Chapter 54 – Boyfriend Jacket
The manager looked up as he saw the person seated nearby set down his script and stand up. The white hair mixed with the dangling linen cloth floated through the air as he was led down the stairs by an assistant. As they went, he turned slightly and softly thanked the assistant.
He probably didn’t need an assistant to guide him; even with the cloth around his eyes, he moved swiftly down the stairs. He descended so quickly that the assistant, fearing for him, grabbed his arm, while he appeared entirely at ease, not showing a trace of fear.
On the ground floor of the inn, a staff member handed him a sword wrapped in tattered cloth, and the martial arts coach showed him how to handle it.
The scene began as soon as he stepped into the inn.
The assistant stepped aside, the other actors took their positions, and the director counted down silently.
At the final second, the man with the messy white hair stepped into the inn.
The inn was bustling with people, voices rising up, creating a lively atmosphere.
The man in tattered clothes looked out of place. As he entered, the crowd went silent, turning to look at him. They instinctively took a step back, creating some distance from him.
The innkeeper behind the counter muttered, “The madman is back,” and stepped out to try and shoo him away.
Though he called him a madman, he was clearly afraid of provoking him. As he got closer, he changed his tone and addressed him as “sir,” politely suggesting that if he wasn’t here to eat or drink, he might be better off finding somewhere else.
But the “madman” lived up to his name, seemingly not understanding what he was saying. He ignored the innkeeper entirely, propping the wrapped sword on the ground before picking it up again and heading straight for the stairs.
Just as he’d descended earlier, he walked up the stairs with confident strides, moving so naturally it was easy to forget he was supposed to be blind.
On the second floor, the swordsman was sitting in his usual spot. Noticing a faint sound, he turned to see the man climbing the stairs amid the crowd.
Striking yet silent, he moved upstairs effortlessly but paused as he reached the second floor, stopping in place without advancing or retreating.
The swordsman placed his teacup lightly back on the table, the soft clink barely audible amid the surrounding chatter. But in that moment, the “madman” turned suddenly and walked directly toward him, brushing past people as he went.
The people he bumped into looked annoyed, turning to swear, only to see his wild hair and filthy clothes. They swallowed their words and hurried away, avoiding further contact.
The “madman” went straight to the swordsman’s table and stopped, asking, “Are you the blade for hire?”
His voice was hoarse, low, and soft, with an unusual quality that was different from normal speech. It wasn’t an accent but rather the unique awkwardness and oddity of someone who hadn’t spoken for a long time.
He sounded almost like a ghost in broad daylight, his voice bordering on the inhuman.
The swordsman unconsciously leaned forward, pressing his curved blade under his hand as he finally looked at the man—really looked at him, in every sense of the word.
—
The inn was bustling upstairs and down on camera, but off-camera, there was silence.
The camera moved noiselessly along its track as the director and cinematographer watched the scene. The rest of the crew, including the manager and assistants, focused on the two actors at the table.
There was no scene-stealing.
From movement to pacing, both actors had their own rhythm, and neither threw the other off. The most striking impression was stability—a steady performance in every aspect.
What could have been a nerve-wracking scene passed smoothly.
The clapperboard marked the end of the scene, and the “madman” didn’t immediately remove the cloth from his eyes. Instead, he placed the prop on the table first, stretching his stiff wrist before politely thanking his co-actor, the swordsman.
Chu Mingyuan, the swordsman, looked over, his gaze lingering for a moment before he nodded in return.
With that polite exchange, Chen Bai picked up the tattered sword again and turned to walk toward his manager and loyal assistant.
Still blindfolded, he walked without hesitation, showing no fear of tripping. He wasn’t worried, but his manager and assistant were, practically jumping up to stop him and rushing to support him.
The stylist hurried over to help remove the cloth.
Seeing the light again, his eyes didn’t immediately adjust. He squinted into the darkness for a moment before finally opening them.
Once he could see clearly, he handed the heavy prop sword to the approaching prop team member and asked, “Is this thing real?”
He added matter-of-factly, “This thing weighs more than my debts.”
The prop team member thought he was joking in some unique way and praised his knack for metaphors, nodding. “It’s real; I had a contact forge it, though the edge isn’t sharpened.”
Just a typical prop guy with connections to a blacksmith.
Chen Bai glanced sideways, realizing once again that the prop team was full of hidden talents.
The prop team member walked away with the sword that was heavier than debts, and the one who could now see again returned to his small stool.
