482: Chapter 482 Humanity is Hidden in the Unseen Details

Everyone in the conference room was staring at him.

Yu Yi closed his eyes.

His chest heaved once, his shoulders sank by half an inch, as if he were locking himself into some invisible room.

Director Guo Changhe put down his pen, and the hand Zhou Ming was holding the script with froze in mid-air.

In the back row, Chen Chengrui's hand, which had been twirling his sunglasses, also slowed down.

Three seconds.

Yu Yi opened his eyes.

His brows knit tightly, and a layer of something welled up in his eyes.

It was struggle, reluctance, the tearing of a person facing the interrogation of their own conscience.

His right hand clenched tightly, knuckles strained; he clenched it halfway before slowly loosening it, only to clench it again.

His entire facial muscles were paving the way for that little "exception," heavy, struggling, as if bearing the weight of a thousand-pound moral choice.

This was the standard way of acting on a theater stage.

Every movement was precise, every inch of emotion was full.

"Stop."

Lin Que's voice pressed down from the speakers.

Yu Yi's movements froze in place.

He maintained that clenched-fist posture, eyes open, but he dared not turn back to look at the screen.

"Too heavy."

Three words crashed down.

Yu Yi's brows relaxed halfway, and a bit of bewilderment surfaced on his face.

He considered this the most difficult and brilliant handling of the scene.

Struggle, reluctance, exception—layered progression.

Lin Que didn't give him any room to breathe.

"What you just acted out was an ordinary person."

His speaking pace was slow, pressing down firmly on every word.

"An ordinary person, seeing a child on the side of the road about to die, would struggle, would feel reluctant, would waver back and forth between saving them or not.

Because he hasn't seen death many times.

Every death, to him, is a huge deal."

"But Zhao Li is not."

"He has lived for a thousand years."

"The souls he has sent away, if you were to count them, you couldn't.

Infants, the elderly, those who starved to death, died of illness, died of unnatural causes, or died of old age. What hasn't he seen?"

"To him, death is not a huge deal. Death is routine. It is the work he has to handle every day when he goes to work."

The conference room fell silent.

Zhou Ming slowly lifted his head.

"You played the 'exception' with such struggle and pain, it's equivalent to telling the audience: this soul ferry is still sensitive to death, still prone to making a fuss."

Lin Que paused for a beat.

"Then he has lived this thousand years in vain."

Yu Yi's face turned pale bit by bit.

He looked down at his script, the pen in his hand already hovering over the paper without him realizing it.

Suddenly, a very faint scoff came from the back row.

Chen Chengrui was twirling his sunglasses with his fingertips, his crossed legs swinging in a slouchy manner,

his body leaning forward lazily, his face clearly showing the mockery of "nothing special,"

deliberately making his voice just loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"Mr. Dream Weaver."

He spoke, his posture very high and mighty, as if he had finally caught an opportunity to showcase himself.

"Let me interject. I've watched so many plays and acted in so many plays, I have some insights I'd like to share."

Director Guo Changhe's expression immediately darkened.

He glanced toward the screen, then looked at Chen Chengrui, his lips moving, but in the end, he didn't say those words.

He couldn't afford to offend the investors behind the other party.

Chen Chengrui didn't notice Director Guo Changhe's expression, or rather, he simply didn't care.

"You say Zhao Li is numb to death, I agree with that. But the audience doesn't."

He spread his hands.

"What do audiences watch plays for? For immersion.

If you let the actor have no expression on his face at all, how do the audience know he has inner conflict?"

"I suggest adding a close-up here.

Reddened eyes, or gritting teeth, to bring out the weight of that 'exception'."

He gestured to his own eyes.

"When the audience sees it, they'll think, 'Oh, this soul ferry has a soft heart, he's fighting against the rules.'

That's how you get tension, that's how you get tear-jerking moments; the mass market eats this stuff up."

After finishing, he leaned back in his chair, looked around, waiting for everyone's agreement.

Zhou Ming's hand holding the pen tightened.

This kind of melodramatic, pandering traffic-drama tactic that treats the audience like fools was the thing he detested most since he started his career.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but then remembered this person's status, and forced himself to hold back.

The atmosphere in the conference room was a bit stiff.

Lin Que didn't look at the screen on Chen Chengrui's side at all.

He didn't even address a single point in Chen Chengrui's long speech.

The other end of the screen was silent for two seconds, then a question fell flatly.

"A soul ferry who has spent a thousand years watching life and death would grit his teeth for a child he has never met before?"

The tone of this sentence was indiscernible.

But the smile on Chen Chengrui's face froze for a second.

The gazes of several people in the conference room swept across his face simultaneously.

There was no mockery in those gazes, but precisely because there was no mockery, it made him even more embarrassed.

"This..."

Chen Chengrui's jaw moved; he quickly organized his words.

"This isn't a question of whether it's realistic or not, it's a question of the market.

Who are you making the play for? For the audience.

You have to give the audience what they like.

