Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

“What happened, what happened, what happened?!” Wang Shanshan rushed in right after, her voice trembling. She asked three times in a row, and the moment she saw An Jiujing crouched by the toilet vomiting violently, she slapped her hard on the back. “Why are you throwing up? Did you sneak food behind my back?”

That slap almost knocked An Jiujing into the squat toilet. She had to cling to the stall wall with effort as another wave of nausea hit her.

Three meals of witch’s-brew-colored vegetable juice had left her dry heaving until she could only spit out bitter green bile. Wang Shanshan ran out and bought a bottle of room-temperature water to rinse the overpowering taste of celery and carrot from her mouth. Only then could An Jiujing breathe properly again.

The surrounding area was chaotic too. An Jiujing’s barefoot dash had caused quite a stir. A lot of people had gathered around, voices overlapping—some asking if they should call an ambulance, some wondering if it was just nerves. Finally, someone muttered that it looked like she wouldn’t be able to audition after all.

The crowd fell silent for a moment.

Wang Shanshan, still crouched beside An Jiujing, suddenly stood up and raised her voice sharply: “What do you mean? The kid just had something bad for lunch and threw up a bit—how does that mean she can’t audition?”

“She can’t even stand properly,” the person who had spoken shot back, clearly not one to be pushed around. “What kind of mother are you? Shouldn’t you take her to a hospital? Vomiting can be serious.”

Still crouched and panting, An Jiujing closed her eyes. She knew things were about to go south.

Sure enough, Wang Shanshan’s voice rose to a shriek in the next second: “What do you mean, what kind of mother am I?!”

“You’re Number One, aren’t you?!”

“Your daughter’s clearly had work done on her nose, and you’ve got the nerve to criticize my parenting for letting my daughter audition like this?!”

“I’m telling you, even if my daughter doesn’t get the role today, it won’t be your daughter’s turn—”

“Mom.” An Jiujing grabbed Wang Shanshan’s arm. “I’m fine now.”

Even though her vision was still swimming, at least the nausea had passed.

But if Wang Shanshan kept arguing here, she was sure the nausea would come right back.

A staff assistant outside called out, “The judges are still waiting. If you’re okay, please return and continue the audition as soon as possible.”

Wang Shanshan had no time to argue anymore. She tugged on An Jiujing and said in a low voice, “Quick, fix your makeup—your eye makeup’s a mess.”

“There’s no time,” An Jiujing said flatly. She simply washed her face, rinsing away the glitter and loose powder. The oily foundation couldn’t be completely cleaned without remover, but she wiped off as much as she could in the time she had.

“Aiya, you look terrible like this!” Wang Shanshan pulled on her daughter, trying to stop her from going out.

An Jiujing looked calmly at Wang Shanshan and repeated, “No time. It’s too late.”

Perhaps it was her oddly calm tone, or maybe the reddened eyes from vomiting, but Wang Shanshan froze for a moment and loosened her grip.

An Jiujing broke free and followed the assistant—still standing at the door—back into the wooden doors of the theater.

Inside the wooden doors, everything was the same as before. The chaos outside hadn’t disturbed the work inside at all. Her sudden departure had only made the judges and crew blink in brief surprise.

The assistant who had previously accused her of showboating said nothing this time. He glanced at An Jiujing’s face, then subtly took a step to the side, putting more distance between them.

The girl looked completely different now that she’d finished vomiting. Her makeup was half-removed: most of the red lipstick was washed off, with a smudge still on her lips and a streak down her left cheek. Her foundation, now mostly gone, exposed her natural skin tone. Her cheeks were flushed with burst capillaries from the vomiting, and the remains of her smoky eye makeup mixed with the bloodshot rims of her eyes.

It was honestly a bit frightening.

But An Jiujing’s facial features were too striking—this disheveled look was somehow even more captivating than the heavily made-up version from earlier.She stepped onto the stage, bowed once more to the director, screenwriter, and producer, and introduced herself: “Hello teachers, my name is An Jiujing, I’m seventeen years old, from Wangcheng, 172 cm tall, 54 kilograms in weight, currently a third-year student at Wangcheng No.1 High School. At the moment, besides studying, I don’t have time for hobbies or interests. I’m here to audition for the teenage version of the film’s female lead, Lin Luo.”

Her voice was slow and steady, lower-pitched than most kids her age, with a slight hoarseness from vomiting, but her enunciation was very clear.

She didn’t mention running out to throw up, nor did she say any unnecessary words. She completed the detailed self-introduction that Deputy Director Qian had asked for earlier as quickly and concisely as possible.

Director Yang Zhengyi tapped the notebook in his hand with his pen and said to An Jiujing, “Raise your arms and turn around.”

None of them brought up why she had run out earlier to vomit.

This girl surprised them. The photo of her dressed as a college student, her nervous appearance with heavy smoky makeup at her first entrance, and now the numb, half-made-up state she was in—all showed an emotional range that condensed well under the spotlight. She had screen presence.

To find that in a complete amateur was rare.

So, aside from the producer, the director, deputy director, and screenwriter each gave her a few requests and questions—nothing more than asking her to demonstrate posture, camera awareness, and articulation.

They were all seasoned professionals in this field, and their expressions revealed nothing about whether their impressions of An Jiujing were positive or negative. But their instructions were clear and fairly simple. For every command given, An Jiujing responded with exact actions, treating herself like a marionette, performing each motion back and forth, and surprisingly, the nausea in her body started to ease up a bit.

Finally, once the director and screenwriter had asked enough, they all turned to look at the producer Lin Yinyin, who had been sitting with arms folded, watching An Jiujing audition with a smile.

