Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Director Yang Zhengyi’s audition was said to be closed to the public, but it was still quite a large-scale event. They had rented out a micro-theater in a luxurious cultural plaza in the heart of Baigang City and cleared out the entire floor. More than a dozen security guards stood by the elevator entrance, strictly checking everyone entering and exiting. Only those with a pass were allowed in.

Wang Shanshan was clearly overwhelmed by the setup. As they stepped out of the elevator, she tightly gripped An Jiujing’s hand—her palm was slick with sweat.

“Don’t show any weakness later,” Wang Shanshan whispered. “Just smile when you see the other competitors. Keep your composure.”

An Jiujing stumbled a little as Wang Shanshan tugged her along—her high-heeled sandals twisted under her foot.

“Don’t walk like you’re falling apart!” Wang Shanshan was already on the verge of exploding again.

An Jiujing adjusted her backpack and stood upright.

The stylist Wang Shanshan had hired had very questionable taste. Since the audition was private, Wang Shanshan had vaguely told him her daughter would be playing a background high schooler in the afternoon.

An Jiujing had done extras and modeling before. She had worked with this stylist a few times because he was cheap. He barely asked anything and gave her heavy smoky makeup, a tank top, hot pants, and high heels. An Jiujing couldn’t understand why the stylist thought a high school girl would dress like that—her tank top even had a graphic of a raised middle finger.

But surprisingly, the stylist wasn’t just winging it. He told Wang Shanshan that as an extra, the more eye-catching she was, the more memorable she'd be.

He said this was how delinquent students dressed.

Wang Shanshan figured Lin Luo was a murderer, so she must be a delinquent, and decided the look fit the character.

From the moment they got into the taxi, An Jiujing hadn’t spoken a word, clutching the character backstory she’d written for Lin Luo.

She had talked about Lin Luo with Wang Shanshan before, even acted her out, but Wang Shanshan always focused on things like “that hand gesture is wrong,” “that pose is ugly,” “you should act like so-and-so on TV,” or “why are you, a kid, overthinking all this? Did you watch the actress I told you about who plays the adult Lin Luo? You should copy her, not go inventing your own version.”

So An Jiujing didn’t feel like continuing the conversation anymore.

She knew she loved Wang Shanshan, and Wang Shanshan loved her too. But most of the time, she still felt suffocated—just like right now.

The tight tank top felt like it was strangling her. She couldn’t breathe.

She decided to hold her breath and message Chi Tuo.

Little Goose: 【I think I’m doomed today.】

Chi Tuo: 【Nervous?】

Little Goose: 【No, it’s just… my mom got me a look with a tank top flipping the bird, smoky eye makeup, and high heels—high schooler version.】

Chi Tuo: 【?】

Little Goose: 【Also I counted—there are six girls in the waiting room about my age. Five of them are dressed like delinquent girls just like me.】

Chi Tuo: 【And the sixth?】

Little Goose: 【The sixth is wearing the same thing I am…】

Chi Tuo: 【……】

Chi Tuo: 【Don’t be nervous.】

Chi Tuo: 【Director Yang Zhengyi cares about acting, not flashy stuff like that.】

Little Goose: 【Did you count those words? That whole line was 21 characters.】

Chi Tuo: 【I did count.】Little Goose: 【Pervert.jpg】

Little Goose: 【Goodbye.jpg】

Chi Tuo: 【Really, don’t be nervous. The way you acted before was absolutely fine.】

Fifteen characters. This lunatic.

Chi Tuo: 【It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. I’m here.】

An Jiujing locked her phone and ignored him.

She really had felt like she was doomed just now. All the girls in the waiting room were accompanied by parents, and their outfits were similar to hers—the so-called delinquent girl style Wang Shanshan had described.

Everyone seemed to think that Lin Luo, who killed two people at eighteen, must be a delinquent girl—rebellious, chewing gum, and looking at people with a cocky side-eye.

But that wasn’t the version of Lin Luo in the character profile An Jiujing had written.

