The next day, when Sheng Min arrived at the rehearsal room, a few people were already there. They all looked young—some were unknown theater actors, others drama school students. Some faces seemed familiar, perhaps from his university days.
They were chatting amicably yet cautiously, but when they saw Sheng Min, an awkward silence fell over the room.
“Sheng Min?”
“Sheng Min, huh…”
“Is he here to audition?”
“No way. He’s drowning in film offers—why would he care about this?”
They whispered among themselves, sneaking glances at him but avoiding direct conversation.
Sheng Min was used to being stared at. He smiled politely and looked for a place to sit. Someone quietly pulled out their phone, seemingly trying to take a picture.
A cough came from the back of the room. “Confidentiality agreement, guys. Keep the plot a secret, keep the cast a secret—it’s in effect until opening night. What, you think I’m the only one who had to sign it?”
Sheng Min looked up and saw Deng Jing sitting cross-legged at the back of the room. He snapped his fingers and patted the floor beside him. “Come sit.”
“Thanks for sharing the spotlight.” As soon as Sheng Min sat down, Deng Jing chuckled. “Before you arrived, I was being stared at like a monkey for fifteen minutes. Now, there are two monkeys.”
He was one of Yin Qianpin’s regular actors, which likely made others assume they were just here to fill up spots. No wonder they were being watched so closely.
Sheng Min had been impressed by Deng Jing the day before, and the casual invitation quickly closed the distance between them. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
He asked while lowering himself down as well. Deng Jing grinned even wider and gestured at the wall. “It’s good for napping… You’ll see how boring this gets soon.”
In truth, it wasn’t boring—just not what Sheng Min had expected.
It was more of a script reading session. Yin Qianpin handed each person a single page—a small excerpt from the play—leaving them to interpret the context and character emotions themselves. They spent the entire afternoon poring over a few hundred words.
Then, they had to perform alone in a side room, facing a camera, without a partner or an audience.
“This is ridiculous. Who rehearses like this?”
During a break, someone whispered in frustration.
“Maybe it’s just his style.”
“Style? He’s a theater director acting like a film director. It’s obviously pre-decided… Look at Deng Jing—he’s been sleeping openly this whole time.”
“Well, he still went to record in the end.”
“Yeah, but who knows if he actually did anything? And even if he didn’t, there’s still that big celebrity.”
The one speaking was young, likely had applied on a whim, and thought they had some exceptional talent—only to end up sidelined. They scoffed.
“Sheng Min? No way. Doesn’t director Yin refuse to work with famous actors?”
“Money makes the world go round. A big name like that? Of course, they’d use him.”
By the end of the first day, one person had already quit. A few days later, Yin Qianpin dismissed two more. By the end of the first week, when Sheng Min returned to the rehearsal room, the number of people had changed.
There were men and women, but the only familiar face left was Deng Jing, who lazily waved at him. He looked more awake than before. “Morning. Today, we start actual rehearsals.”
And just like that, they dove in. Scene after scene, over and over again, but with no assigned roles. Both he and Deng Jing played leads, supporting characters—even women. They had to experience every role.
Unlike many directors Sheng Min had worked with, Yin Qianpin wasn’t authoritarian. He gave the actors plenty of creative freedom. He didn’t dictate how to act but instead focused on refining the script and dialogue.
He would stop everything for an hour just to tweak a single line.
The assistant director called him a bookworm. But once he had rested, he’d be back, pulling everyone into another round of rehearsals.
During a break, Sheng Min went downstairs to buy water and called Li Xuan.
Recently, Li Xuan had personally planned several in-game events, successfully boosting Nook’s revenue once again. Meanwhile, Void Island was still updating, but since it was merely imitating Nook, its impact on splitting the player base was gradually diminishing. Although Qi Boyuan was struggling to secure investments, seeing the increasing revenue finally allowed him to breathe a little easier, feeling like the burden had lightened.
Li Xuan, however, was not as optimistic. He had a lingering feeling that things weren’t over yet. But seeing Qi Boyuan so anxious in the past few days that he was practically growing white hairs, Li Xuan didn’t want to add more stress to him. Besides, he knew the company employees were exhausted too. Yesterday, when the revenue finally returned to its average level, he gave the whole company half a day off—except for himself. He coded until 6:30 p.m., then drove to the theater to pick up Sheng Min from work.
Lately, Li Xuan had been so busy that by the time he got home, Sheng Min was usually already asleep. They would exchange a few drowsy words, then wake up the next morning to share breakfast before heading to work again.
