After being dumped by the diva, I was picked up by her arch-enemy.

The day after Chen Hao returned to Beijing, he was summoned to a meeting.

The meeting room wasn't large, and it held six people. The person in charge was surnamed Zhou, and everyone called him Director Zhou. Not the Director Zhou from the "Three Evils" campaign, but the Director Zhou of the department head.

Director Zhou flipped through the materials without looking up. "I've read the script."

Chen Hao sat very upright. "What do you think—"

"I watched it last night." Zhou Chu took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. "I watched it until three in the morning."

He said this in a very flat tone.

But Chen Hao noticed that Zhou Chu's eyes were red.

"Good notebook." Zhou Chu put his glasses back on. "But this notebook is too big; you can't carry it by yourself."

Chen Hao opened his mouth.

It closed again.

Because it's the truth.

"What we mean is, we'll assign you a co-director."

"Who?"

"Chen Ge".

The meeting room was silent for two seconds.

Chen Hao's back was covered in sweat.

Chen Ge. A leading figure of the fifth generation of Chinese directors. A Cannes Palme d'Or winner, a Venice Silver Lion winner, and a Berlin Jury Prize winner. On the international film scene, this name is half the face of Chinese cinema.

But this person has a problem.

temper.

It's not just big, it's huge. The last producer he worked with was verbally abused by him for forty minutes straight, and that person later switched careers to sell insurance.

"Director Chen Ge... agreed?" Chen Hao asked.

"I showed him the script, and he flew over from Hong Kong this afternoon."

"So fast?"

Director Zhou glanced at him. "He finished reading the script and booked the earliest flight."

Chen Hao came out of the conference room and stood in the corridor for a while. He took out his phone to call Jiang Yichen, his fingers were cold.

The phone was answered.

Chen Hao explained the situation.

Jiang Yichen was drinking something on the other end of the line. After listening, he said two words: "Pretty good."

"Brother Chen, you don't understand this guy," Chen Hao said in a low voice. "I ran into him at the film festival last time. He watched my new film and said one thing to me—'Chen Hao, your cinematic language, like your hair, is getting thinner and thinner.'"

A muffled chuckle came from the other end of the phone.

"What are you laughing at!" Chen Hao exclaimed impatiently. "My hair's fine... right?"

"Have you decided on the casting yet?" Jiang Yichen didn't respond to that question.

"You're definitely going to play Cheng Dieyi, there's no question about that. Duan Xiaolou—Brother Chen, do you have anyone in mind?"

"My senior brother, Tan Yunxiao."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for three seconds.

"Tan Yunxiao?" Chen Hao's voice rose. "Tan Yunxiao from the National Peking Opera Company?"

"Um."

Chen Hao gasped.

Tan Yunxiao is arguably the foremost martial arts performer in Peking Opera today. His stage presence is unmatched, both within and outside the industry. Even more striking is his appearance—standing at 1.83 meters tall with a perfectly upright posture, he resembles Duan Xiaolou perfectly when he stands on stage.

"Brother Chen, if you could get him to come—"

"No need to invite me. I'll make a phone call."

"That simple?"

"He is my senior brother."

Chen Hao stood in the corridor, stunned for a long time.

He really couldn't understand Jiang Yichen anymore. A music producer in his early twenties who could write a script like "Farewell My Concubine" and was even a fellow student of the pillar of the National Peking Opera Company.

What's this person's background?

Forget it, don't think about it anymore. Some things shouldn't be asked.

……

At 4:15 PM, Chen Ge's plane landed.

Chen Hao went to pick him up.

When Chen Ge emerged from the arrival gate, Chen Hao's heart skipped a beat. This man had aged. Three years ago in Cannes, Chen Ge's hair was mostly white, but he walked with a brisk pace. Now his back was slightly hunched, his steps were much slower, and he carried an old leather bag with a broken zipper held together by a rubber band.

But his eyes haven't changed.

When those eyes look at someone, there's a scrutinizing quality to them. It's almost like taking an X-ray.

"Director Chen." Chen Hao went up to him.

Chen Ge glanced at him. "You've lost weight."

"I've been busy lately—"

"My hair is thinning too."

Chen Hao: "..."

really.

Once in the car, Chen Ge sat in the back seat and pulled out the stack of scripts from his old leather bag.

Chen Hao glanced in the rearview mirror—the edges of the script were frayed, covered in dense pencil annotations. Some parts were circled, some were marked with question marks, and there was a long paragraph of small print on one blank page.

This person was never idle on the plane.

"Who wrote this notebook?" Chen Ge asked.

Jiang Yichen.

How big?

"Twenty-three."

Chen Ge didn't respond.

He turned to a page, pressed his finger on a certain paragraph, and held it there for a long time. Chen Hao glanced at it again.

It was the denunciation meeting. Cheng Dieyi and Duan Xiaolou were forced to denounce each other.

"A twenty-three-year-old can't write something like this." Chen Ge's voice was low.

It's not "how could I write it?", it's "I can't write it."

Chen Hao's heart tightened. He understood the implication—Chen Ge was suspicious. He suspected that the script wasn't Jiang Yichen's original work.

"Director Chen, I can guarantee—"

"I'm not lying," Chen Ge interrupted him, closing the script. "I mean, an average twenty-three-year-old couldn't write something like this."

He paused for a moment.

"That's why I need to see him."

"I'll arrange it."

"There's something else," Chen Ge turned his head, "Cheng Dieyi, does he want to play the role himself?"

Chen Hao nodded.

Chen Ge neither said yes nor no.

He looked out the car window, his expression indifferent. But Chen Hao noticed that his left thumb was repeatedly rubbing the handle of his old leather bag.

This is Chen Ge's habit.

When he's unsure, he rubs the handle.

Chen Hao's heart sank. In Chen Ge's mind, casting was the skeleton of a film. If the skeleton couldn't stand up, no amount of flesh would matter. A young actor in his early twenties wanting to play a role like Cheng Dieyi…

Why should Chen Ge believe him?

……

That evening, Chen Hao sent Jiang Yichen a message.

"Brother Chen, Chen Ge wants to see you. You can set the time."

Jiang Yichen replied with three words: "Tomorrow."

Chen Hao posted another message: "There's something I need to tell you in advance. Chen Ge's attitude towards your role as Cheng Dieyi is not very clear."

Jiang Yichen replied with a single word: "Mm".

Chen Hao stared at the "hmm" and pondered for a long time.

Is this "hmm" the "I understand" kind of "hmm" or the "whatever" kind of "hmm"?

He sent another message: "Brother Chen, you need to be mentally prepared, Chen Ge is this guy—"

Jiang Yichen's message arrived first.

"Going to sleep now. See you tomorrow."

Chen Hao sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand, suddenly wondering if he was worrying too much.

But then he thought again—no, he still had to worry about it.

He sent Chen Ge a message: "Director Chen, is tomorrow morning at 10 o'clock okay?"

Chen Ge replied instantly: "Location".

"I'll decide—"

"No need. Let him come to that courtyard house in the eastern suburbs. I'll stay here."

Chen Hao's lips twitched as he looked at the message.

Meeting on Chen Ge's turf was meant to give Jiang Yichen a warning.

The old man's methods haven't changed at all in decades.

He sighed and tossed his phone onto the pillow.

Tomorrow, things are going to get interesting.