Nan Chu carried her luggage down the stairs. Shen Guanzong was standing by the car waiting; when he saw her coming down, he rushed forward, snatched her luggage, threw it in the trunk, and hauled her into the car. “What were you fussing about up there?”

Nan Chu didn’t respond. She looked around. “Where’s Xi Gu?”

Shen Guanzong got into the passenger seat, shut the door, and started dialing a number, his back to her. “That girl — I have no idea what’s gotten into her lately. She’s driving me crazy. Hold on.” The call had already connected. Shen Guanzong’s tone instantly transformed — all fawning deference. “Yes, yes, we’ve already confirmed the schedule on this end. Please pass along my thanks to Director He!” He hung up, then turned back to Nan Chu with an utterly blank face, the switch so rapid it left one’s head spinning: “Day after tomorrow afternoon — audition. Director Han says the training has been demanding, so he’s giving you a day off. I’ll send a car for you the afternoon after tomorrow. Also, your car — I already had it towed back to the garage. The keys are in the basket in your entryway. The second young master Jiang says he won’t hold you to account for that.”

Nan Chu’s lip curled. “I’m not going.”

Shen Guanzong looked at her as though he’d just heard the funniest thing in the world, his nostrils flaring: “Not going? Do you have any idea whose film this is? He Zhengping! Director He! Has your head been slammed in a door? How many actresses would kill for a chance at one of his films? You’d be fighting to get in. Sure, it’s not the female lead, but it’s a solid female third — the part is substantial, the character is compelling, and it would cut years off your path up the ladder!”

These days, with performance fees sky-high, too many people in the industry were chasing followers and quick money, no longer caring about film quality — acting and storytelling had both taken a nosedive, and the film industry really was in decline. But there were still a small number of seasoned veterans who devoted themselves to the art and stayed true to their principles. He Zhengping was one of them.

He Zhengping — approaching fifty, a master of his craft. He’d grown up in the alleys of old Beijing, and he had all the vivid wit and passion characteristic of northerners.

Every film he made carried a deep, lived-in quality of hutong alley life. His protagonists were, without exception, children raised in the shadows of the city walls — upright, generous, principled. Whenever reporters asked why he always gravitated toward working-class subjects, he’d chuckle and explain: “I’m just a common man from the streets. I can’t do anything lofty or polished. There are endless stories under the city walls — the elderly woman who does street opera and the wealthy old man, the young tenant and the still-charming landlady, the wandering songstress and the small-time bandit leader… I’ve filmed all of them. And I’ve met all of them too.”

In his youth, He Zhengping had also made sweeping, patriotic epics — grand, powerful films about national spirit.

But as the years had passed, he’d grown more and more devoted to quiet, humanist little pictures — small in scale, rich in texture. In another manner of speaking: a man with a streak of chivalry and principle, who also enjoyed ribbing people in private.

And this film was to be He Zhengping’s farewell production. He had already announced he would retire after completing it and never film again. Some were dejected; some were regretful. After all, genuinely conscientious filmmakers had become rare, and now another great one was announcing his departure from the industry — it was a sign of the trouble ahead. So the focus of public attention had all converged on one point: the casting of this final film.

A farewell work from Director He — every major star wanted a piece of it. It was also a prestige production, expected to be the landmark film of the year.

But right now what filled Nan Chu’s mind was the insufferable smirk on Jiang Ge’s face back in the medical room. Using his resources made her genuinely resistant.

Shen Guanzong didn’t bother engaging with her reluctance. He drove her to her building, carried her luggage up, and left with a parting remark: “Not everyone gets a chance like this. Regardless of what the second young master Jiang has calculated in his own head, the fact remains that this is a real opportunity for you. Director Han sees it that way too. You were trained by me personally — do you think I’d push you into a burning pit? And besides, the second young master Jiang is busy going home right now to fight over the family assets — he has no time to deal with you. He also told Director Han he’s not pursuing any past grievances. Honestly, I think this kid genuinely likes you. You don’t need to overthink this. And it’s not like you’ll automatically get the role just because he backed you — all he did was use some goodwill to secure you an audition. Whether Director He takes a liking to you is another matter entirely. If he does, that’s your own talent. If he doesn’t, don’t lose heart — you’re still young, there will be other chances. The script is on your table; go through it carefully when you get home. This character really does suit you. Everything else — you don’t need to worry about any of it. Since we signed you, we’re responsible for you until the end. Even if I can’t protect you, Director Han can. And if Director Han can’t, we have the law on our side. In fact, you should spend some time looking at legal knowledge in your spare time — put down that scripture of yours. If something actually went wrong, you’d be relying on divine intervention?”

He’d laid it all out that plainly — turning it down at this point would just be making things difficult for no reason.

……

Meanwhile, Lin Luxiao had been standing outside the door to the police affairs department chief’s office, having stood there like a post for the entire afternoon.

Meng Guohong had neither invited him in nor told him to leave.

Lin Mei came by, leaned against the wall, and teased him: “Brother, what have you done this time?”

Lin Luxiao glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and said nothing.

Lin Mei asked again: “How come you’ve been on punishment standing duty with Chief Meng every few days?”

Lin Luxiao gave a dismissive snort. “Take yourself further away — don’t catch whatever bad luck I’ve got.”

He’d barely finished when a figure appeared in the doorway. Lin Mei recognized the person and called out cheerfully: “Aide Xu — what did my brother do wrong this time?”

“Ask him yourself. How would I know.” Xu Ya looked at Lin Luxiao, her tone unenthusiastic. “Chief Meng wants you inside.”

