Crossover Actors - Chapter 39

The wings brushed through the clouds, gliding back and gently landing, revealing the northern winter landscape outside the cabin. After taxiing, Qiu Yanting slowly closed his book. Its cover was simple, and the content was about traditional folk crafts.

 

Carrying his bag, Qiu Yanting disembarked. As soon as he stepped into the jet bridge, the cold air hit him straight in the face. As expected, the past few days had brought strong winds and a cold snap.

 

Yu Nan came to pick him up, holding a hot coffee, and waved enthusiastically when he saw him. “Boss! Over here!”

 

Qiu Yanting calmly approached, took the coffee, and, as cold as a heartless capitalist, gave his assistant a once-over before muttering, “You’ve lost weight.”

 

Yu Nan forced a bitter smile. These past days, he’d been running around every day, traveling dozens of kilometers to feed Qiu Yanting’s cat and water his flowers. The plants were all delicate, and the cat poop was the worst. Cleaning the litter once left him unable to eat for two days.

 

He spoke from the heart: “Boss, I really missed you.”

 

“Thanks for your hard work,” Qiu Yanting said, stuffing his bag into Yu Nan’s arms while he leisurely sipped his coffee.

 

After getting in the car and leaving the airport, it was already afternoon. Qiu Yanting went straight home. As the car glided onto the road, Yu Nan reported the next day’s schedule.

 

There was a meeting at nine in the morning. Qiu Yanting took a sip of the sweet mocha and said, “I’ll order the morning tea. My treat.”

 

“Thanks, boss.” Yu Nan, considering the long journey, asked, “Boss, should we grab dinner on the way?”

 

As they gradually entered the bustling city, colorful signs bloomed like flowers in the concrete jungle, offering food from all over—Chinese, Western, Japanese, Korean. Qiu Yanting thought for a moment and said, “Let’s get porridge with preserved egg and lean pork.”

 

An hour later, the car stopped at the west gate of the community. Qiu Yanting was home.

 

He lived in an upscale neighborhood that had been around for a while. Back in the day, with its lakes, overlapping hills, and lush flowers, it was known for its beauty. Now, the walls were old, hidden under thick trees, exuding a sense of fading beauty.

 

Qiu Yanting lived on the ninth floor, two apartments per floor. His neighbors were an elderly couple with an empty nest.

 

The moment the lock turned, a plump orange cat named Commander Huang was sitting in the middle of the floor, its whiskers long, fur shiny, and body solid. Hearing footsteps, it eagerly awaited.

 

Seeing it was the master, the cat jumped excitedly onto the suitcase.

 

As soon as Qiu Yanting closed the door behind him, a wave of relaxation washed over him, like a lone bird returning to its nest. Every nerve in his body unwound. He picked up Commander Huang and weighed it—it seemed even heavier.

 

Before leaving, Qiu Yanting had instructed not to clean up the house. Yu Nan followed orders, and everything was just as it had been when he left. Qiu Yanting put the cat down and did a lap around the rooms.

 

The apartment had two bedrooms and a minimalist modern design. The entryway had a small square hall with an entire wall dedicated to a vivarium, a player-level creation that Qiu Yanting had designed himself.

 

The smaller bedroom served as his study, filled with treasures—books, rare DVDs, a projector, photography equipment, and stacks of Lego sets and models in the corner.

 

The master bedroom had a cool-toned design, with a soft mattress that dipped slightly when he lay down. Qiu Yanting changed into his robe, opened his suitcase, and began hanging up his clothes one by one.

 

A soft touch—he picked up the smoky purple sweater. It might get deformed if hung, so he folded it neatly, wondering if Lu Wen had found the note hidden in his shirt.

 

He opened a compartment in his suitcase and carefully took out a tissue-wrapped ylang-ylang flower. Its moisture had dried up, and he placed the intact flower into a book, intending to preserve it as a keepsake.

 

The takeout porridge had cooled a bit. After heating it up in the microwave, Qiu Yanting carried the porcelain bowl through the living room and opened the glass door to step onto the long balcony that stretched into the master bedroom.

 

The balcony was overflowing with plants—pale orange Asiatic lilies, purple grape vines, white and pink clematis, and a dizzying array of European roses and daisies. There were over fifty pots of succulents, including crassula, basil, and stork’s bill, all arranged on a brass shelf.

 

The Swiss cheese plant was lush and vibrant. Qiu Yanting casually brushed its leaves as he sat on a small sofa next to a vintage French round table he’d found at an antique market. A flowering meadow rue sat on the table as he sipped his porridge.

 

Completely relaxed, Qiu Yanting was like Commander Huang lounging in its bed, scratching an itch whenever it felt like it. That was, until his phone rang, making him jerk the spoon against the bowl.

 

As usual, he delayed answering and finally picked up: “Hello?”

 

“Yanting, it’s me!” It was Ren Shu. “Did you get home safely?”

