Chapter 20: Now You're Really Crossing the Line, My Friend!

Su Mu’s little scheme had succeeded.

But in truth, his inspiration came from an interview he’d seen in his previous life. The actor in question, from the moment he received the script, immersed himself in the role—every gesture and movement was infused with the character’s lived structure and inner logic. It was as if he had become someone else entirely, and it was this dedication that moved not only the director but the audience as well, ultimately creating a classic performance for the ages.

Su Mu was only imitating what he had observed—merely scratching the surface, really. Yet, it had still made a difference.

Perhaps no one else present could discern the subtlety of his approach, but Zhang Huaimou’s impression of Su Mu was beginning to shift, bit by bit.

Now, hearing Su Mu take the initiative to request an audition for the main antagonist—even at the cost of sacrificing his carefully crafted public persona—Zhang Huaimou found himself once again surprised.

As an actor, one must be willing to give everything for a role. The saying “the play is greater than the heavens” embodies precisely this spirit.

“Su Mu, are you certain you want to try for Gao Qiqiang? You’ve read the script. Once the decision is made, it won’t be easy to change,” Zhang Huaimou asked.

“Don’t worry, Director Zhang. I want to play Gao Qiqiang. That’s the role I came here for,” Su Mu replied.

A spark of anticipation flickered in Zhang Huaimou’s gaze—a rare emotion for him. After so many years as a director, he’d seen every kind of actor and experienced all manner of excellent scripts. It was not often something could genuinely pique his interest.

Everyone in the crew knew how seriously Zhang Huaimou took casting for this new project. He could quickly decide on leads, both male and female, but for the antagonist, he had hesitated for a long time. The character was too complex. Even Zhang Huaimou himself was uncertain what kind of actor would be most suitable.

At this moment, Zhang Huaimou opened his script, flipping to a page that had long been marked.

“Since you want to try Gao Qiqiang, let’s see you in this scene—page thirty-two, scene eighty-seven, a night scene,” he said.

At his words, those around him began to search their own scripts for the same scene.

On the other side, Ning Yuyan, Sun Danfei, Zhang Jianlin, and Zhou Yi—all first-rate actors—had not left. Their auditions were over, but curiosity held them; they wanted to see how Su Mu would fare in the end.

Ning Yuyan, in particular, had been worried for Su Mu, believing his performance uneven. The outcome, however, was entirely unexpected.

Yet, she still felt that Su Mu’s decision to audition for the villain showed a lack of foresight. Even if he could perform well and pass, a host of problems would follow. For example, the international brand endorsement Su Mu had just secured required him to maintain a positive public image. If he played a notorious villain, the brand would likely be the first to object.

It was a risky move.

Should the role taint his reputation and cost him the goodwill he’d built, the brand would also be adversely affected. There were many precedents: well-known actors who played villains so convincingly that the public grew to dislike them, resulting in a drop in product sales and, ultimately, the brand’s unilateral termination of their contract. It was an unpredictable situation.

That was why, despite acknowledging Su Mu’s cleverness in taking an unconventional path, Ning Yuyan felt he had overlooked the fact that a celebrity’s career is not built on a single film, but rather a multidimensional whole—each part indispensable.

“Wow, this scene… That’s a tough one!”

“I told you, didn’t I? Director Zhang was deliberately playing hard to get.”

“He’s coming down hard right from the start.”

“This scene really is difficult. With Su Mu’s wooden acting, he’ll be finished.”

Murmurs rose around them.

Ning Yuyan set aside her thoughts and glanced at the script. After a quick read, her brows furrowed. The others were right—this scene was truly challenging.

Title: After Gao Qiqiang kills Xu Biao’s son, he splits thirty thousand yuan.

Background: Late night, outside an apartment complex.

Plot: After murdering Xu Biao’s son, Gao Qiqiang meets the Tang brothers, Xiaohu and Xiaolong, late one night to divide the spoils. Racked with inner turmoil, he ultimately chooses to abandon himself to darkness.

Those familiar with the script knew the difficulty lay in Gao Qiqiang’s internal monologue—hard to articulate and extremely complex. Early in the story, Gao Qiqiang is bullied; later, he accidentally kills the local crime boss’ son. To cover up the truth, he must bid farewell to his old life. This is the beginning of his true descent into darkness, the most tortured and conflicted phase for his character.

He knows he will never return to his former, ordinary life. Yet, it’s precisely that past and environment that have cornered him. Contradiction is woven through his being.

Life is hard.

Being a decent person is harder still.

To lead a normal, good life is the hardest of all.

Gao Qiqiang is consumed by fear, struggle, and pain. Before him lies the pitch-black night, devoid of light. Behind him, the apartment building symbolizes his past of weakness, with the brother who worries for him and the sister he has sworn to protect.

He must choose. He is afraid, but there is no way back.

This is what the scene seeks to convey.

It is, undeniably, a daunting challenge. The actor must leave ample space for psychological activity, yet also make the audience sense the inner conflict and confusion after falling into the abyss. No wonder everyone thought Zhang Huaimou was deliberately making things difficult for Su Mu.

Even for the other actors present, passing this scene in a single take would be nearly impossible; just conjuring the emotional state could take days. How could anyone enter character in a second?

And for a traffic-star known for poor acting—wasn’t this just setting him up to fail?

Zhang Huaimou looked at Su Mu, half-smiling.

“Well, kid? Dare to try this scene?”

“No problem. This scene it is. I’ll do it,” Su Mu responded, astonishingly calm, as if he were entirely confident in this audition. Yet he hadn’t even opened the script.

“Confidence is good,” Zhang Huaimou said, “but you should at least look at the script. Check the setting and lines. I’ll give you time to prepare.”

Su Mu shook his head with a smile. “No need, Director Zhang. I know this scene.”

Zhang Huaimou was taken aback. “You know it?”

The crowd’s surprise was palpable.

He hadn’t even looked at the script—how could he know the scene? This kind of arrogance was unheard of.

Su Mu smiled lightly, as if it were nothing. “No need to check. This is the scene where Gao Qiqiang splits thirty thousand yuan. I memorized the script before coming here. I know the lines backward and forward. It’s no trouble at all. So, Director Zhang, should I change into costume before going on camera?”

The exclamations rippled through the crowd.

Did you hear that? He claims to have memorized the entire script…

If that’s the case, then you really are pushing things, my friend!