So as soon as Sheng Min got into the car, Li Xuan leaned in for a kiss that lingered for a long moment. When they finally parted, they locked eyes and couldn’t help but laugh—at themselves and at each other for being so silly.
Lately, Sheng Min had felt like someone was following him. Finding an excuse, they didn’t go to the restaurant Li Xuan had booked in advance but ordered takeout instead. They cooked together at home, chatting casually.
Hearing that revenue had increased, Sheng Min was happy for him but also knew Li Xuan’s habit of downplaying bad news.
“Li Mingge…” Sheng Min started.
Li Xuan kissed him. “Forget him. Let’s eat.”
It was rare for them to have a free evening. Seeing the faint dark circles under Li Xuan’s eyes, Sheng Min made him drink half a cup of oolong tea after dinner for digestion before urging him to go to bed. After tossing the dishes into the dishwasher, he returned to the bedroom to find Li Xuan already asleep.
Kneeling beside the bed, Sheng Min quietly observed his tired features. After a while, he changed into pajamas and climbed into bed.
Li Xuan was a light sleeper. As soon as Sheng Min got close, he instinctively wrapped an arm around him without even opening his eyes.
“Sleep,” Sheng Min murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Li Xuan didn’t respond, just pulled Sheng Min’s hand over to rest against his chest, letting him feel his steady heartbeat. Sheng Min drifted off like that.
In the middle of the night however, Sheng Min woke up feeling a tickle on his neck. He reached up and touched Li Xuan’s short hair, smiling.
“You’re awake?” Li Xuan whispered.
Sheng Min hummed in response. Li Xuan’s lips never left his skin as he muttered, half-asleep, that he had only meant to give him a little kiss…
“I missed you,” he murmured, sounding so aggrieved that it was as if it was all Sheng Min’s fault.
His voice, warm and coaxing, brushed against Sheng Min’s ear, making less and less sense as he went on. Finally, Sheng Min simply turned his head, hooked an arm around his neck, and they kissed.
Li Xuan’s breathing grew heavier. With practiced ease, his hands found their way to Sheng Min’s buttons, sliding down along the smooth curve of his waist…
It wasn’t exactly a long separation, but everything still felt fresh and exciting. Li Xuan whispered sweet nothings in a soft voice, and Sheng Min, completely without principle, gave in to his every whim…
Afterward, Li Xuan carried him to the bathroom for a shower. One thing led to another, and they got carried away again. When they finally returned to bed, their skin was still damp from the lingering heat.
Sheng Min lay against his chest, too awake to fall back asleep. Li Xuan traced lazy patterns along his bare back as he asked about the play.
So, Sheng Min told him about the rehearsals, how he had actually met Yin Qianpin three years ago, how Deng Jing was playful and carefree but transformed when acting…
They had talked about much of this over texts in the past few days, but Li Xuan still listened attentively, smiling indulgently the whole time. His hand moved up and down Sheng Min’s spine, soothing and affectionate.
He didn’t ask how confident Sheng Min was about landing the role. He didn’t ask what he would do if he wasn’t chosen. He only asked, “Are you happy now?”
Sheng Min nodded. Li Xuan touched his earlobe and smiled.
….
Last night had left Sheng Min feeling slightly worn out. During his break as he waited for his call to go through, he thought to himself that next time, he needed to be firmer. He couldn’t just let Li Xuan have his way every time, even if he begged. But the moment he heard Li Xuan’s voice, all those thoughts flew out the window.
“Finished rehearsing?”
“Mm, just wrapped up. Taking a break. You?”
“Coding. Got a meeting soon.” The steady sound of typing in the background paused for a second before Li Xuan cleared his throat and asked, “Are you tired today?”
“Rehearsals, you know, it’s just—” Halfway through his sentence, Sheng Min abruptly realized what Li Xuan meant.
Li Xuan sounded a bit awkward. He took a sip of water and said softly, “I lost control last night.”
His tone carried both apology and amusement. When Sheng Min didn’t respond, he panicked slightly. “Are you mad?”
“No.”
“I’ll pick you up tonight.”
“You’re not working late today?” Sheng Min selected a bottle of floral tea from the vending machine.
“Not urgent. I’ll work from home.” Li Xuan’s voice lowered. “I miss you.”
There he goes again. Sheng Min clicked his tongue. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“There are different ways to miss you during the day…” Li Xuan chuckled. “Don’t you miss me?”
“Not at all.” Sheng Min deliberately lied. He caught sight of Deng Jing approaching through the vending machine’s reflection. “Gotta go. See you tonight.”
