The audition started at nine in the morning. By the time Wen Shiqing and Xiao Zhao arrived at the venue, the hall was already packed with people. A few of them were acquaintances, so they exchanged greetings before heading off to prepare.
Xiao Zhao went to collect the audition number and audition materials, then came back with the latest update.
Xiao Zhao said, “Sis, I just asked around—the results for today’s preliminary round will be out tonight. If you pass, they’ll have the male lead come in to act opposite you during the callback.”
She then handed Wen Shiqing the audition piece she had drawn. Unlike other productions that gave you the audition scenes days in advance, this crew made you draw on the spot—whatever scene you picked, that’s what you performed.
It was a real test of an actor’s ability to think on their feet.
Xiao Zhao added, “But the audition scene isn’t in the script we received.”
Not in the script?
Wen Shiqing took the paper from Xiao Zhao. The A4 sheet didn’t contain much—just a brief setup of the backstory. The female lead and male lead’s emotions had reached their peak, and the male lead confessed his feelings. But the female lead, still wounded from a previous relationship, didn’t dare agree easily, even though she liked him too.
The scene Wen Shiqing was to audition was this: after fleeing in a panic, the female lead stands on her balcony in the wind, and finally receives a call from the male lead. He asks her to come downstairs. After thinking it through, she makes up her mind to reject him.
There were no lines at all—the performance had to be carried entirely by body language and facial expressions.
In a film, this kind of scene would have background and music to match the character’s state, but during the audition, there was nothing.
The performance could easily fall flat, and she might even get cut on the spot.
Wen Shiqing felt the pressure mounting.
She took a deep breath, glanced around, and said, “I’ll go over there to get into the zone. Call me when my number’s up.”
Xiao Zhao nodded and thoughtfully left Wen Shiqing alone.
Wen Shiqing was number twenty-three. Each actor only had ten minutes—introduction and performance combined—and during that time, the panel wouldn’t say a single word.
By the time her turn was approaching, over an hour had passed.
Wen Shiqing emerged from the corner and noticed that barely anyone was left in the hall. Results were sent by email, and everyone had squeezed time out of their busy schedules to be here, so they left as soon as they finished.
“Number 23, get ready. You’ll go in for your audition in five minutes,” the assistant at the door announced.
Xiao Zhao took a deep breath, kneaded Wen Shiqing’s shoulders, and whispered in her ear, “Sis, don’t be nervous. Let’s just treat it as an experience.”
No expectations, no disappointment.
Wen Shiqing smiled and patted her shoulder. “It’s not my first audition. I’m not nervous.”
When Wen Shiqing had first entered the industry, she’d run around to plenty of productions. It was only in the past two years that scripts started coming to her directly, so she was very familiar with the audition process.
Besides, she’d already figured out how she wanted to play it.
“Number 23, please come in,” the assistant called again.
Wen Shiqing snapped back to the present. She stuck the number 23 sticker onto her waist, and when she raised her head again, her gaze had changed.
Inside the room, the audition director looked down at the actor’s profile in his hands. “Wen Shiqing? Her look doesn’t quite fit.”
Wen Shiqing looked gentle and radiant, but the female lead in the movie actually had a stubborn streak in her. Though beautiful, she had been worn down by society’s hardships, becoming weary and numb.
The screenwriter noticed this too, pinching the bridge of her nose and mumbling a vague “Mm,” before adding, “But let’s see how it goes first.”
Twenty-eight actresses had come today, all of them rising stars currently active in film and television. Each one was holding their breath, desperate to land the role. But after reviewing so many, they had only picked out two who were somewhat suitable—and both were matches in terms of appearance only.
The casting director looked at Wen Shiqing’s photo. He knew who she was; he’d occasionally scrolled past some of her clips. But the roles she played were either villains or supporting female characters in serious dramas.
He scanned the titles of her past works—not a single idol drama among them.
Looks like this one would have to be passed over too.
The casting director was just about to set her materials aside and move on to the next actress when the door was pushed open from outside.