 

Qiu Yanting had forgotten to inform him. “Yes, I’m home, don’t worry. I’ve already eaten dinner.”

 

“By yourself?”

 

“Who else?”

 

Ren Shu was surprisingly nosy: “Didn’t you go out with your team? No group dinners?”

 

Qiu Yanting twirled his spoon and deliberately replied, “In this cold weather, who would want to eat with their boss? Of course, they’re all cuddling up with their significant others.”

 

“Fair point.” There was a pause. “By the way, does your screenwriter have a partner?”

 

Qiu Yanting chuckled. Ren Shu must have sparked something at the workshop and couldn’t wait to ask. Unfortunately, Qiu Yanting wasn’t sure about the screenwriter’s relationship status and would need to investigate.

 

Suddenly, Ren Shu yelled, “Lu! Stop eating!”

 

The spoon clinked again. Qiu Yanting asked casually, “Who are you yelling at?”

 

“Lu Wen,” Ren Shu replied. “We have two dinner scenes to shoot tonight. I told him to come with an empty stomach, but he sneaked in a meal.”

 

Qiu Yanting said, “He’s probably hungry.”

 

“Of course, he’s hungry!” Ren Shu snapped. “Said he didn’t eat or sleep at noon. Don’t know what’s got into him—he’s been bouncing around like a wild bear all over the set.”

 

Qiu Yanting burst out laughing, easily picturing the scene. Before hanging up, he offered advice, “Alright, don’t yell at him. Let him burn off the energy for a bit.”

 

Dusk came suddenly, casting a brilliant light over the grapevine. Lu Wen sat beneath it, eating his boxed meal, with a bowl of icy jelly beside him. Sun Xiaojian had given it to him to cool his surging adrenaline.

 

Lu Wen’s right hand held a spoon, while his left touched the wallet in his jacket pocket. Inside was the note Qiu Yanting had left for him.

 

He took a sip of the jelly. The chill was no match for the sweetness of the brown sugar syrup, and his adrenaline surged even higher.

 

Night fell, and work began.

 

Lu Wen had a scene with Tao Meifan, set after Ye Xiaowu’s death.

 

Ye’s mother, deeply affected, prepared a table full of Ye Xiaowu’s favorite dishes, including a large bowl of boiled fish in the center. Ye Shan sat there like a condemned man, his guilt and pain twisted into a chain that bound him. His soul was already teetering on the edge.

 

This meal, prepared as an offering to Ye Xiaowu, and the silent, cold violence from his mother, was the final straw for Ye Shan. The photo of Ye Xiaowu, which looked exactly like him, stared at him from the table, smiling in black and white.

 

Ye Shan’s hand trembled as he picked up a piece of boiled fish and ate it.

 

Slowly, he began to smile, mirroring the curve and spirit of Ye Xiaowu’s smile in the photo.

 

This scene was incredibly challenging. Ye Shan’s fragile psychological defenses finally crumbled—not in a hysterical or heart-wrenching way, but with the most intense, suppressed rebound. After the wounds inflicted by family, he chose to face death with determination.

 

Lu Wen focused deeply, mastering the rhythm of the lines and the flow of the scene. His expressions were precisely measured to the camera’s distance, all things Qiu Yanting had taught him.

 

And the satisfaction in his chest fueled him—a gift from Qiu Yanting.

 

Lu Wen and Tao Meifan gave a gripping performance, playing a mother and son deceiving each other, with Ye Shan pretending to be Ye Xiaowu, and his mother feeding him, stroking his head, both seeking comfort in a dislocated reality.

 

The set was quiet and tense, with only the sound of the actors’ lines. Ren Shu watched intently, not once calling for a cut.

 

That night was utterly exhausting—more draining than the car crash scene in the rain. After they wrapped, Lu Wen immediately hugged Tao Meifan. He left Room 302, ran downstairs, and the sky was tinged with the pale glow of dawn.

 

On the way back to the hotel, Lu Wen was lost in thought. It wasn’t that he was still immersed in his role, but he was pondering about Ye Shan and split personalities. He understood that this was Qiu Yanting’s creation, but the struggles of the youth might not be entirely fictional.

 

Lu Wen wanted to do something for every “Ye Shan” in real life.

 

Back at the hotel, he took a shower and sat on the sofa in his bathrobe, with a sumptuous breakfast left untouched beside him. He was intently scrolling through his phone’s contacts.

 

Although his management company only assigned him a single assistant, Sun Xiaojian, the Lu family company provided him with several capable aides. Scrolling through the “work” group, he saw his accountant, lawyer, tax advisor, financial manager, and others.

 

After some consideration, Lu Wen chose Old Zheng, Lu Zhanqing’s assistant.

 

It was only eight o’clock, before working hours, but the phone was quickly answered. A warm, middle-aged male voice came through, friendly and familiar: “Wen’er? It’s been a while since we talked.”

