Chapter 89
“Cut.”
This was the third retake. After calling ‘cut,’ Xu Tuanyuan neither said it was good nor bad.
He stroked his chin while watching the playback. After a long pause, he waved Fang Huai over.
“Fang Huai, come take a look yourself.”
Fang Huai had just taken a towel from his assistant to dry his hair. Hearing that, he immediately put the towel down and walked over to the camera to review the scene with Xu Tuanyuan.
“Hmm…” He watched himself on screen in silence for a long moment, his brows gradually furrowing.
It was a relatively long shot.
Unlike Lin Shengyun, Xu Tuanyuan was a more patient and gentle director. He was well aware of Fang Huai’s inexperience and was willing to guide him step by step. It was only from today onward that they had officially entered the core scenes of The Song of the Nameless.
After the car accident, Lin Xiao went to the hospital to retrieve his diagnosis report.
Permanent blindness.
At the same time, his hearing would also progressively deteriorate irreversibly—meaning that soon, he would neither be able to see nor hear anything. And on this very day, the boy he had secretly loved for two years clearly told him, “Gay people are disgusting.” His parents, upon discovering his sexual orientation, bluntly stated they were cutting ties with him.
That year, he was seventeen.
On a weekday, the city park was nearly empty. A middle-aged man reading a newspaper slowly turned a page. Lin Xiao walked to a secluded spot by the artificial lake, beyond the reach of surveillance cameras. He took off his shoes and quietly stepped into the water.
He wasn’t actually trying to kill himself.
He was just lost, unsure where to go.
Fang Huai watched the playback of his performance.
His ability to learn was strong—he had already corrected the issues Xu Tuanyuan pointed out in previous takes.
But, how should I put it…
“This is a take that could pass, but also one that could be redone,” Xu Tuanyuan said after watching for a while.
This scene had many underwater shots, and neither Fang Huai nor Xu Tuanyuan planned on using a double. This was only the first take, and with early spring’s chilly weather, staying submerged for long periods would be physically exhausting. Apart from that, from any objective standpoint, there was nothing obviously wrong with this take.
The positioning and lines were flawless, emotions and details were in place, and the atmosphere felt right.
On the surface, it seemed like a perfect shot.
But for those who truly understood film—especially the core creative team that had worked with Xu Tuanyuan for years and had experience with top-tier actors—it was clear that something was off.
For an average film, this would be more than enough.
But if you were aiming for Oscar-level excellence, it fell far short.
The scriptwriter on set was also watching, alongside the assistant director. After reviewing the playback, the assistant director finally said, “Maybe we should just go with it. We’re running out of time, and keeping him in the water like this is torture.”
Xu Tuanyuan glanced at him and instantly knew what they were thinking. Sure enough, after taking a few steps away, the assistant director muttered under his breath, “It’s already pretty good. This is his limit… He doesn’t have the skill for something more refined. If he can at least shape the rough clay, that’s enough. No need to push too hard.”
To be blunt, the words were harsh—but not entirely wrong.
From what they had observed in the past two weeks, Fang Huai was still far behind the actors the assistant director and screenwriter had worked with before.
Right now, he was like an unpolished jade with one exposed corner—full of potential, but still mostly raw stone. There were plenty of actors like him in the industry: those without luck remained unknown their entire lives, while those with luck found mentors who patiently refined them, and maybe by their thirties or forties, they could finally win a prestigious award.
Fang Huai belonged to the “very lucky” category. His skills were average, but not only did he have someone to recognize his potential—he had been personally chosen by Xu Tuanyuan.
His audition had been impressive, but after joining the crew… The first two weeks of filming hadn’t touched the core of the story yet, and he hadn’t delivered any particularly stunning performances. It was only under Xu Tuanyuan’s patient guidance that he managed to get through his scenes smoothly.
“Director Xu,” water still dripping from his hair, Fang Huai remained silent for a long time before asking, “Can we shoot it again?”
Xu Tuanyuan wasn’t surprised. He smiled slightly and nodded. “Yes, we’ll keep this take on hold for now.”