The next scene involved the female lead and the second female lead, leaving them with some time to rest as the crew adjusted the set and cameras.
After all, it was an inn, and there was no shortage of stools. The manager pulled up a long, rectangular stool and sat nearby, patting the white-haired actor’s shoulder and whispering, “You did great!”
It turns out his resilience wasn’t just talk; when faced with challenges, he really steps up.
Playing a blind person is difficult enough— the last actor was completely overwhelmed. For Chen Bai to follow that performance with double the pressure and a higher chance of retakes, he managed to keep steady after all.
Chen Bai took the script back from his assistant and smiled, saying, “I just didn’t mess up the take.”
He didn’t mess up, but it wasn’t exceptional either—just a pretty standard scene.
The manager felt his standards for “good” were almost too high. She asked, “When did you figure out the mannerisms and lines for playing a blind character?”
The character’s blindness was tricky to portray; if you overdo it, it looks like the character is just clueless, but if you underplay it, he seems too normal. It’s a hard balance to strike.
When he delivered his lines earlier, she got goosebumps, and she saw the director’s eyes light up.
Leaving aside the visual aspects, at least in terms of line delivery, he nailed it— even exceeding the director’s expectations.
But most of the time, he was with them, either napping or chatting, sometimes reading the script. She never saw him really working it out.
Chen Bai chuckled, “There’s plenty of time at night.”
He’d had a month between receiving the script and joining the crew. Once he moved into the hotel, he didn’t have to stream at night anymore, so he had plenty of time for research after reading the script and chatting with his neighbors.
The manager grew curious. “When do you go to sleep at night?”
He held up a peace sign.
Translated: 2 a.m.
Gao Qian “…”
She wanted to smack him on the head but then remembered that his messy white hair was a carefully crafted result of the stylist’s hard work. She stopped herself just in time and said, “Your brain is really something else.”
He modestly attributed it to his parents, as always.
That voice technique from earlier was rough on his throat, so while they were talking, the assistant prepared warm throat-soothing tea in a thermos and handed it over.
Chen Bai took it, gulped a couple of times, then gave a thumbs up and thanked them.
The assistant, happy to receive the appreciation, smiled warmly.
Meanwhile, across the inn, Chu Mingyuan, who had just finished his scene, sat by the wall, taking a sip of water handed over by his manager.
The manager adjusted his glasses and looked toward the group, focusing on Chen Bai. He asked, “What do you think of him?”
Chu Mingyuan glanced over and replied, “He’s not bad.”
“Not bad” meant he had definitely passed the bar. The manager nodded and said, “I agree. He’s doing pretty well.”
He added, “Especially since he’s only been in the industry for less than a year.”
Due to their different paths, he had heard of Chen Bai before but hadn’t paid attention. Once they joined the same crew, he looked into him a bit and found himself increasingly surprised.
Some things can’t stay hidden in this industry; the word gets around. He found out that Chen Bai wasn’t formally trained and had no prior experience in acting. It was remarkable how far he had come in just a year.
At the very least, his command of lines wasn’t something just anyone could achieve.
“Who knows? He might go far,” the manager suggested. “Did you add him on WeChat? You could talk to him sometime.”
“I heard he exchanged WeChats with a lot of people on the first day.”
Chu Mingyuan replied, “No, I didn’t.”
The manager looked at him with a faint sense of pity. “Oh.”
That day’s filming began in the afternoon and ended promptly at 8 p.m. Chen Bai headed back to the hotel with his new friend, Qian Jin, as usual.
The young master preferred to endure a standard room rather than climb another flight of stairs, staying on the second floor, where he and Chen Bai parted ways at the staircase.
Without the need to stream, his evenings became dedicated to chatting with his good neighbor. After a quick shower, he lay in bed with his script, pulling out his phone to reply to messages from friends before scrolling to find his neighbor’s contact. He made a video call, propping the phone on the headboard.
The neighbor picked up quickly, after just two rings, revealing a close-up of his handsome face on the screen. Chen Bai took a quick screenshot and laughed, “Got my new chat background.”
The neighbor let him take the shot.
Chen Bai wasn’t a complete fanboy, so after grabbing a couple of screenshots, he focused back on the script.
There wasn’t anything big to discuss. They chatted casually about small things from the day, switching topics as they came to mind.
At one point, he flipped to the page of the script where today’s first scene was written. He looked up and said, “I had two scenes with Chu Mingyuan today.”
The neighbor responded, asking how it went.
Chen Bai thought for a moment. “It was a bit tricky.”
