448: Chapter 448 The Invisible Thread

Before Chen Jiahao could even recover from his excitement, his movements froze in mid-air.

He turned around, the smile on his face looking as if someone had pressed the pause button, before it slowly collapsed.

"Master Que, are you serious?"

Lin Que looked at him and didn't say a word.

Chen Jiahao's fingers unconsciously tugged at his hair, rubbing it back and forth a few times.

He thought of how Dan Yi usually looked when they passed each other in the hallway.

Those gray-blue eyes never looked at anyone, and his lips were always pursed into a thin line.

The guy was like a shard of ice dug out of the permafrost, with the words "Stay Away" written all over him.

Last time he tried to strike up a conversation with Dan Yi in the cafeteria, he had barely managed a "Hey" before the other person walked away with his tray without even looking up.

That feeling of being ignored was even more uncomfortable than being scolded.

"Master Que, it's not that I don't want to call him."

There was a hint of indescribable grievance in Chen Jiahao's voice.

"That guy is simply not in the same temperature zone as us.

When I go up to talk to him, he doesn't even bother to give me a glance. I feel like an auto-pop-up ad that gets closed before it even finishes loading."

"Just try," Lin Que said in a flat tone.

"It's not that he doesn't want to be near people; it's just that it's been too long since anyone truly called out to him."

Chen Jiahao opened his mouth, wanting to struggle a bit more.

But when he looked up and met Lin Que's gaze, those excuses were slowly swallowed back down.

Lin Que rarely spoke casually.

Since he was asking him to call Dan Yi, he had likely already thought of something.

"Fine." Chen Jiahao gritted his teeth and stood up from his chair.

"I'll go try. At worst, I'll freeze to death at the door of the dorm next door."

He walked to the door and looked back at Lin Que once more.

"Master Que, if he kicks me out, you have to treat me to a good meal."

"Deal."

Chen Jiahao pulled the door open, and his footsteps gradually faded away in the hallway.

The dorm room fell silent.

Xu Changge had already returned to his desk.

On the manuscript paper spread out before him, the title "heavenly questions" was circled in red, and the margins were packed with revision ideas.

The fountain pen spun twice between his fingers before the nib descended, beginning to redraw Old Zheng's character arc.

Lin Que glanced over but did not disturb him.

On Xu Changge's manuscript, the line that originally read "last words" had been crossed out entirely, leaving only a single word circled in red next to it.

Listen.

That red ink circle was drawn very heavily, as if he had finally pushed open a crack in a certain window.

He reached into the back of his desk drawer and pulled out a palm-sized spare phone.

The phone had a privacy screen protector, no regular SIM card inserted, and was never connected to the dorm's Wi-Fi.

Lin Que tilted his chair slightly to keep the screen away from Xu Changge's direction,

lowered the brightness to the minimum, and then turned it on while half-shielding it with his palm.

His fingertips slid quickly across the screen, entering a sixteen-digit mixed password.

The encrypted email interface for "Dream Weaver" popped up.

At the top of the inbox, an unread email lay there quietly.

Sender: Director Guo Changhe. In front of the subject line, a red "Urgent Advancement" tag was particularly eye-catching.

Lin Que's thumb hovered over the screen for half a second.

He clicked in.

The body of the email was very long, with several obvious traces of repeated deletions and edits between paragraphs.

Even through the screen, Lin Que could feel Director Guo Changhe's suppressed excitement after staying up for several nights.

"Dream Weaver Teacher, the casting work is finally complete!"

"Following your instructions strictly, all lead actors were selected from the drama circle.

The role of 'Zhao Li' was ultimately locked in for Yu Yi, a young actor from the Drama Theater. This person has extremely solid stage foundations and a look in his eyes that has that 'relaxed feeling of wandering between the human world and the underworld' that you mentioned."

"On Chen Chenrui's side, his team approached me seven times, and the last time they directly brought in the investors to apply pressure."

"I placed your 'Zhao Li: Character Biography' on the conference table and made them read it aloud on the spot."

"In the end, they didn't push for a signature anymore, only leaving behind a 'Hope Director Guo doesn't regret it' before temporarily backing off."

Lin Que scrolled down.

Director Guo Changhe's writing shifted from reporting to another topic, and his tone changed from excitement to a sort of cautious probing.

"Additionally, there is one more thing I'd like to discuss with you."

"The crew plans to start the script reading session for the core creative team on October 20th.

The location is tentatively set in Chaoyang District, Jingcheng. It will be a closed session lasting two days."

"For ordinary projects, I know what I'm doing when it comes to script readings."

"But this soul ferry project is too special."

Director Guo Changhe's wording became even more circumspect.

"There is no precedent for supernatural themes in the domestic market. Where the boundaries of the scale lie, what can be filmed, what can only be hinted at, and how the actors should handle the nuances of their performances—I can't carry these questions alone."