He had already anticipated this outcome, but he didn’t say it out loud. From the moment he chose Fang Huai, he had foreseen what was to come—though the challenges ahead were proving to be even greater than he had expected.
“Can we… delete it?” Fang Huai scratched his head.
The subtext of delete it was clear—he was leaving himself no way out. He was determined to produce a take that was better than just good enough.
Xu Tuanyuan looked at him deeply, then finally nodded. In front of Fang Huai, he deleted the footage.
They repeated the scene several more times, and, as expected, it turned out exactly as Xu Tuanyuan had predicted.
Each take was worse than the last.
Not only did Fang Huai fail to surpass the deleted version, but he even performed worse than the very first take. By the final attempt, it was visibly clear that he was completely out of sync.
It was understandable—this scene had no supporting actors, meaning all the exhaustion fell solely on Fang Huai. Underwater scenes were already physically demanding, and on top of that, he was burdened by psychological pressure, forcing himself to do better. But the more he fixated on that thought, the further away he drifted from achieving it.
“That last take… was really deleted?” The assistant director walked over, looking both disappointed and regretful. “Why delete it…? What do we do now? He’s performing like this, and it won’t get better anytime soon. We don’t have much time left.”
Fang Huai stood nearby, holding the script without saying a word.
“Let’s take a break,” Xu Tuanyuan clapped his hands and said. “Fang Huai, rest for a bit too. Don’t rush—reset your state of mind.”
After spending most of the day in the water, Fang Huai’s fingers were wrinkled. His assistant quickly wrapped him in a towel, while Qiao An carefully walked over to comfort him.
“Fang, don’t pressure yourself too much. Director Xu isn’t that strict. Worst case, they can edit it in post-production.”
It was only because Qiao An had a good relationship with Fang Huai that he dared to say this. Many people liked Fang Huai for his personality, but Xu Tuanyuan’s core team—regulars at the Oscars, from cinematographers to art directors—carried a certain arrogance.
They might appreciate Fang Huai as a person, but professionally, they saw him as an unqualified, lucky newcomer who had stumbled into an opportunity far beyond his ability.
“Thanks.” Fang Huai smiled at Qiao An, just about to say something when his phone rang.
“Who is it?” Qiao An was a bit puzzled. Fang Huai usually didn’t check messages during work.
“My boyfriend,” Fang Huai explained as he opened his inbox. Qiao An caught a glimpse of the contact name—”Teacher Ye”.
Qiao An: “…”
Ye? As in Ye Yuyuan?
Qiao An was speechless. This was getting ridiculous! Fang Huai might actually know Ye Yuyuan, but privately treating a straight man as his boyfriend was a bit too much.
After all, Ye Yuyuan had publicly stated on a forum that he had a fiancée. When the media reported his words—“He is a gift from the world to me”—foreign outlets had translated he as she, and Ye Yuyuan never clarified it.
Fang Huai sent two replies, and then, suddenly, his phone rang. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered the call.
At the same time, the production supervisor walked in, holding a piece of paper, looking a bit excited.
“We’re having a Michelin three-star meal for lunch today. A gentleman said he’s a family member—”
“No filming right now, just an indoor script discussion. We won’t shoot until the afternoon,” Fang Huai spoke carefully while glancing around. “You still have work, right? You can visit later this after—”
His words slowed as he trailed off, locking eyes with a pair of deep, obsidian-like eyes from across the room.
Fang Huai was still toweling off his wet hair, droplets trickling down the strands. He couldn’t help but sneeze.
And his boyfriend stood just a few meters away, silently watching him.
Fang Huai: “……”
Qiao An: “…………???”
Ye Yuyuan seemed to have just finished a video conference. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored deep blue suit, buttoned all the way up with meticulous precision. His tie clip and cufflinks—the ones Fang Huai had given him yesterday—gleamed with a soft amber glow under the morning light.
He looked both handsome and distant. Pausing for a moment, his deep, rich voice, full of magnetism, overlapped between reality and the phone’s speaker, “Script discussion?”
“…Huh?”