Though the manager and director praised him for holding his own, he knew his own performance better than anyone.
He managed to keep up, staying steady. It looked fine on the surface, but he had to be careful not to get thrown off by Chu’s rhythm, which meant he wasn’t fully immersed in his role.
It was similar to the challenges he faced while playing Xu Yifan (from the Youth Revolution drama) before.
This time, it wasn’t that he couldn’t get into character, but that he consciously held back.
The neighbor didn’t press further and simply suggested, “You might want to check out some of his previous work.”
Chen Bai ruffled his messy hair and nodded.
Then he heard the neighbor say, “The temperature’s dropping again tomorrow. The town’s colder than the city, so don’t forget to bring the jacket in your suitcase when you head out.”
Chen Bai snuggled further into his blanket and responded, then looked up curiously and asked, “How did Comrade Old Xu know the weather here?”
Without changing his expression, Old Xu replied, “I just happened to see it.”
After that, he reminded him once more to bring a jacket.
Little Comrade Chen gave a quick salute, saying he’d definitely fulfill the task assigned by the organization.
Old Xu chuckled.
Their random, meandering conversation ended when Chen Bai’s phone battery turned red.
It felt like they hadn’t talked for long and hadn’t really said much, but when the call ended, and he grabbed his phone to find the charger, he looked down and realized they’d actually been on the phone for quite a while.
[Call Duration: 43:55]
Chen Bai “…”
No wonder his phone died.
The temperature started dropping that night. With the window open, a breeze blew in, and wearing thin clothes, he could feel the chill as soon as he left the warmth of the blanket. After finding the charger and plugging in his phone, Chen Bai crawled back into his bed.
The next day was rainy again.
For once, the weather forecast was right. Overnight, the temperature dropped significantly, and he could feel the chill as soon as he got up.
Mornings were never his strong suit, but he still remembered his good neighbor’s reminders, ‘twice’, from the night before about bringing a jacket. Half-asleep, he opened the suitcase in the corner of his room, grabbed the jacket from the inner compartment, slipped it on without really looking at it, and shoved his phone and keys into his pockets. Grabbing his script, he headed out.
By the time he reached the makeup room, his manager and assistant had only just arrived, and breakfast had just been set on the table.
Rain was tapping against the window, and as he entered, his white hair was messy, and he still carried an air of sleepy laziness. The oversized jacket seemed to envelop him, giving off an unexpectedly warm and cozy vibe.
The sleeves and hem were a bit long, showing only a sliver of his pale fingers to prove he still had hands—they were just hidden away.
Some clothes are easy to trace back to their original owner. The manager, torn between commenting on the look and just snapping a picture, raised her phone and took a couple of photos. She lowered it just in time, before he flashed a peace sign, and tapped the screen a couple of times. “Sent it to your friend.”
She’d exchanged contacts with his friend on the day she saw a certain movie star helping him pack while he lay sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep.
At the time, she hadn’t known why they’d exchanged contacts, but now it made perfect sense.
Sending pictures was convenient, after all.
Chen Bai was already used to being photographed unexpectedly, but he was a little disappointed they missed his peace sign. He rolled up his too-long sleeves and was comforted by the assistant with a warm cup of soy milk.
The manager watched him juggle the soy milk and sleeves, asking, “What made you remember to bring a jacket today?”
This person was lucky if he had a functioning brain in the mornings, and he was usually oblivious to temperature changes—unless it suddenly turned into winter. Remembering a jacket this early was out of character.
“My friend reminded me on the phone yesterday.”
Finally rolling up his sleeves, Chen Bai sat down, took a big sip of soy milk, and said, “He happened to see the weather here yesterday and mentioned it twice.”
The manager glanced sideways at him. “Happened to… huh.”
As he drank his soy milk, his mind began to clear. He sat up straighter and, with a faintly serious look in his still sleepy eyes, said, “Actually, there’s something else.”
Seeing his faintly serious look, the manager adjusted her posture and asked, “What’s up?”
“Well,” Chen Yi Bai tried to look serious despite his sleepy face. “If I, for educational purposes, were to purchase a certain product through legal channels to enhance my skills for work, would the company reimburse it?”
“Just say it.”
“I want to watch Chu Mingyuan’s previous films, but they’re on a VIP service.”
Last night, he’d agonized over whether or not to buy the expensive VIP access and ultimately decided to ask today to see if there was a chance for reimbursement.
With three million already spent, and still waiting on the rest of his endorsement fees, every penny mattered.
