s audition approaching, she still seemed far from confident.

“Go through all the approaches you’ve been thinking about. I’ll analyze the character.” Chi Tuo placed another cushion and patted the floor. “Come on.”

In a few words, the awkward, tense atmosphere dissipated. An Jiujiu pursed her lips, gathered herself, and began acting with the cushion.

She’d practiced alone, trying a single line in various tones, shifting emphasis to different words, mimicking psychopaths or killers from TV, and experimenting with gestures—flipping her hair, touching the “corpse’s” lips, whispering in its ear.

At first, she was self-conscious, but Chi Tuo’s quiet presence in the dark, like a shadow, helped her relax. She performed every variation she’d prepared.

“Which one’s better?” An Jiujiu asked after an hour of practicing the same line thirty or forty times with the cushion.

“Which one do you like best?” Chi Tuo countered.

Hugging the cushion on the floor, she thought, then shook her head honestly. “I don’t know.”

Chi Tuo said, “I actually liked your first one best—the one where you whispered in my ear and broke character laughing.”

He brought up the awkward moment in a casual tone.

“It was the most emotionally engaging,” he said.

“How could I laugh at a moment like that…” An Jiujiu trailed off mid-sentence.

Right, *she* wouldn’t laugh in that situation, but Lin Luo might. Why couldn’t Lin Luo laugh then?

“Given that Lin Luo is a lunatic who kills her stepfather and Wang Can, then files a false police report,” Chi Tuo explained, as if solving a math problem, “we can deduce: Lin Luo is a murderer, a calm lunatic, and confident she won’t get caught.”

“How do you deduce the second and third points?” An Jiujiu interrupted. “She might report it because Wang Can’s parents are looking for him, and she’s scared they’ll trace it to her, so she plans everything and goes to the police.”

The audition script was too vague, leaving endless possibilities, which is why she tried every angle.

“You’re overthinking it. During an audition, you usually get one shot, not an hour to try every version and ask the director’s favorite.”

“The script’s vague on purpose. If you don’t focus on one direction, you risk playing two scenes as different people or turning it into a recitation or imitation.”

“We need to imagine the most logical Lin Luo and act based on that.”

An Jiujiu stared at the fluorescent green in the dark, letting out a “Wow.”

How was he so smart?

Chi Tuo, amused by her reaction, snorted.

The magic from the storm, the blackout, the candles, and a can of beer vanished completely with that familiar scoff. He relit the two extinguished candles.

“Let’s assume Lin Luo is a calm lunatic, certain the police won’t find evidence of her crimes.”

Among the script’s countless hypotheticals, this one had the most coherent cause-and-effect.

“At a crowded crime scene, facing her childhood friend’s freshly recovered body, what would she feel?”

An Jiujiu frowned.

This time, she truly immersed herself, not just practicing. She thought: If she were Lin Luo, a killer, as clever as Chi Tuo, certain no one would suspect her, how would she feel seeing Wang Can?

Wang Can was Lin Luo’s childhood friend, inseparable like her and Chi Tuo.

She said to Wang Can, *I still like you like this.*

Like what?

Dead, bloated from water, rotting, or… quiet?

Whatever her reason for killing him, saying that line, she’d feel relieved, even joyful, because he’d finally become what she wanted.

“Outwardly sad, but secretly relieved?” An Jiujiu answered, then frowned. “How do I act that?”

“Remember in eighth grade when we fought over that male singer?” Chi Tuo said. “You insisted on going to his concert. I said he was an unevolved monkey, but you planned to use gift money to buy tickets, so I told your mom.”

Wang Shanshan confiscated An Jiujiu’s allowance. Furious, she ignored him for ten days, packed up his gifts, returned them, and declared they were done.

That fight was intense. Both cried—Chi Tuo hid his tears, rubbing his eyes, stumbling and falling as he walked away crying.

An Jiujiu giggled, then groaned. “Why bring up old grudges now?”

Chi Tuo continued, “I couldn’t resist you, so I used my allowance to buy you those tickets and supported his fan voting for a month.”

She giggled again.

He asked, “Remember what you said after the concert?”

“…How would I remember? You hold grudges too much! That was years ago, and I don’t even like that singer anymore.” An Jiujiu huffed. They’d fought plenty; she couldn’t recall every detail.

Without the fan filter, she realized the singer did resemble a monkey, and spending money on him was a waste…

Not that she’d ever admit it.