Lin Luxiao went straight in.

Two walkie-talkies were slammed down on the desk.

Meng Guohong’s face was flushed red, his temples visibly pulsing. His voice was laden with lead. “A private channel?!”

Lin Luxiao stood in place without moving.

Then an ashtray came flying at him from the other side of the desk. He didn’t dodge. It caught him square on the brow bone.

Outside, Lin Mei and Xu Ya were both crouched at the door, pressed against it, listening.

Hearing the crashing and clattering sounds from inside, Lin Mei grew anxious. “Chief Meng hasn’t actually hit my brother in years — what in the world did he do this time?”

Xu Ya remained pressed against the door without a word.

Lin Mei: “Aide Xu — do you know something?”

Xu Ya asked back: “Has your brother ever had a girlfriend in recent years?”

“Not that I know of.” Lin Mei gave a start. “Why are you asking that? Are you interested in him?”

Xu Ya gave a quiet smile. “Would that be a problem?”

“No, no, of course not — it’s just that my brother seems to have recently taken a liking to someone.”

Truthfully speaking, over the years Lin Luxiao had done plenty of reckless things, and while the ashtray had been thrown before, it had never landed on his face — this was the first time. What Meng Guohong was really furious about wasn’t difficult to guess: this boy, without a single word, quietly going ahead and doing everything.

“If you really like that girl that much — fine. Go home and tell your father you want to bring her home and marry her! Go on! Do it!” Meng Guohong’s voice rang out like a bell, his palm striking the table.

Lin Luxiao pressed his lips together, said nothing for a long moment.

Meng Guohong said: “That girl has been torn apart online. If you get involved with her, you’re bringing it on yourself. Is she the right fit for you? Could you bring her home as a wife? Think about it. She’s an actress. Not even famous yet. What if one day she is? Come every New Year’s, the TV will be full of your wife kissing and embracing other men — does that put you in a good light? Or bring credit to your father? Never mind you — if you marry, have children, you’re a firefighter and she’s an actress — who raises the children? A nanny? Can you afford one on your salary? Have her pay for it? Can you stomach that? Don’t say it won’t happen. Every one of these things I’m telling you is real. And don’t tell me you’re counting on her to give up that gilded, diamond-studded entertainment world for your sake.”

Then his voice dropped. “You want to play around — I won’t stop you. But if you want to bring her home as a wife, I’m putting it all on the table right now. Go home and think it over yourself. If you truly want to marry her, your father and I won’t stand in your way. Your father said that once you came of age, he stopped managing your affairs — finding a wife is something he doesn’t intend to weigh in on either. We’ve laid out a smooth road for you and you won’t walk it — you want to climb a mountain instead. Fine. Go. Nobody’s stopping you. But if you take a fall, you swallow it yourself.”

Silence settled. Light and shadow fell across the man behind the desk — tall, and quiet.

Finally, Meng Guohong let out a long sigh. “That world runs on vanity. How many female actresses have gotten tangled up with producers and directors over a role and lost themselves in the end.”

……

Lin Luxiao didn’t return to the station until eleven o’clock that night.

The soldiers had already gone to sleep. He washed his face, came out of the bathroom, and found Yang Zhenggang leaning in the doorway. Lin Luxiao glanced at him, bent over the sink, and cupped some water in both hands to splash on his face. “Still awake?”

Yang Zhenggang: “Did Chief Meng give you a dressing-down?”

He scrubbed his face, unbothered, and said with a half-joking tone: “What — you worried about me?” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or did you want to pile on while things were still hot?”

“They’ve all left.”

Lin Luxiao paused. Then gave a quiet, low sound of acknowledgment and turned the tap back on.

“The little girl waited quite a while. She wanted to wait for you to come back.”

He bent over the sink, both hands braced on the counter, head bowed. He said nothing.

“When she left, she bowed to Xiao Jiu’er and the others — a proper bow. She also went to the grave of the boy from the explosion last time and brought him a bunch of chrysanthemums. She saluted him, said her goodbyes. And she stopped in to see Auntie Shao — she knew Auntie Shao loves tea, so she’d gotten hold of a bag of tea from somewhere — Qimen black tea, the good kind.” Yang Zhenggang wasn’t entirely sure why he was saying any of this, but when he’d watched Nan Chu get into the car with that trace of wistfulness in her back, he’d found he couldn’t hold it in. He told it all to Lin Luxiao instead. “She’s a genuinely thoughtful girl. Tough in training, never complains. Doesn’t say a word at the time — but she’s been paying attention to everything. I ran into her at the door this afternoon and she waved at me, all cheerful — ‘Director Yang, I’m off!’ — and oh right, she gave me a name card. An old traditional Chinese medicine doctor’s number, for knee injuries. How she even noticed my knee was bad, I have no idea. That girl.”

Yang Zhenggang had sustained a knee injury early in his career — in wet weather or rain, it would ache, and the root of the problem had never properly healed in all these years.

Lin Luxiao stood bowed over the sink, head dropping lower. He turned his face slightly aside. Inexplicably, there was a warmth gathering in his chest.

“Luxiao — I’m on your side. Really.” Yang Zhenggang said. “I really like that girl.”

Lin Luxiao raised his head. He gave a slightly roguish smile, leaned in toward Yang Zhenggang’s ear: “Don’t use ‘like.’ Makes me uneasy to hear.”

Then he clapped Yang Zhenggang on the shoulder and walked out.

Yang Zhenggang laughed out loud, watching the retreating figure. You little—

……