"The screenwriting team has revised the script six times.

The first version was too much like a horror movie; as soon as a ghost appeared, it was nothing but scares.

The third version was too warm and fuzzy, making the boundary between the living and dead look like a community mediation room.

The latest version has a smooth rhythm, but whenever Zhao Li speaks, I always feel like that specific flavor is missing."

"I know it's not right, but I can't say exactly where it's lacking."

"To tell you the truth, and don't laugh, but after fifteen years of directing, this is the first time I've felt like I'm standing before a completely unfamiliar field."

The wording of the last paragraph had clearly been labored over, with several sentences edited into a bit of a mess.

Director Guo Changhe had lowered his posture as a director very far.

"Dream Weaver Teacher, I know you are unwilling to show your face, and this request may be very presumptuous.

"But I truly hope you can come in person.

Even if you only sit for half a day, even if you don't say a word and just listen, it would be a stabilizing force for us."

"The time, place, and method are all up to you.

I can clear the set, sign non-disclosure agreements, and have all staff members avoid the area. As long as you are willing to come."

The email ended there.

Lin Que turned off the phone screen and leaned back against his chair.

October 20th. There were still a dozen or so days left.

A script reading.

He naturally knew what a script reading meant.

In another set of memories, he had participated in no fewer than twenty script reading sessions.

It was the final hurdle for a film or television work to move from the page to the screen.

The skeleton of the script would be repeatedly hammered, disassembled, and reassembled during the reading, and the actors' understanding of their characters would take shape during this process.

The quality of the script reading directly determined the ceiling of the final production.

And the show soul ferry had been the pioneering work of Huaxia's supernatural film and television in his past life.

The reason it was able to break through from a barren wasteland was its precise grasp of "the line between humans and ghosts."

Special effects and celebrity traffic can only sustain a temporary buzz; that invisible sense of proportion is what determines whether it can truly stand its ground.

That line is invisible to the naked eye, but the audience can feel it.

If it's too grounded, it won't pass censorship.

If it's too ethereal, the audience won't believe it.

Ghosts must have yin energy, and humans must have warmth; that layer of mist in between cannot be a fraction too thick or too thin.

Director Guo Changhe said he "couldn't say where it was lacking," and Lin Que knew why.

It was because no one in this world had ever filmed this kind of thing before. Everyone was walking in the dark without any reference points.

But he held the map to a path that had already been successfully traversed in another timeline.

The problem was that an offline script reading meant appearing in person.

The identity of "Dream Weaver" had never been revealed since its inception.

Hong Hu, the editor from Hong Guo Net, didn't know what he looked like, nor did the readers or the fans.

This layer of anonymity was the core defense line for maintaining his dual identities.

Once he appeared at the script reading, even if only the director and a few lead actors were present, his true age and physical features would be exposed to at least a dozen people.

A dozen people.

In this information age, a secret known by a dozen people would quickly turn into screenshots, recordings, and anonymous leaks.

As long as someone put the words "seventeen-year-old boy" and "Dream Weaver" in the same post,

Hong Guo Net, Xinchao Publishing House, the Writers Association, and the Qinglan Project—all the threads would be strung together overnight.

Lin Que's gaze fell on the reflection of the black phone screen, which showed a seventeen-year-old face.

But if he didn't go, this show would very likely go astray at the most critical point of its nuance.

Lin Que closed his eyes for a moment.

The reason soul ferry became legendary in his past life was because every detail landed perfectly on that invisible line.

Zhao Li's rogue nature hiding a sense of compassion, Xia Dongqing's innocence wrapped in resilience, and the contrast between the warm glow of Convenience Store No. 444 and the darkness outside the door.

A mere character biography was far from enough to convey these things.

It required someone to be on-site at the moment the actors spoke their lines,

to tell them, "Hold back a bit more here," or "You can let loose a little more here."

Director Guo Changhe had the instincts of a director, but he didn't have the road signs for this genre.

The screenwriting team's six versions of the script were like a group of people in a dark room groping for a door.

Everyone knew the door was nearby, but no one could find the handle.

Lin Que opened his eyes and glanced at Xu Changge, who was buried in his revisions opposite him.

The nib of the pen scratched against the paper; Xu Changge's attention was completely immersed in the reconstruction of "heavenly questions," oblivious to everything happening behind him.

Lin Que lit up the phone screen again and opened the reply box for the email.

The cursor blinked in the blank space for over ten seconds.

He didn't start typing immediately.

From the other end of the hallway, in the direction of the neighboring dorm, Chen Jiahao's voice could be faintly heard.

The exact words weren't clear, but the tone carried an obvious sense of flattery and nervousness.

Lin Que's attention was briefly pulled away for a moment before he snapped it back.

He had to think of a way.

A way to appear at the script reading without causing the true identity of "Dream Weaver" to be widely exposed.

...