The audition information from Sister So was like a stone cast into stagnant water, creating ripples in the dead-end situation Lin Yang found himself in. It was for a small-budget web drama set in the Republican era titled The Nightingale and the Rose.
The role he was auditioning for was the fourth male lead, Shen Qinghe, a progressive student from a wealthy family with high ideals who eventually sacrifices himself for the revolution. It wasn’t a lead role, but the character arc was complete and compelling; if played well, it could easily stand out.
More importantly, this was an opportunity to step completely away from the “Mrs. Li” halo. The pay was low, and the production crew seemed financially strapped, but that was exactly what he needed: a starting point that belonged truly to Lin Yang clean, pure, and unrelated to Li Chenzhou.
The audition was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. Lin Yang spent several days preparing. The study in his apartment became his rehearsal space. He read the thin script repeatedly, trying to grasp Shen Qinghe’s journey from innocence to awakening, and finally to his resolute death. He practiced his lines and expressions in front of the mirror. He even dug out his acting notes from university; the theories and methods he once knew by heart seemed to take on a deeper meaning after the hardships of his past life.
Li Chenzhou maintained his bizarre nightly habit of knocking to borrow soy sauce or ask about property fees. Occasionally, he brought things like “new tea from the old mansion” or a “charity auction catalog to flip through if you’re bored.” Lin Yang responded to everything with cold indifference, focusing all his attention on the upcoming audition. This was a crucial link in his plan; he could not afford to mess it up.
Wednesday was a beautiful day. Lin Yang chose a simple white shirt and casual trousers clean, fresh, and fitting for a student character. He didn’t let Old Yang drive him; instead, he checked the route himself, taking the subway and transferring to a bus. It took nearly an hour to find the somewhat aged film and television park on the edge of the city.
The audition was held in an unremarkable office building. The corridors were crowded with young men and women waiting, the air thick with tension and expectation. Lin Yang’s appearance caused a small stir and whispers. After all, his face and his status as “Mrs. Li” were not secrets in the industry.
“Why is he here?” “Would the Li family even care about a small production like this?” “Who knows? Maybe he’s just experiencing how the other half lives.”
There was curiosity in their eyes, along with a subtle, undetectable contempt. Lin Yang acted as if he heard nothing, found a corner to sit in, and kept his head down to read the script, silently building his emotions.
By the time it was his turn, it was nearly evening. He walked into the audition room to find three people: Director Qian Wei, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap with weary but sharp eyes; a producer who looked like a shrewd woman; and a young man who was likely the screenwriter.
“Hello, everyone. I am Lin Yang, auditioning for Shen Qinghe.” He bowed slightly, his attitude neither humble nor arrogant.
Director Qian looked up and seemed to freeze for a moment when he saw him. His brow furrowed instinctively—he clearly recognized him as well—and a flicker of hesitation and regret crossed his eyes. He probably thought this was another wealthy “socialite” coming to play a part, which would only bring trouble to the crew.
“Let’s begin,” Director Qian said, his voice raspy and sounding uninterested.
Lin Yang nodded and took a deep breath. When he looked up again, his gaze had changed. The scene was a monologue where Shen Qinghe learns of his friend’s death at the hands of the authorities. It was filled with grief, indignation, confusion, and the eventual resolve of awakening. The emotional span was vast.
Lin Yang didn’t use any exaggerated movements. All his power was concentrated in his eyes and his voice. From the initial shock and loss of spirit to the tears gathering in his eyes that he stubbornly refused to let fall, his voice was choked yet clear. Every word carried heavy pain and questioning. Finally, as he looked into the distance, a flicker of an unquenchable flame ignited within his despair.
He was completely immersed in Shen Qinghe’s emotions. The grievances, anger, and longing for an exit accumulated from his past and present lives unexpectedly resonated with the character, making his performance incredibly infectious and authentic.
When the performance ended, the room was silent. Lin Yang slowly withdrew from the emotion, his breathing still a bit ragged. He noticed that Director Qian had sat up straight at some point, his eyes under the cap shining with intensity as he stared at him. The producer and screenwriter exchanged a surprised glance.
“You…” Director Qian opened his mouth, the raspiness gone, replaced by the surprise of discovering a hidden gem. “You understand it so thoroughly! The emotion was perfect! Especially that last look. Good, very good!” He smiled rarely, saying “good” twice.
“Thank you, Director,” Lin Yang said, feeling a slight relief.
“Have you had acting experience before?” Director Qian asked with interest.
“I studied at the Beijing Film Academy and have been on a few sets for small roles,” Lin Yang answered cautiously, not mentioning the opportunities he had gained through his status as “Mrs. Li” that had ultimately led nowhere.
“A professional background, no wonder your foundation is so solid.” Director Qian looked even more satisfied. He turned to the producer. “I think he is perfect! The image, temperament, and acting all fit! Shall we settle on him?”