*
Everyone on set had seen a lot in life, but Michelin three-star takeout was a first for many of them.
Just as lunchtime arrived, dish after dish was unveiled. The quiet disdain some people had toward Fang Huai noticeably faded—after all, it was hard to be contemptuous of someone when you were eating their food.
It was all the foreign media’s fault for mistranslating.
Qiao An truly hadn’t expected that Ye Yuyuan’s so-called fiancée wasn’t a fiancée at all—but a fiancé. And that fiancé just so happened to be Fang Huai, the same person he watched TV and played video games with every day.
…Had he ever offended this future spouse of the world’s richest man? Qiao An stole a cautious, slightly panicked glance at Fang Huai.
At that moment, Fang Huai was in the middle of admitting his mistake to Ye Yuyuan.
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly, head bowed. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
Seated on a bench, Fang Huai let Ye Yuyuan lean down and towel off the lingering water on his skin. It was a subtle yet intensely possessive gesture, one that nearly enveloped the younger man entirely—completely disregarding the presence of onlookers.
Qiao An had seen Ye Yuyuan’s cold and serious demeanor in various settings. He, like many others, had even questioned whether the man was some kind of humanoid robot. But at this moment, he found himself feeling oddly bewildered… and, inexplicably, a little envious.
Who wouldn’t want to be loved like that?
“Mm. And next time?” Ye Yuyuan asked in a calm tone.
Without hesitation, Fang Huai responded with complete honesty, “Wrong is wrong, but next time, I’d still dare to do it.”
He had known before coming to set that this scene would be a disaster, which was exactly why he had lied—he didn’t want Ye Yuyuan to visit and witness the mess firsthand. And in the end, as expected, it was a disaster.
He wanted to always seem impressive in Ye Yuyuan’s eyes. Not out of insecurity, necessarily—after all, what teenage boy wouldn’t want to be the coolest person in his lover’s eyes?
Ye Yuyuan’s thumb brushed over his cufflink as he looked down at Fang Huai, his gaze indulgent.
“Taking advantage of my love for you?”
Fang Huai kissed him. “Yes, taking advantage of your love for me.”
Qiao An: “……”
He was nothing but a sad, irrelevant third wheel. A forgotten, unwanted extra. Time to leave.
Even now, Fang Huai didn’t feel like he had done anything wrong.
Ye Yuyuan wasn’t an actor. Even if he had come, he wouldn’t have been able to offer any real help—he would’ve just ended up worrying for nothing.
The bottom of the artificial lake was deep—far deeper than Fang Huai had anticipated.
Although the crew had cleaned out trash and other debris for filming, they had kept the environment as realistic as possible. The first time he stepped into the water, he genuinely hadn’t expected it to be this deep.
There was an overwhelming silence and darkness, the kind that felt almost despair-inducing.
He thought back to the question he had asked Xu Tuanyuan yesterday—”Is film meant to expose the hidden, unknown darkness buried in the corners of the world?”
Xu Tuanyuan’s answer had been:
“Partially.”
“Partially.” Then what about the other part?
Fang Huai thought about it for a long time after returning.
The more he learned about Lin Xiao and his experiences, the more he realized just how much filth and decay had been overlooked in the corners of the world. It was like this artificial lake—its seemingly calm surface concealed a depth beyond what the naked eye could measure, yet it undeniably existed.
It was a kind of suffocating darkness—one that left a person submerged in an airless space, unable to cry for help, yet not dying immediately. Instead, they would gradually grow numb, watching helplessly as their soul drifted away from their body.
If simply being a bystander felt this suffocating, Fang Huai didn’t dare imagine what it had been like for Lin Xiao, who had actually lived through it.
What was the point of dragging these buried horrors out from the shadows for the world to see?
Fang Huai felt lost.
“Do you have to film today?” Ye Yuyuan asked, his gaze lowered.
He could tell that Fang Huai had been filming for too long. The water had soaked him for so many hours that the skin on his fingers had wrinkled. Ye Yuyuan took Fang Huai’s hands into his own, carefully massaging them inch by inch, his lips pressed into a thin line.