She didn’t believe a real delinquent girl could escape unscathed from a double murder case. Lin Luo, in her view, should be far more complex. In fact, she even thought Lin Luo was a bit like Chi Tuo—

Too smart, too socially aware, a calm and composed top student.

But the way Wang Shanshan and the other girls at the audition were dressed made her uneasy. It was like confidently going into an exam after reviewing all the material—only to find out the test was on something completely different.

Maybe she had overthought it.

She looked at Wang Shanshan, who exuded confidence, and at the other girls her age walking into the audition room with heads held high, and she began to feel like Lin Luo was slipping away from her.

So she held her breath and messaged Chi Tuo. And only when he told her that her previous performance was absolutely fine did she finally let that breath out.

But maybe it was the fruit-and-vegetable juice diet since last night—she felt nauseous again.

“Don’t be nervous,” Wang Shanshan said, pulling out a lipstick to touch up An Jiujing’s makeup. Her hands were shaking. She had to apply it four or five times before finally smearing on some color. “Don’t be nervous.”

Not nervous.

That’s what An Jiujing told herself.

But she felt even more like throwing up.

The micro-theater being used for auditions was usually reserved for experimental performances and limited screenings. It wasn’t very big—only about twenty audience seats. Now there were only six or seven people sparsely seated, with three or four cameras set up for recording. Only four seats in the center had name tags and titles placed in front of them.

On the left sat Deputy Director Qian Rencang—white-haired, thick glasses, full lips, very quiet.

On the right was the film’s head screenwriter Zhu Sa, a woman in her forties who had worked on four previous films with Director Yang Zhengyi. She had a round baby face and looked quite friendly.

In the center sat Director Yang Zhengyi himself, a man in his fifties with tanned skin and a baseball cap. His features were stern, and he sat at a slightly tilted angle, giving off an unapproachable vibe.

Next to Yang Zhengyi was Producer Lin Yinyin, the representative from the investors. He was the youngest among the four, and the only one who was smiling throughout.

An Jiujing drew audition number four—not exactly a lucky number. Wang Shanshan didn’t look too pleased when she drew it.

But An Jiujing didn’t care. At this point, she just wanted to get it over with.

Whatever the outcome, she wanted it to come quickly.

Otherwise, either she or Wang Shanshan was bound to go insane.The three girls before her each spent about half an hour inside. Their expressions didn’t change much going in or coming out—blank and dazed.

When An Jiujing's name was called, Wang Shanshan yanked her hard. The look on her face in that moment was so complicated that An Jiujing couldn’t even make sense of it.

She was nearly desperate for her daughter to get the role—because it would make An Jiujing’s acting career much smoother, because it would let her hold her head high again back in her hometown, because it gave her the courage to tear off the shroud of a marriage that she should’ve waited until An Jiujing turned eighteen to dismantle.

Now she had nothing left—only An Jiujing.

At the critical moment, she could only cling tightly to her daughter’s hand, her sharp nails nearly digging into An Jiujing’s palm.

“An Jiujing.” The assistant outside the door called again, “Number four, An Jiujing, are you here?”

“Here!” Wang Shanshan answered hastily, finally letting go of An Jiujing.

“You must succeed,” she said in a low, commanding tone. “An Jiujing, you must succeed.”

An Jiujing didn’t know how to respond to Wang Shanshan’s desperation. She lowered her head and rubbed the spot on her palm where she had been scratched. What she really wanted to say was that she might have eaten something bad—her stomach was churning, her mouth tasted sour, and she felt like throwing up.

But the assistant called again, this time already sounding impatient.

An Jiujing clenched her fingers and forced herself to swallow the rising bile, then followed the assistant into the small theater without looking back.

The thick wooden doors of the micro-theater shut behind her with a heavy thud, sealing off the whispers and tense hopes outside.

She looked at the cameras, their lights already on from the moment she stepped in. Her legs felt weak, and the ill-fitting heels she rarely wore made it hard to even stand upright.