The producer looked Lin Yang over, seemingly weighing the decision, before finally nodding. “I think so too. Mr. Lin, this role isn’t the lead, but it is very striking. Regarding the pay…”
“I have no problem with that,” Lin Yang interrupted immediately. “What I value is the character and the opportunity.”
Director Qian’s smile widened. “Great! Then it’s a deal! We will have the production team coordinate with your manager on the contract details. I look forward to a pleasant collaboration!” He even stood up to shake Lin Yang’s hand.
As he walked out of the building, the evening breeze felt warm against his face. The director’s words “pleasant collaboration” echoed in his ears. The joy of being recognized for his own ability was something no material possession could provide. He almost jogged to the bus stop, eager to tell Sister So the good news. He even began planning what kind of small apartment he could rent with his first paycheck.
That night, he fried an egg for himself. Although it was a bit burnt, it tasted wonderful. Even when Li Chenzhou knocked on time to ask if he had a spare bulb because the balcony light was flickering, Lin Yang didn’t snap back as usual. He just muttered “I don’t know” and closed the door. Li Chenzhou seemed to sense his good mood and lingered at the door for a few seconds before leaving.
The next morning, Lin Yang was awakened by the vibration of his old phone. It was Sister So. He answered with a smile. “Sister So, did Director Qian contact you? When is the contract…”
“Lin Yang!” Sister So’s voice sounded anxious and frustrated, interrupting him. “It’s over! It fell through!”
The smile on Lin Yang’s face froze. “What fell through?”
“The Nightingale and the Rose! The role of Shen Qinghe! The production side just called, stammering about a change in investors and a shift in the project’s direction. They said the role… has to be recast!” Sister So spoke rapidly, her voice full of confusion and anger. “How could this happen? Director Qian was so satisfied with you! He even went out of his way to praise you to me after the audition yesterday!”
Lin Yang felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him. His limbs turned cold instantly. “A change in investors?” he whispered, his heart sinking.
“Yes! They said the original main investor withdrew, and a new, bigger ‘financial daddy’ came in and specifically asked for a replacement!” Sister So’s voice was close to tears. “What kind of mess is this? We finally had a solid opportunity…”
Lin Yang couldn’t hear whatever else Sister So said. He held the phone with cold, stiff fingers, his ears ringing. A change in investors, a new financial daddy specifically asked for a replacement… These words were like poisoned needles stabbing his nerves. How could there be such a coincidence? Just as he had secured a role on his own, the investors changed and the role was gone?
One name surfaced in his mind with chilling coldness: Li Chenzhou. Only him. Only he had the power and the motive. He didn’t even have to show his face; a single phone call, a single command, was enough to easily crush the tiny, weak light of hope Lin Yang had just seen.
So, his question about the “light bulb” last night wasn’t out of concern; it was a confirmation? A confirmation that the bird trying to fly out of the cage was still staying put. A massive wave of anger and humiliation swept over him, nearly drowning him. He was trembling all over, wanting nothing more than to rush across the hall and grab that man by the collar to demand answers!
But in the end, he did nothing. He just slowly, slowly crouched down, hugged his knees, and buried his face deep. The sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains onto his trembling back, but it brought no warmth. It turned out that his so-called independence and escape were nothing more than a self-righteous joke from the beginning. He couldn’t even pry open the smallest crack.
Meanwhile, in the CEO’s office on the top floor of the Li Group. Cheng Wei placed a document softly on the desk.
“President Li, the acquisition process for Xinghai Culture (the original holding company for the Nightingale and the Rose project) has been completed. All legal documents have been signed. This is the final confirmation.”
Behind the large desk, Li Chenzhou shifted his gaze from the computer screen to the document. There was no ripple in his eyes, as if he had merely acquired an insignificant parts factory.
“I see,” he said faintly. He picked up his fountain pen and signed his name fluently where required, the strokes as sharp as a blade.
“The production crew has been informed; the role will be recast,” Cheng Wei continued to report meticulously, his tone as flat as if he were stating a common business decision. “Director Qian Wei seemed a bit emotional, but he stated he would follow the company’s arrangements.”
Li Chenzhou put down the pen and returned his gaze to the computer screen, which showed complex stock market graphs. “Handle the follow-up well,” he said coldly. “Ensure the project proceeds smoothly.”
“Yes.” Cheng Wei bowed, took the signed document, and left the office silently.
The door closed softly. Li Chenzhou’s gaze, however, did not focus on the flickering numbers. He turned his head slightly to look at the vast city skyline outside the window. Deep in his eyes, a very faint, complex emotion flickered.
The nightingale that tried to fly away was, after all, kept in the magnificent cage by the thorns of the rose. At least, until he could ensure absolute safety, he could not let him go.