“You said, ‘If I’d known then, why bother?’” Chi Tuo recounted fluently, unbothered by her grudge comment.

An Jiujiu: “…”

Her illusion of raindrops glowing on Chi Tuo, like something from a shoujo manga, was just that—an illusion.

“Lin Luo, seeing Wang Can’s body, probably felt the same,” Chi Tuo steered back. “I think she’d think, *If I’d known then, why bother? You’re so nice now, all quiet.*”

“That’s why I liked your first take’s tone.” The restaurant’s red candle was nearly burnt out; he grabbed a new one. “Wang Can was her childhood friend, so the tone should be intimate, like how I talk to you. The script’s sparse, but it emphasizes their bond, which feels important.”

He concluded, “Your diction was clear in every take, and I could see the emotions you aimed for. If you nail Lin Luo’s character, your audition should be fine.”

Clear diction, resembling an adult actress, and expressing the character’s emotions—An Jiujiu had these covered. Chi Tuo added character coherence: Lin Luo’s intimate yet smug “if I’d known” attitude toward Wang Can’s body would stand out.

That was a top student’s analysis.

An Jiujiu: “…”

“Your talent’s wasted on just being a lawyer,” she said. “Chi Tuo, when I make it big, be my agent. Analyze scripts for me every day!”

Chi Tuo: “…”

“I can analyze scripts as a lawyer. It’s not mutually exclusive.”

An Jiujiu hugged the cushion, scooting to the yoga mat, chin on the sofa. “Will you keep helping me with scripts?”

“Scripts this vague are rare. It’s because you’re aNewcomer and the director’s the renowned Yang Zhengyi.”

“My mom asked a makeup artist. They said bigger stars get scripts with at least 30% plot. Would you still help then?”

Chi Tuo didn’t look at her, replying to messages from Wang Shanshan and his mom, Zhang Rou, confirming all was well. “If you need me, of course.”

“What if you become a super busy, big-shot lawyer?”

“I’ll help.”

“Why?”

“Scared you’ll throw a tantrum, and I’ll have to coax you for ages while you smugly say, ‘If I’d known then, why bother?’”

An Jiujiu: “…”

She paused, then asked, “Will we ever drift apart? I’ll be flying around for acting, and you’ll be busy with college and work.”

“And growing up, we might start dating.”

Chi Tuo cut in quickly, “Aren’t you a soloist?”

Her eyes widened. “Soloists date too!”

Chi Tuo: “…”

He went quiet, pulling out his phone and shoving it in her face. “Your mom says she’s taking a cab back to Wangcheng tomorrow morning.”

An Jiujiu sat up, grabbed his phone, and called her mom, reassuring her the rain had lessened, urging her not to rush back and to settle things there first to avoid back-and-forth trips.

Chi Tuo watched her pace, animated and expressive.

Both their families were a mess. As minors, they’d learned to protect themselves and their loved ones, maturing early. As An Jiujiu complained, they’d skipped adolescence.

Troubles sprouted like weeds—parents fighting today, no money tomorrow, relatives sick the next. Both in similar straits, when they were too young to care about gender differences, Wang Shanshan and Zhang Rou took turns leaving their kids with each other. Over time, they became like family, relying on each other.

When Chi Tuo felt low, he sought An Jiujiu.

Griping about troubles, chatting about everything, trading silly jabs—the tough days passed, recharging him for the next round.

But they were growing up.

Things were changing quietly. His grandmother passed, her parents divorced, her current house might be sold, and he still didn’t know where his mom’s medical bills would come from.

Their unchanging life, battered by endless troubles, was riddled with holes, beyond their current ability to fix.

Yet he found peace with An Jiujiu.

She hung up and turned, seeing him stare at her in the candlelight. Staring back, she mouthed, *What?*

He smiled and stood.

“Wash up and sleep,” he said. “I need to check for leaks at home tomorrow morning.”

“It’s still raining,” she said, glancing outside.

“It’ll stop eventually.” He put on his jacket with the crying cat on the back, its green eyes glowing as he entered the room.

Before going in, he poked his head out. “Don’t be scared tonight. I’m here.”

An Jiujiu: “…Oh.”

She smiled as she went to her room, thinking acting was fun, like solving a puzzle. Finding the one true solution brought a sense of clarity.

Far more fun than the tangled mess at home.