“You’re a guy?”
A cold male voice came from the side. He Zheng slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked over at the male actor who had finally finished his makeup. He nodded politely and said, “Hello.”
The director urged from the side, “Stop wasting time. Hurry up and finish the shoot.”
The actor gave a lazy “oh,” and without even asking if He Zheng was ready, turned to the director and made an “OK” gesture.
The lights came on, the camera aimed at the two of them. The director shouted, “Action!”
The actor entered the scene instantly. After two lines of dialogue, his expression changed sharply — he raised his hand and slapped He Zheng hard across the face.
Smack—
He Zheng’s head was knocked to the side. He was just about to open his mouth to say his line when the director’s angry voice cut in.
“Two slaps! Don’t pause! Do it again!”
The actor flicked his wrist and said carelessly, “I forgot.”
“It’s fine,” He Zheng said, shaking his head and touching his cheek.
“Closer distance!” the director commanded loudly from behind the monitor. “Action!”
The actor tensed his arm and struck He Zheng twice more, harder this time. The second slap was off angle — half of it landed on He Zheng’s jaw.
That bone was firm. Before the director even called “cut,” the actor had already winced in pain, shaking his stinging hand.
“What’s wrong with you!” the director snapped at him. “Who told you to move like that? Did I say cut?!”
“He’s too tall, I can’t even reach him,” the actor retorted, his temper flaring. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“One last take. If you mess it up again, both of you get out!”
He Zheng pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek — his face was already going numb. The guy had real strength. After three slaps, his cheek was swelling fast.
Around them, the background actors watched in barely concealed glee. The male actor, humiliated by the director’s scolding, was fuming — but unable to vent it at the director, he channeled all his frustration into his hand.
He Zheng felt the next slap come down with full force, like a gusting storm. After his left cheek was hit, another stinging blow landed on the right.
When the director finally yelled “Cut,” the actor clutched his swollen hand and glared at He Zheng coldly. “Crazy bastard, made me get scolded.”
The last slap had come down so hard that He Zheng felt something sharp tear across his face. When he touched it, his fingers came away wet — blood.
His expression darkened. “You didn’t cut your nails?”
“Why should I?” the actor sneered, backing away in disgust when he saw the blood trickle down He Zheng’s face. “Who says you have to trim your nails for a slap scene? What kind of nobody are you to make demands like that? Don’t talk nonsense.”
He Zheng clenched his palm, forcing himself not to argue with someone like this. Pressing his lips together, he said nothing and turned to leave to treat his wound.
But the actor wasn’t done. He shouted after him, voice echoing across the set, “Who the hell do you think you are, you worthless extra?!”
“You got a problem now?”
“Still talking about my nails?”
“You not satisfied I slapped you?”
The more he yelled, the more agitated he became, adrenaline fueling his anger like a wildfire burning away reason.
He lunged forward, grabbed He Zheng’s hair from behind, and raised his arm to strike again—
But He Zheng turned sharply, catching his wrist in midair.
“Let go!!”
Seeing the fight about to break out, the director slammed his script to the ground, yanked at his tie, and shouted, “Don’t you dare make trouble here! You’re done! Get out when this scene’s over!!”
He Zheng released his grip. The furious actor tried to rush him again, but someone nearby quickly held him back.
He Zheng’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked up at the man raging like a madwoman, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, expression flat — saying nothing at all.
……
The first thing he did when he got home was treat his wound.
The scratch ran from beneath his eye to the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t deep, but not shallow either. The blood had mostly clotted, though a few beads still welled up.
He Zheng disinfected it, wiped away the residue, and just as he put on a bandage, a voice call request popped up on his screen.
He stared at it as it automatically timed out — he didn’t answer.
The call ended. A few seconds later, it came again.
This time, He Zheng picked up. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his tone, pushing down all the agitation swirling in his chest. “What’s up?”
“Yesterday…” The man on the other end — his “Top Supporter” — hesitated. “Were you busy?”
He didn’t know what He Zheng had just gone through. He only knew that He Zheng hadn’t replied all night, and he’d been worried.
For no reason, just hearing that voice now, He Zheng suddenly remembered Li Ru’s words: “You can’t see people’s hearts through a screen. Don’t be fooled.”
“Not busy,” He Zheng said briefly.
“You didn’t answer my call either,” the man murmured.
“I didn’t hear it.”
The other side went quiet for a moment — as if sensing the faint distance that had crept between them. His tone dimmed. “Am I messaging you too often?”
“No.”
He Zheng said it automatically, then paused, opening his mouth to offer some reassurance — but the words stuck.
That moment of silence made his answer sound even colder, more perfunctory.
After a while, the man sighed quietly. “I won’t bother you anymore, then. You can hang up.”
“…”
He Zheng’s mind was a tangled mess. He hung up and threw the phone aside.
Back in his bedroom, he smoked a cigarette in silence, then pulled the blanket over his head, trying to use sleep to calm himself.
But his thoughts wouldn’t settle. His sleep was restless, plagued by fragments of nightmares —
The new director yelling at him to get out, Li Ru’s voice repeating “Don’t be fooled,” the male actor’s insults ringing in his ears — clear and cruel, yet fading in and out like smoke.
The memories of the past eight years surged up all at once, flooding him like a torrent he could no longer escape.
He remembered the awkward look on his face when someone refused his toast at his debut banquet, remembered how—without a seat arranged for him—he’d stood like an idiot in the middle of the hall. He remembered the countless slaps that had landed on his face, the curses, the ridicule.
Scene after scene replayed endlessly, forcing him to relive every suffocating moment of humiliation—until, in the final replay, everything shattered. Then, in the next instant, all the fragments reassembled into a single image—
A reeking trash can.
A boy covered in grease and grime, crying as he asked him, “Can you take me home?”