 

Lu Wen joked, “My schedule’s been too full, it’s a mess.”

 

“You little rascal!” Old Zheng laughed heartily. “So, what’s up? Tell me what you need, and I’ll sort it out.”

 

Lu Wen said, “I haven’t caused any trouble!”

 

No wonder the misunderstanding; Lu Wen had always been a handful.

 

In second grade, he called Old Zheng, claiming he was bullied by a man at school and was terrified. Old Zheng rushed over, only to find out the man was a math teacher.

 

During the first military training in middle school, he aspired to be a soldier, dressed in full camouflage, sneaked into the school broadcast room, and changed the calisthenics to military drills, leaving the whole school confused.

 

In high school, he was obsessed with music, formed a band, bought instruments, and roamed the school to hold concerts, neglecting his studies. His brother Lu Zhanqing broke up the band and gave him a beating, leading him to run away to Fujian for a while.

 

After graduating from university, he became even harder to manage. He set up a music studio, signed with a record company, and released albums, causing trouble for several years. Lu Zhanqing finally had enough and said, “Letting him be is like killing him,” and decided to intervene.

 

Lu Wen foolishly asked, “What zongzi?”

 

“Not causing trouble?” Old Zheng changed his approach. “Then you must be short of money.”

 

Lu Wen didn’t drag it out and seriously announced, “Wrong, I want to give you money.”

 

Old Zheng was stunned for a moment, “You’re kidding me this early in the morning?”

 

Lu Wen gently said, “I want to donate a sum to the Wen Jia Foundation.”

 

Wen Jia was Lu Wen’s mother, and after her passing, Lu Zhanqing established the “Wen Jia Foundation” in her name. It started as a non-public charity aimed at helping single-parent families and orphans but has since expanded to include various underreported charitable projects.

 

Lu Wen intended to donate his earnings from this film, his first real income, to his late mother and to help those in need.

 

Old Zheng sighed, skipping the pleasantries, and asked, “If you have any specific plans, just let me know, and I’ll handle it.”

 

Lu Wen had already considered it: “For psychological disorders, research, or support organizations for mental health education, counseling, and treatment.”

 

“Got it, I’ll take care of it immediately,” Old Zheng agreed readily, then asked, “Wen’er, are you doing okay? The entertainment industry is chaotic; don’t carry any pressure alone.”

 

Lu Wen replied, “I’m doing fine.”

 

Old Zheng was relieved.

 

The Wen Jia Foundation was personally managed by Lu Zhanqing, both as an emotional legacy and to ensure no mistakes in the charitable projects. Old Zheng said, “This matter won’t stay hidden from your father. Why not go to him directly?”

 

Lu Wen answered, “You flatter me, he’ll scold me. Who else can I turn to?”

 

“It’s a good thing, he certainly won’t scold you,” Old Zheng said helplessly. “You ungrateful child, recently there was a weather report of heavy rain in Chongqing, your dad was concerned and called to tell you to dress warmly. How could you forget his kindness?”

 

After hanging up, Lu Wen leaned back on the sofa, feeling somewhat dazed by his father’s quiet love.

 

After breakfast, Lu Wen went to bed and dreamed of sitting next to Qiu Yanting in an RV booth. Suddenly, his phone rang, and Qiu Yanting shifted slightly away from him.

 

He slept fitfully until the afternoon, waking up thirsty, his throat like it was filled with sand from the boiled fish. He got up to drink water and saw over thirty unread messages from Old Zheng.

 

Donations involve strict processes, and Old Zheng had sent him information about project categories, the qualifications of various organizations, and their plans for specific groups.

 

Lu Wen read through it all. Although he wasn’t an expert and only had a general understanding, one organization called the “Shan Shu Plan” caught his attention.

 

It was a non-profit organization providing psychological counseling, focusing on youth, and had recently set up a website in collaboration with the Wen Jia Foundation. Old Zheng had sent the website link.

 

Lu Wen logged in using the hotel’s computer. He expected a promotional site but found it was more of a forum. The sections were clear: depression, stress disorders, anxiety, phobias… This was a place where people could seek help for their psychological issues.

 

He browsed the site for a long time and, under the category of “social anxiety,” found himself thinking about Qiu Yanting.

 

The site had two types of registrations: one for those needing help and one for voluntary counselors.

 

Lu Wen chose the latter, went through the registration and verification process, and got an account. Without setting anything up, the system assigned him a randomly matched one-on-one user.

 

The user’s tag was “social anxiety,” which Lu Wen had browsed the most.

 

“What’s this, just chatting?” Lu Wen thought about being like a therapy dog for psychological relief. “Oh, and there’s a trial period…”

 

He opened the username, finding the person offline, with no details about gender, age, or personality, only a nickname.

 

“That’s quite a playful nickname,” Lu Wen read, “Social Anxiety Little Writer.”

 

He thought for a moment and edited his own nickname—Unlucky Little Singer.