Lin Yinyin had only said one thing since she entered—“Why are they all dressed like this?”—and had remained silent afterward. Though he had a round face and smiling eyes and was much younger than Deputy Director Qian and looked several times more amiable,

An Jiujing inexplicably felt uneasy around him.

Like a creature’s instinctive alertness.

Sure enough, Lin Yinyin looked at An Jiujing for a long moment before finally asking, “Can you sing?”

An Jiujing: “...Not really.”

If she could sing, the school wouldn’t have stuck her with hosting duties during cultural performances. She couldn’t even stay in tune during the national anthem.

Lin Yinyin leaned back in his chair casually. “Then dance or recite a poem. Gotta show some talent, right?”

How to put it...

Just now, the director, deputy director, and screenwriter had all given her requests—introduce yourself, turn around, walk and run to show your physicality, and even asked if she could do backbends or demonstrate flexibility. None of them had been particularly polite or used the word “please.” Deputy Director Qian hadn’t even smiled once.

But at that time, An Jiujing didn’t feel any discomfort.

She was used to doing print modeling. At her level, a print model was essentially just a human hanger to display products. She was quite familiar with this kind of physical showcasing.

It was just work. They were just doing their jobs.

But Lin Yinyin gave her a different feeling. His tone and expression reminded her of the older men back in Wang Shanshan’s hometown—the kind who’d knock on bowls after drinking and order her to “perform something.”

Even though he was dressed in a suit, he gave off the stench of liquor for no reason.

“I really don’t know how,” An Jiujing replied. “But I can solve a trigonometry or solid geometry problem for you instead.”

Everyone froze for a second, then Screenwriter Zhu laughed: “Chairman Lin, give the kid a break. She’s a senior in high school, not even eighteen yet. She already said she doesn’t have time for hobbies.”

The others laughed along, and the atmosphere seemed to ease up quite a bit thanks to that one remark from An Jiujing.

Sure enough, Lin Yinyin didn’t push any further. He chuckled twice and said nothing else.

“Let’s begin,” Director Yang Zhengyi finally moved on. “Which scene are you planning to perform?”

An Jiujing answered, “Scene Two.”Screenwriter Zhu fixed his gaze on An Jiujing for a moment after hearing that and interjected, “I think your current look is more suitable for Scene One.”

The scene where the character rushes in a panic to the police station, claiming she suspects her father committed murder.

Actually, the three girls who auditioned before her had all chosen Scene One. That scene appears more emotionally intense and provides more room to perform.

So when they saw An Jiujing coming up with smeared makeup and barefoot, they also assumed she’d pick Scene One.

Scene Two was a risky choice. Unless an actor had exceptional skill and guts, it was hard to pull off well during an audition.

Screenwriter Zhu vaguely feared the girl might botch Scene Two. She currently liked An Jiujing the most, so she couldn’t help but speak up.

Director Yang Zhengyi glanced at Zhu and made the call: “Then let’s go with Scene Two. Xiao Liu, come play the corpse of Wang Can.”

The assistant who had been calling names at the door responded and came up, giving An Jiujing a surprised look before lying down and closing his eyes.

Of course, he couldn’t match Shi Tuo’s cooperative style or pose exactly the way An Jiujing preferred for a “corpse,” but it didn’t matter—An Jiujing was already intimately familiar with this scene. She quickly untied the messy ponytail she’d ended up with after vomiting and running, and redid it. As her fingers brushed her left ear, she touched the still-sore cartilage piercing she’d gotten just yesterday and lightly pressed her lips together.

She had decided to act according to the character profile she had written herself.

Regardless of success or failure, she was going to play Lin Luo—not the version Wang Shanshan envisioned, but her Lin Luo.

Over the past few weeks, she had occasionally used this character’s soul to escape reality. She had come to understand this murderer, to become familiar with her.

She stood beside Wang Can’s corpse. The surrounding scene was chaotic. Two bodies had just been pulled from the reservoir, placed on stretchers with white cloths covering them.

The recovery site was full of police. She and Wang Can’s parents, as parties involved, remained within the police cordon. The moment the bodies were brought up, Wang Can’s parents collapsed to the ground, unable to stand.

Lin Luo stood still.

She could instantly tell who the two corpses were. The swollen, purple, water-logged hand dangling off one stretcher—twice its normal size—belonged to her only friend, Wang Can.

Lin Luo crouched down.

She didn’t lift the white cloth—just stared at that hand for a long time.

The police thought she was working up the courage. One of them patted her shoulder. Their attention was more focused on comforting the grieving middle-aged parents.

Lin Luo leaned in slightly toward Wang Can’s body, and her nose twitched subtly.

It was the smell of dead fish and shrimp that rose every year when the reservoir gates opened. Only this time, it was more pungent, more rotten.

Lin Luo lowered her head, hiding the slight upturn at the corner of her lips. She finally reached out and lifted a small corner of the white cloth.

Only enough to see a bit of hair and forehead—then she stopped. Her body language suggested she couldn’t bear to look any further out of sorrow, but her face, angled toward the camera, held eyes that were bright—too bright.

She leaned closer, and whispered softly by Wang Can’s ear, with a hint of a smile:

“I… still like you better this way.”

The first word carried a slight rise in pitch, tinged with a stifled laugh, but her tone leveled out by the end.

It was a girl’s murmur, intimate, almost coy.

Like she had just won another round in the arguments they used to constantly have.

“Beautiful!” Deputy Director Qian suddenly blurted out just as An Jiujing straightened up.

She stood center stage, under the spotlight, half her makeup still smeared, her features slightly distorted—yet she looked every bit the cold, indifferent girl who had killed two people at seventeen.