Chapter 58

Chapter 58

The scene filmed on New Year’s Eve night in City of the Sun was a major one—completely devoid of any festive New Year’s atmosphere, but grand in scale.

There were a lot of people involved—almost the entire crews of Team A and Team B were present.

The setting was Alin’s hometown, Xiangyang Village. The scene depicted the death of Alin’s last living relative, her great-great-grandmother. This woman had lived past a hundred and was a centenarian who once made the news. With her passing, the village chief arranged a funeral of the highest standard and contacted Alin, the old woman’s only surviving relative.

Alin, whose father was unknown and whose mother had died early, had not returned to Xiangyang Village since the age of eight. She had no memory of this great-great-grandmother. But when the village chief, after much effort, managed to reach her by phone hundreds of kilometers away, Alin still went to Xiangyang Village.

She couldn’t explain why.

Maybe it was simply because this was the only phone call she’d received in years that wasn’t an advertisement or harassment—it was a call for Alin herself.

So Alin went. In front of many people, she knelt at an ancestral grave she didn’t even know, and per the village chief’s request, kowtowed and informed the ancestors that her great-great-grandmother had passed away.

Then she returned to the dark, dingy room where her great-great-grandmother had lived. Her next task was to dress the corpse of this stranger in burial clothes, under the guidance of a highly respected elderly woman.

It was snowing heavily outside. Inside, since a corpse was present, no coal was burned for warmth. Alin trembled from the cold as she stared at the old woman’s body on the bed, shaking uncontrollably.

She didn’t know her.

She didn’t know anyone in Xiangyang Village. It was her first time kneeling before the ancestral grave, listening to the elderly village chief tell her, “This grave here belongs to your uncle. If he hadn’t died so young, your great-great-grandmother would have at least had a descendant to send her off.”

Alin wasn’t truly a descendant of the great-great-grandmother. She was merely the child her mother had conceived during some fling out in the world. Reportedly, the only reason she even had the “right” to kneel at that grave was because of the great-great-grandmother’s boundless grace and blessings.

Outside, the entire village was draped in white mourning decorations. A long, seemingly endless funeral banquet was in full swing, filled with bustling conversation and the clinking of cups. Inside the pitch-dark room, the only figures were an old woman dressed in white and a shivering Alin.

And the stiff, lifeless corpse of the centenarian.

The old woman was chanting something in a tone Alin couldn’t understand. And it was in this setting that Alin experienced her first dissociative episode.

She became a six- or seven-year-old child.

This was a huge production—with over two hundred extras, two units, more than a dozen cameras, five or six cranes. An enormous operation. Filming a funeral banquet during the New Year was considered inauspicious, and although Director Yang Zhengyi didn’t care about such things, many of the actors and extras did. After their New Year’s Eve dinner and before filming, they even spent half an hour on superstitious rituals.

Normally, women aren’t invited to such rituals in film crews—just one of those inexplicable, backward traditions like the belief that women shouldn’t sit on the equipment boxes.

They claim women bring bad luck, yet can’t make do without them.

An Ye disapproved of these things—and didn’t care about them either. She just sat by the bed, staring blankly at the human model used to portray the corpse.

She had six shots in this scene. They’d filmed one test earlier, but she hadn’t fully immersed herself emotionally. Director Yang cleared the room so she could get into character alone.

The corpse model, made for close-up shots, was incredibly realistic. The longer An Ye stared at it, the more dazed she became.

In this scene, Alin completely severed the thread connecting her to ordinary people. She hid herself inside a bubble of colors. The little girl persona of An Ye saw everything through a warped lens—like a layer of misty bubbles clouded her vision.

She used to know how to enter a role. If she were still that fearful Lan Yifang, stiff and only able to recite lines, she might actually be able to act this scene well.

But today, it was hard. That thread to normalcy hadn’t been fully severed.

Chi Tuo still hadn’t sent any word.

After giving her phone to Lan Yifang, she hadn’t seen her again.

She rubbed her face in frustration, unable to immerse herself in the role. Facing over two hundred extras and the cost of the set, she felt like she might be sacrificed by Director Yang Zhengyi today.Lan Yifang was very nervous.