Gao Qian “…”
He was truly broke inside and out. For a moment, both the manager and assistant fell silent.
The manager rubbed her face and replied simply, “Yes, reimbursed.”
If the company didn’t cover it, she would.
So, Chen Bai happily went to activate his VIP access.
The makeup artist came into the room with Qian Jin’s team shortly after, following a brief meeting in another room. Everyone greeted each other in a friendly manner.
Time passed quickly on set. With each day filled with scenes, it felt like the days slipped by as soon as they hit the bed.
Initially, due to weather and other factors, the pace was slow, and the team constantly played catch-up. But as the weather improved and the new actors finally adjusted to the director’s daily guidance, they started keeping up with the crew. With obstacles removed, things picked up, and the atmosphere in the group relaxed.
The fast pace wasn’t just with the filming schedule.
Day by day, Chen Bai didn’t seem to change much, but he was quietly learning and growing at an almost imperceptible speed. By the time everyone else noticed, he’d already become something of a young prodigy in the crew, able to hold his own in scenes with the movie star.
Even his new buddy Qian Jin had been pulled into his orbit, joining him in quietly observing the veteran actors’ performances.
Watching them perform live was a completely different experience than analyzing recorded scenes. It was more direct, more visceral.
As the late autumn set in, summer’s heat had long since faded, with temperatures dropping further each day.
It was another sunny day, though the temperature was low, and places without sunlight felt chilly. After wrapping up a scene, Chen Bai sat with his buddy, wrapped in his good neighbor’s jacket, quietly watching Chu Mingyuan’s scene with the lead actress.
Both of them had won awards and had been in the industry for years, each with their own acting style and habits. Their differences clashed especially during their scenes together.
The brief scene was so intense it left everyone on edge, and it was only when the scene slate clapped that the set returned to its usual chatter.
The male and female leads, who had just been entwined in an emotional scene, separated politely, nodding to each other before going their own ways.
It didn’t look like they were about to fall in love on set and have some epic romance; it was just a regular professional relationship.
Chen Bai, who had been secretly hoping for some gossip to unfold, sighed quietly and gave up on his idea of watching for drama.
Qian Jin, thinking his sigh was due to stress, patted his shoulder in consolation, saying, “One day, we’ll be at that level too.”
Chen Bai turned to him and asked, “Do you think they did well in that scene?”
Qian Jin nodded. “They’re both award-winning actors, after all.”
Their performance was so charged that if they’d been a bit more intense, sparks might have flown.
Realizing something, he turned to the thoughtful Chen Bai beside him and asked, “You don’t…?”
He glanced around at the others, lowered his voice, and leaned in to say, “…think it was that great?”
It was a bold comment, but as a privileged young master used to speaking his mind, he dared to voice it.
“It’s not that,” Chen Bai waved his hand. “It’s just that it felt a little different from the chemistry he had with previous actors in his films.”
He hadn’t wasted a moment of his one-month VIP access. Apart from researching and memorizing scripts, he spent every evening watching movies, both awarded and not, even comparing them to similar films from the same period. He noticed that in his award-winning films, Chu Ming Yuan’s scenes with his female co-stars or certain supporting actors had a different atmosphere from what he’d just seen.
Based on the results, Chu Mingyuan and those other actors seemed to mesh better.
Chen Bai’s fingers unconsciously moved across the script, his words halted, and he lowered his gaze, staring off into the distance.
Mesh.
In his previous films, Chu Mingyuan and his co-stars didn’t clash over dominance or try to force each other into their own rhythms. There was no power struggle, nor did anyone lower their standards or adjust to accommodate the other. Instead, they meshed.
They brought each other into the characters’ emotions and thoughts, without rejecting the other’s rhythm, finding a balanced harmony where conversations flowed naturally. It felt like an innate understanding, as if things were meant to be that way.
The co-stars were not supposed to be in a dominant-subordinate dynamic but rather a collaborative process. His thinking had gone astray from the start.
“…Chen Bai?”
Qian Jin, noticing that he had suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence, waved his hand in front of him, asking, “What’s up?”
Brushing his white hair back from his face, Chen Bai’s light gray eyes regained their focus. He smiled and said, “Nothing.”
Propping his head up, his sleeve slid down, blending with his white hair as it trailed over the script. His eyes sparkled brightly, and he said with a grin, “I just figured some things out.”
—
Author Notes:
Chen Bai had just taken a screenshot for posterity, while Old Xu didn’t bother, not because he was above it, but because he recorded the whole thing.