The current market is mass-market; if you don't provide emotion, the audience will swipe away in three seconds—"

"Young Master Chen."

Lin Que interrupted him.

The voice wasn't loud, but it cut off the second half of Chen Chengrui's sentence at the root.

"Gritting teeth is hatred."

"Reddened eyes is sadness."

"A person who has long been numb to death feels neither hatred nor sadness."

"The moment he feels compassion is not on his face."

Everyone in the conference room pricked up their ears.

Even Chen Chengrui unconsciously leaned his body forward by half an inch.

Lin Que's voice continued to flow, flat, steady, every word landing exactly where it should.

"Yu Yi."

"Teacher Dream Weaver."

Yu Yi sat up straight immediately.

"Do it again. In this scene, your face must not show any change from beginning to end."

Yu Yi was stunned: "Not at all?"

"Not at all."

Lin Que said. "Keep your eyes indifferent.

Look at that child the same way you would look at any ordinary soul waiting to be sent away. Business as usual."

Yu Yi's brows slowly furrowed.

If there is nothing on his face, then how will the audience see the "exception" in this scene?

"The exception is placed in your hands."

Lin Que seemed to see through his confusion.

"Aren't you holding a cigarette in your hand?"

Yu Yi looked down at the stage directions in the script.

One of Zhao Li's signature actions is that cigarette in his hand that he never lights.

"You are just about to turn and leave.

According to the rules, it is not time for this child's soul to go, it is not your responsibility, and you cannot intervene."

"Your hand holding the cigarette is lifted halfway."

Lin Que's speaking pace slowed down even more.

"Right here, stop."

"Let that hand stop for half a second."

"Just half a second."

"Then, crush the cigarette."

"Turn around."

The conference room was deathly silent.

"The cigarette is his rule. It is the line he has guarded for a thousand years.

He smokes because he doesn't care, because to him, everything is indifferent."

"Now he has crushed the cigarette."

"He didn't say a word, and there was not a trace of expression on his face. But everyone knows, he has broken his own rule."

"This moment is heavier than crying for ten minutes."

Yu Yi sat there, his whole body frozen for three seconds.

Then, as if struck by something, he suddenly lowered his head, opened the script, and wrote a few words heavily next to that line of stage directions.

"I understand."

He looked up, his eyes frighteningly bright.

"I'll do it again."

"Go ahead."

Yu Yi closed his eyes, then opened them again.

This time, there was truly nothing on his face.

His gaze was cold, flat, as if looking at something completely ordinary.

His gaze fell on that imaginary child, not lingering, just sweeping past in a business-like manner.

His right hand slowly lifted, making a gesture of holding a cigarette, and brought it toward his mouth.

Lifted halfway.

Stop.

That hand froze in mid-air. Half a second.

Everyone's breathing in the conference room stopped along with that hand.

Then, his fingers slowly curled, making a crushing motion.

His knuckles strained, as if he had really crushed that cigarette into powder.

He turned around, expressionless.

The conference room was deathly silent for a moment.

Immediately after, Zhou Ming slammed the table.

"Amazing!"

He grabbed his pen, scribbling quickly on the edge of the script, muttering to himself:

"Expressionless... hand stops for half a second... crush... God, this tension..."

Director Guo Changhe slapped his thigh several times, so excited he half-stood from his chair:

"Yes! That's it! Yu Yi, that hand pause just now, that half a second, it made my whole being tense up!"

"One movement."

The assistant screenwriter sitting next to Director Guo Changhe murmured,

"One movement, and it acted out both keeping the rules and breaking the rules."

Yu Yi himself was also stunned, slowly looking at his right hand, as if he couldn't believe that moment had been done by him.

He looked up at the screen, his eyes full of excitement:

"Teacher Dream Weaver, I understand.

The more expressionless he is, the heavier that pause is. Because that is the only time he lost his composure."

"Correct."

No fluctuation could be heard in Lin Que's voice,

"Remember this degree. Throughout the whole play, all of Zhao Li's 'human touch' is hidden in places like this.

Not on his face, but in his hands, in the pauses, in those moments he thought no one could see."

Yu Yi nodded heavily and buried his head to continue taking notes.

The entire crew's attention was now fully focused on the screen and the script.

Director Guo Changhe and the two screenwriters huddled together, whispering about how to light that shot,

the actor playing Xia Dongqing also flipped through the script, marking notes next to his scenes.

No one looked at Chen Chengrui in the back row again.

Chen Chengrui sat on that folding chair, his expression becoming hard to maintain.

The "reddened eyes" and "gritting teeth" he had suggested just now,

now, in front of the act of crushing the cigarette, became a joke.

The melodramatic close-up, the tear-jerking moments he wanted, seemed so cheap in this scene, so... amateur.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found he couldn't respond with a single word.

He wanted to refute, but the power of that shot just now had shaken even him.

He wanted to agree, but couldn't bring himself to do it.

The manager behind him bent down, whispering something into his ear.

Chen Chengrui waved his hand, dismissing the person.