Everyone looked up, turning their attention to the person entering.
She didn’t walk in quickly like the other actresses they’d interviewed before. Instead, she pushed the door open slowly, and as she stepped in, they could see the exhaustion written all over her face.
The casting director and screenwriter exchanged a glance—was she starting her performance right away?
They had to admit, this caught their attention, and they began to take Wen Shiqing’s audition more seriously.
Wen Shiqing walked in carrying her handbag. She tilted her head slightly to close the door, then let out a long breath, her shoulders seeming to slump even more.
She set down her bag and keys, slowly changed her shoes with her head lowered, and walked barefoot toward the “balcony” off to the side.
Her gaze stared blankly into the distance. Her brow seemed to relax a little, and her eyes held a bit more light than when she’d first walked in. But soon, as if something had occurred to her, the light in her eyes gradually dimmed, flickering out bit by bit.
In the end, her weary face settled into confusion.
It was as if she were wondering—how could anyone love someone like her?
She was self-deprecating and numb, and the little confidence she’d had had vanished completely after her romantic failure. She only wanted to retreat into her shell, letting its hard exterior protect her, keeping anyone from hurting her again.
But he was so wonderful.
A glimmer of tears appeared in her eyes, but she suddenly snapped back to herself, tilting her head up and exhaling, trying to suppress the bitterness rising within her. But in the end, she couldn’t hold it back—tears streamed down her cheeks.
Sensitive people cry silently, even their tears making no sound.
She didn’t know how long she’d been crying when a ringtone suddenly sounded from the bag she’d set down earlier. She raised a hand to wipe away her tears, walked over, and pulled out her phone. But when she saw the name saved on the screen, she froze.
The tears she hadn’t yet dried fell onto the phone. She frantically tried to wipe them away, but accidentally answered the call.
Her lashes trembled slightly, as if she’d made a tremendous decision, before she slowly brought the phone to her ear: “Hello?”
The performance ended.
Wen Shiqing let out a long sigh. She tilted her head back, fanning her eyes with her hand, and once she’d steadied her emotions, she walked to the center of the room with her phone in hand and spoke: “Hello, teachers. I’m contestant number 23, Wen Shiqing. That was my audition performance. Thank you for watching.”
Only after she finished speaking did the five teachers before her seem to snap out of a daze.
The audition teacher seated in the middle gave a slight nod: “Mm, your performance was quite good. The results of the preliminary round will be sent to your email at eight o’clock tonight. Please check your inbox.”
That was what they said to every actor.
Wen Shiqing nodded, then bowed. “Thank you, teachers. I’ll head out now.”
She turned around, quickly picked up her bag from the floor, and was about to leave when she heard someone call her name.
Wen Shiqing turned to look. The screenwriter asked, “Not planning to introduce yourself a bit more?”
The actors before her, besides stating their names, would also mention awards they’d won or notable dramas they’d appeared in.
But Wen Shiqing had given just a simple self-introduction. If not for the long list of works on her resume, one might have mistaken her for a newcomer.
Wen Shiqing thought for a moment, then shook her head and said in a gentle tone, “The teachers probably want to see the female lead in the film today, not me as a person. If given the chance, I hope to properly introduce myself to you all in my spare time.”
The screenwriter chuckled at this. “Alright, I hope I get the chance to hear a more detailed introduction from you too. Please go ahead—thank you for your time.”
Wen Shiqing smiled back at them, then picked up her bag and left.
After she was gone, the screenwriter said, “She fits the role very well, and she has a natural spark.”
Several actresses before her had auditioned with the same scene, but something was always missing. After watching Wen Shiqing, she realized the previous actresses lacked a certain layered progression of emotion.
That layering was something elusive—some might have been aware of it, but they overdid it, leaving heavy traces of performance.
But Wen Shiqing was so natural. Every furrow of her brow, every expression, and her tears—all of it was just right.
The screenwriter immediately put a checkmark on Wen Shiqing’s resume. She was by far the most satisfying actress she’d seen so far!