She adjusted her glasses as she ran, and was still panting when she reached the director.
"Director, what's up?"
The director slapped the script into her hands. "Add a few shots for this guard."
Lin Xiao settled her glasses into place, lifted her gaze from the script, and looked at Song Shi'an standing beside him.
Even with a mask on, this man's bone structure was far too exceptional.
The proportions of his brow ridge and nose, the lines of his jaw-every transition from forehead to chin was just right.
The mask covered the lower half of his face, instead bringing the strengths of the upper half into full relief.
Tall and slender, with a sharply defined waist, he stood beneath the covered walkway in fitted black martial attire, vermilion pillars and blue-gray brick walls beside him. That position alone was enough to make a picture.
Lin Xiao pushed up her glasses and took two steps closer.
Song Shi'an instinctively leaned back.
The screenwriter's lenses were as thick as beer-bottle bottoms, her eyes round behind them. She leaned closer and closer, the top of her head nearly bumping his chin.
Lin Xiao abruptly caught herself and sprang half a step back, the roots of her ears instantly burning red.
"Sorry! I'm severely nearsighted. Even with my glasses, I still can't see very clearly." She waved her hands rapidly, her speech speeding up along with them. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to get so close."
"It's fine, it's fine."
The moment he spoke, Lin Xiao's hand froze against her ear.
She pushed up her glasses again, lowered her head, and rustled through two pages of the script, muttering, "Let me see how to add to this part." Her eyes weren't focused on the paper at all, and her ears were red enough to drip blood.
How could his voice be so swoonworthy?
The director shouted again from behind the monitor. "Put the extra shots aside for now. Get ready for the next scene!"
Lin Xiao ran off clutching the script, even faster than she had come.
Song Shi'an returned to his position at the study door and straightened his mask again. He looked down at the prop sword in his arms, then felt his back, which was so hot and stuffy it was on the verge of breaking out in heat rash, and silently gave the guard costume a bad review.
The crew were changing the tracks. The next scene was a courtyard chase.
Song Shi'an waited beneath the covered walkway. Sunlight spilled through gaps in the eaves, falling on his shoulder and the edge of his mask.
He tilted his head slightly to avoid the direct light, his tied-up ponytail swaying in the breeze.
At that single tilt of his head, the director fell silent behind the monitor again.
"Old Zhang." He beckoned to the assistant director. "Where did you find this guard?"
Assistant Director Zhang leaned closer and said cautiously, "He came here on his own. I asked him to play the young marquis, but he absolutely refused. He insisted on playing this guard."
The director slowly turned his head and gave Assistant Director Zhang a look that said, "You've got to be kidding me."
Then he turned back, stared at the sword-holding figure on the monitor for a long while, and muttered something.
The sound recordist beside him didn't catch it, only vaguely making out the last few words.
"...what the hell."
Song Shi'an crouched in the shade beneath the covered walkway, his back against the base of the wall, and lifted his mask a crack for air.
The director's talk of adding scenes left him a little uncertain. A few extra would be fine, but if too many pushed him beyond the standard for cannon fodder and the system hit him with an "assessment failed," he would have endured all this sweltering heat today for nothing.
"System, the director said he'd add scenes. Would too many be a problem?"
[It depends on the circumstances. Your total screen time must not exceed one-twentieth of the lead's.]
Song Shi'an leaned against the wall and thought it over.
The lead's scenes were the core of the entire show. One-twentieth actually worked out to quite a lot, more than enough for a few scenes and a few lines.
In other words, whether he was pure cannon fodder or a minor supporting character with a little screen time, he was safe as long as he didn't hop his way into the main cast's inner circle.
The criteria were pretty lenient.
Relieved, he remembered something else. Earlier, he had quietly asked a crew member: this guard role paid three hundred yuan per scene.
One scene during the day, plus an appearance in a night scene that evening. Six hundred altogether.
Six hundred a day was practically a fortune to him right now.
But how long would six hundred yuan last? Rent, food, everyday expenses-and when he went through the original owner's phone, he discovered that the original owner was actually still in college. Where would tuition come from once summer break was over?
"System, cannon-fodder pay won't even support me. I'll have tuition to pay after summer break, too. What am I supposed to do about the original owner's studies?"
[Please resolve this yourself, host.]
The corner of Song Shi'an's mouth twitched. Fine. He'd expected that.
He was pondering where to find a part-time job when the system's icy notification sounded in his head again.
[Part-time employment in the entertainment industry is prohibited, except as a cannon-fodder actor.]
Song Shi'an nearly ground his teeth to pieces.
He couldn't work in the entertainment industry. In other words, aside from working as an extra, print modeling and livestreamed talent performances were all off-limits.
The system had welded shut his best route to cashing in on this face.
He leaned against the wall and gazed up at the sky at a forty-five-degree angle.
Beyond the eaves stretched a vast expanse of dazzling blue sky. The sun beat down viciously, yet his heart felt ice-cold.
So hopeless.
I really want to drag the system out and beat it up.
On the other side of the set, someone was even busier than he was.
Wu Yue had been lying in a tree for an hour.
She ran a fansite for Xu Che and was a somewhat well-known photographer for hire in the fandom. The equipment she carried cost enough to buy a car.
To get behind-the-scenes photos of Xu Che on set today, she had slipped into the film studio complex before dawn, scaling a wall and climbing a tree to secure an excellent angle.
The trunk pressed painfully into her stomach, and mosquitoes had bitten three welts into her arm. She endured it all.
With her telephoto lens set up, she began searching for her target.
The lens swept over the courtyard, past the walkway pillars and crew members standing in twos and threes, then reached the patch of shadow beneath the upper floor.
Wu Yue's finger stopped.
In the frame was a young man leaning against a wall.
He wore fitted black martial attire, his hair tied in a high ponytail, a red ribbon trailing beside his shoulder.
A gold-thread mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his slightly downcast eyes visible.
A gust of wind lifted the loose strands over his forehead and the ribbon behind his head. He didn't move, simply leaning quietly against the wall like a painting forgotten in a corner, his gaze full of shattered fragility.
It was hard to describe the feeling. He was simply standing there quietly, saying nothing, doing nothing, yet he could make someone imagine the story of his entire life.
Her finger moved faster than her brain, pressing the shutter more than a dozen times in a row.
Every shot was god-tier. Light spilled through the gaps in the eaves, falling precisely on his shoulder and brow ridge, creating natural layers of light and shade that even saved her the trouble of color grading afterward.
Who was this young man?! Which agency was he with?! What role was he playing?! In three seconds, I want all his information!
Wu Yue was so excited she nearly toppled out of the tree. She hurriedly hugged the trunk to steady herself.
By the time she raised her camera and looked that way again, he was gone.
Where had her absolutely gorgeous young man gone? He'd been right there!
Growing frantic, Wu Yue swept her lens across the set-the study entrance, beneath the covered walkway, beside the prop crates. Nowhere.
She was perched too high. People came and went below, but all she could see were the backs of their heads. She couldn't tell who was who.
She could only give up for now and point her lens back toward Xu Che.
Xu Che was filming a board-game scene with another actor in the pavilion. A game board sat on the stone table, and the two took turns, Xu Che placing his pieces with steady, graceful movements.