He gritted his back teeth and sat back in his seat, his fingertips pinching the leg of his sunglasses until it was almost deformed,

his gaze fixed firmly on the three characters "Dream Weaver" on the screen,

with eight hundred thoughts in his mind about how to regain face, not saying a single extra word.

When Lin Que's gaze swept across the screen, he didn't linger on Chen Chengrui for even half a second,

as if what was sitting on that folding chair was just an insignificant puff of air.

"Director Guo, continue."

"Okay!"

Director Guo Changhe's voice was full of excitement, "Next scene!"

The rhythm of the script reading session picked up all at once.

With that model of crushing the cigarette, the actors seemed to have had a certain mental block cleared.

Yu Yi got more and more into character; he stopped thinking about "how I should express my inner feelings" and instead tucked all the "acting" into those tiny movements.

The strength of holding a cup, the speed of flipping a ledger, the duration of his gaze when looking at a soul.

Episode 1, Scene 5: Zhao Li has a conversation with a female ghost who has a deep obsession.

Yu Yi read halfway and suddenly stopped.

"Teacher Dream Weaver, I'd like to ask."

He initiated, "Here, Zhao Li pours water for the female ghost. This 'water,' is he really pouring it, or just going through the motions? Can a soul drink water?"

Lin Que was silent for two seconds on the other end.

This question hit the nail on the head.

"Go through the motions."

He said, "But you must pour it very earnestly."

Yu Yi frowned:

"Knowing they can't drink it, why pour it earnestly?"

"Because this is the only dignity he can give."

Lin Que's voice slowed down.

"Souls cannot drink water. But when they were alive, if they were thirsty, someone handing them a cup of water was the most ordinary thing.

Zhao Li pouring them water isn't to quench their thirst, but to treat them as people who are still alive."

"He remembers they used to be human."

"Therefore, this cup of water that cannot enter their mouths must be poured more solemnly than any cup of real water."

Yu Yi stared at the script for a long time, then wrote something stroke by stroke next to that line.

He didn't ask again, but everyone could see that the depth in his eyes had deepened by another layer.

Zhou Ming, listening from the side, felt his fingers itching.

When he originally wrote this scene, he just added the "pouring water" action as filler.

Now, being broken down like this by Lin Que, this action had surprisingly become the most weighty stroke in the entire scene.

He leaned over to Director Guo Changhe's ear and whispered:

"Director Guo, this person... really understands drama."

Director Guo Changhe didn't speak, just nodded heavily.

He had known it all along.

How could someone who could write a story like *soul ferry* not understand drama?

He just didn't expect that this author, hiding behind the screen and refusing to even show his true face, would have such detailed control over the camera and acting.

The script reading continued. Scene 6, Scene 7, Scene 8.

The actors were completely in the zone.

The actress playing the female ghost began to actively design her own small movements, and the actor playing Xia Dongqing also threw out his own understanding during his scenes with Yu Yi.

Every time a question was thrown out, Lin Que caught it quickly and accurately; sometimes with a few words, sometimes just with a description of an action, he could get to the soul of the entire scene.

The tense atmosphere in the conference room had, at some point, turned into a feverish creative heat.

Everyone forgot the time, forgot that this was a script reading, feeling only that they were personally plucking characters from the page, making them stand up, come alive, and have body heat.

Lin Que sat in his studio, looking at those engaged faces on the screen, and the string in his heart that had been taut all along loosened a little.

He had seen too many script reading sessions turn into formalities. Actors reading lines, directors nitpicking, screenwriters dozing off, everyone doing their own thing, and in the end, nothing was read.

But this session was different. Director Guo Changhe really wanted to make the play good, and the actors really wanted to act well.

Everything he threw out was caught steadily by someone, and then pushed half a step further. This kind of state is rare and hard to come by.

Lin Que tapped his fingertips on the desk, a familiar warmth from his seven-year screenwriting career in his previous life welled up for a moment, then was quickly suppressed by him.

"Yu Yi, turn to the last scene of Episode 1."

A rustling sound of pages turning.

The end of Episode 1 is the scene where Zhao Li is alone behind the cash register in the convenience store after sending away the last soul of the night.

The emotional payoff of the whole episode hinges entirely on this dialogue-free solo scene.

"This scene is the conclusion."

"Everything laid out in the episode—all the exhaustion, loneliness, and that indescribable something he has—all needs to settle in this scene."

Yu Yi sat up straight, his expression solemn.

He knew the weight of this scene.

Time had unknowingly slipped to 12:30 PM. Lin Que had adjusted the character details, lines, and tone of the four core actors into place, confirmed that the core logic had no deviations, and finally breathed a sigh of relief:

"That's it for the first script reading today—"

"Wait a minute."

A voice abruptly cut in.

Chen Chengrui stood up abruptly.

The folding chair was dragged back by half a foot, making a harsh screeching sound on the floor.

The atmosphere in the entire conference room, which had just relaxed, was abruptly cut off by this action.