She really was going to throw up.

She thought.

The assistant, apparently annoyed by how slowly she was moving, gave her shoulder a push and urged her quietly, “Go on.”

An Jiujing, already unsteady on her feet, twisted her ankle from the push and wobbled to the side.

An Jiujing: “……”

Oddly enough, the pain from the sprain momentarily stunned her churning stomach. She straightened up and simply kicked off her heels, walking barefoot onto the stage.

As she went up, she even heard the assistant let out a snide snort, deliberately not bothering to hide it: “So desperate to get attention.”

Not desperate enough yet, An Jiujing thought to herself. Just wait—I’ll throw up on stage too. That’ll definitely leave an impression.

The stage was wooden and not very clean—her soles were definitely dirty by now.

She stepped onto the spot marked with an X, bowed toward the four people sitting center in the audience seats, and introduced herself:

“Hello teachers, my name is An Jiujing. I’m seventeen years old, from Wangcheng.”

The four didn’t respond immediately. Producer Lin gave a soft laugh and murmured, “Why are they all dressed like this?”

Screenwriter Zhu followed with, “This one’s a bit different—she took her shoes off.”

All four of them chuckled.

An Jiujing had no idea what they were laughing at, so she just stood there quietly.

The brief distraction from her sprained ankle was over; the nausea was returning full force. She could only keep squeezing her fingers, pressing her tongue down with all her might.

Deputy Director Qian was the first to speak: “You’ve reviewed the audition script we gave you, right?”

An Jiujing nodded, her face pale and bluish.She kept wondering if she could hold it in for half an hour—because the girls before her had each stayed inside for around thirty minutes.

Maybe if she performed well enough, she could wrap it up in twenty.

But she couldn’t even make it five minutes.

What did it mean, the four people below the stage staring at her in complete silence?

Her stomach started to convulse. She was so nauseous she could barely recall what she had planned to do upon entering. She had to go with the simplest, most deeply imprinted thing.

She chose Chi Tuo’s stance.

What kind of posture would a composed top student adopt in this situation? Back straight, arms relaxed at the sides, guarded posture—like a cornered beast ready to defend at any moment.

She had practiced that stance endlessly. It belonged to someone she saw every single day. It was the only thing she could rely on to keep herself steady right now.

She might not even last another minute.

Director Yang Zhengyi leaned over and whispered something to Screenwriter Zhu.

Screenwriter Zhu seemed a little surprised and looked up, studying An Jiujing for a moment.

“You're An Jiujing, right? The one who played the college student in that ‘Travel Through 3,000 Years’ tourism campaign...” Zhu tried to recall the details, “Yellow T-shirt with overalls.”

“Yes.” An Jiujing nodded.

A tidal wave surged up her throat.

“Your whole vibe is completely different now,” Screenwriter Zhu remarked.

It was impossible to tell whether that was good or bad.

“Can you introduce yourself again?” Deputy Director Qian asked. “More detailed this time—we’d like to hear your pronunciation.”

“Okay.” An Jiujing gave a simple reply.

She didn’t know if it was saying that word, or the act of nodding again, but at that moment, she couldn’t hold it anymore. Covering her mouth, barefoot, she turned and bolted out of the micro-theater.

She couldn’t throw up right on the stage.

It was solid wood flooring with lots of gaps—cleaning it would be a nightmare.

Everyone froze in place, including the assistant at the door who’d been absentmindedly playing with their fingers. Their eyes behind thick glasses widened in shock.

An Jiujing couldn’t take her hand off her mouth. She even had to ram the wooden door open with her shoulder.

Thud.

Everyone in the waiting area looked up at once. In that moment, An Jiujing saw Wang Shanshan—her mother, anxiously awaiting outside. The second she saw her daughter barefoot, hand over her mouth, dashing out, she turned to stone.

Ha.

That was the only sound that echoed in An Jiujing’s head as she raced into the bathroom, hand clamped over her mouth.

Ha.