Today they were filming a key scene. The crew had been preparing all day. To create a bleak and absurd atmosphere, they even transported a large amount of snow from the mountains to rebuild the set. It was a one-time setup. The props chief, swinging an axe, said if they had to do it again, he’d chop every single person in the crew.

An Ye’s ability to get into character was in a terrible state. This was the worst Lan Yifang had ever seen her. They had been filming for nearly two months, yet An Ye still needed everyone to clear out just to immerse herself.

This had never happened before, so Lan Yifang didn’t dare disturb her at all.

But...

Chi Tuo and Qi Wei had suddenly declared war.

Qi Wei released a piece of material he had prepared in advance: a real-name exposé about a girl that Yan Wan had once managed. That girl had already left the industry. She claimed that during the six months Yan Wan acted as her agent, he subjected her to continuous verbal abuse, coerced her into attending so-called executive dinners with his team, and after she failed to "cooperate," stripped her of all resources—leading her to eventually quit the industry.

Lan Yifang roughly knew that this girl had actually tried to expose this on other platforms before, but Huanzhou’s PR team was too powerful. The girl was insignificant, and her solo struggle for over two years hadn’t made a ripple. It was only after Qi Wei dug up the info from Huanzhou PR’s discarded files that he was able to reach out to her.

The exposé wasn't particularly explosive. The only real hook was that Yan Wan happened to be the agent of both An Ye and Qing Ze. So Qi Wei didn’t try to blow the whole thing up. He kept it at a level where Huanzhou’s PR wouldn’t be forced to work overtime over the New Year.

Let it slowly ferment in a small circle. Of course, Yan Wan’s misdeeds weren’t limited to this one case. Qi Wei still had more dirt in hand—though not all of it was backed with real names, so it could only be used as fuel. He was releasing it gradually, step by step.

At the same time, Jinding Law Firm sent a legal letter to Huanzhou Entertainment requesting the termination of the agency contract between their company and An Jiujiu.

Then, An Ye’s phone started blowing up with calls from Yan Wan.

An Ye’s phone was with Lan Yifang. She had set it to silent. After it rang a few times without an answer, Yan Wan started calling Lan Yifang’s phone.

Lan Yifang answered Qi Wei’s call first.

Qi Wei had already gone over what needed to be done post-declaration many times. This time, the call was mainly to tell her to relax. This had been in the works for over half a year. While it might not be a guaranteed win, once the arrow was released, there was no turning back. All that remained was to walk the path to the end.

Lan Yifang nervously repeated the phrases and procedures Qi Wei had drilled into her countless times. Qi Wei laughed on the phone and wished her a Happy New Year.

Then she took a call from Chi Tuo.

Chi Tuo asked her to send him the location and casually inquired about An Ye’s condition during filming.

“Not great,” Lan Yifang said. “Are you coming now?”

“Yeah,” Chi Tuo replied. “I’ve arrived in the area. I’ll be at the set in half an hour.”

Lan Yifang hung up.

She took a deep breath.

She was timid, introverted, not good with words. Many things had to be taught to her step by step by An Ye and Qi Wei—over and over, because even after learning, she might still forget everything out of nerves when it came down to the moment.

Even knowing that they had officially declared war, she still trembled when she saw Yan Wan’s calls. She had the impulse to rush into the room and hand the phone to An Ye.

But...

She took another deep breath and, hands shaking, finally answered yet another of Yan Wan’s countless calls.

“Where are you filming?” Yan Wan barked immediately. “Give me the exact location. Send me a live location share.”

Lan Yifang pinched her voice, “Hello, Brother Yan, Happy New Year!”

Yan Wan: “……”

He seemed thrown off for a moment by her unexpected response. After a half-second pause, his fury escalated, “Don’t fuck around with me! Where the hell is An Ye filming?!”"An-jie wants to terminate her contract with the company," Lan Yifang recited like a script, just as Qi Wei had coached her. "It’s not convenient for her to see you at the moment."

Yan Wan: "……"

He laughed softly, coldly, with malice. "So your name’s Lan Yifang, huh? I underestimated you. Got some nerve, huh? You really think I can’t find out where An Ye is filming right now? I just didn’t want to blow things up. I wanted to settle this before she completely loses it."

"It’s already... blown up," Lan Yifang said, surprised at how precisely Qi Wei had predicted Yan Wan’s words. She was basically reciting lines like An Ye. "So it’s really not convenient to see you now."

Yan Wan: "…What the fuck do you people want? Terminate the contract?! Do you even know how much the penalty for that is? Huan Zhou is a massive company—do you think they’ll just let An Ye go? She’s gone crazy, and you’ve gone crazy with her? Use your damn brain for a second. What kind of sane person brings this up during the New Year? She’s been crazy for a while now, and you’re with her every day—don’t tell me you didn’t notice?"

Lan Yifang stayed silent.

"She can’t take care of herself. She’s not legally competent—do you know what that means? It means nothing she does counts. It’s the same as a child saying ‘I want to sue you.’ You think she can terminate a contract? That dumb bitch who only knows how to recite lines—she can terminate a contract?"

Lan Yifang said calmly, "Brother Yan, I recorded this call."

Yan Wan: "……"

Yan Wan: "Fuck your whole family!"

Lan Yifang: "Happy New Year."

She hung up.

Lan Yifang, jittery with adrenaline, spun around in place several times after ending the call.

Sure enough, Yan Wan didn’t call back again.

A manager who didn’t even know his artist’s exact filming location—actually, there were four temporary assistants sent by Huan Zhou today, but Yan Wan didn’t have contact info for any of them.

And he didn’t dare ask the company for their contact info, either.

The only one who might have tipped him off, the stylist Xiao Yang, had unexpectedly quit last week, telling An Ye she wasn’t suited for film styling. So lately, An Ye’s styling had been handled directly by the crew's own artists.

In reality, aside from calling Lan Yifang and throwing a tantrum, Yan Wan really had no way of reaching anyone.

An Ye wanted to terminate the contract. She wasn’t afraid of making it messy.

Yan Wan was afraid.

Lan Yifang realized that the Brother Yan she’d always been terrified of... could actually be shut out that easily.

She found it a little magical and hopped a few more times in the snow.

“What the hell’s going on with you today?” The first scene—where An Ye had to tremble in front of the corpse model—had been shot four times. Yang Zhengyi slammed the script down.

“Sorry.” An Ye rubbed her face.

She just couldn’t get the emotion up.

That thread, the one barely holding her together, just wouldn’t snap today.

“I’ll give you one more hour,” Yang Zhengyi said, not wanting to say another word. He flung his sleeves and walked off.

Camera Unit B had already finished filming the exterior wide shots and were dismantling the crane arms. The outside was a mess. Yang Zhengyi flung his sleeves again and came back in.

“Go back to your room and think,” he waved his arm. “I’ll shoot the other shots in this room first.”“I’m telling you—how to act this scene, you know very well. How to hit the emotional point, you know that too. But why you refuse to show it—do you even know the answer?” Yang Zhengyi pointed at An Ye, irritable. “This scene has to be shot today. Worst case, we pull an all-nighter. Let that whole crew out there suffer through the night with you. Figure it out yourself!”

An Ye kept her head down, silent.

Others might not understand what Yang Zhengyi was saying, but she did.

Refusing to show it.

She still couldn’t clearly separate what was in the script from what was outside of it. In the script, if she severed that thread, it was almost impossible for her to pick it up again in real life.

She hadn’t avoided this before—but now, she found herself resisting it.

Lately, after spending so much time with her childhood companions, that ragged, wrinkled version of “An Jiujiu” had been showing up more and more. After crying her heart out in two consecutive scenes, she was reluctant to shove that version of herself back into the dark.

She was hurt too.

That’s why, staring at that corpse model, she just couldn’t push her emotions to the edge.

It was cold.

Yang Zhengyi had already called in the other actors to shoot different shots. He couldn’t even be bothered to look at her. She could only shrink her neck and scurry outside.

Lan Yifang was still standing out there with an armful of things, her eyes especially bright. When she saw An Ye coming, she broke into an extraordinarily happy smile and said, “An-jie!”

An Ye was stunned in place by her enthusiasm.

Then she saw the man standing behind Lan Yifang in the shadows—pitch black—and the bright red box he was carrying in his hand.

An Ye: “……”