The night passed quietly.
After tossing and turning for half the night, Chen Bai finally fell asleep around three or four in the morning. By the time he woke up, the sun was already high in the sky.
He got up, reheated the leftover buns from last night for breakfast, threw on a coat, and stepped outside. As he walked down the stairs, he glanced at his phone.
For work convenience, he had added the assistant he spoke with last time on WeChat. This morning, the assistant had sent him a document.
His body was awake, but his brain hadn’t caught up yet. Deciding to check the file later, Chen Bai stuffed his phone back into his pocket and pulled out the key to the locksmith shop.
The sun was bright, casting warm light into the small shop. Chen Bai pulled over a stool, sat down, and slumped lazily onto the counter, soaking in the sunlight.
Holding a bun between his teeth, he absentmindedly rolled up his left sleeve, glancing at the wound that had mostly healed.
It still ached slightly. Yesterday’s activities had been a bit too intense—he needed to pace himself better next time.
Just as he was examining his wrist, he heard footsteps approaching.
Through his half-lidded eyes, Chen Bai saw a tall figure in a gray coat pass by.
The man had long legs, his hat brim pulled down to its lowest point. It was his neighbor.
Chen Bai dropped his sleeve, bun still in his mouth, and greeted him anyway.
The sight of a grown man, lazily sprawled across the counter with a bun in his mouth, stretching out his arm in an exaggerated Erkang* pose, was quite the spectacle.
(*Erkang Pose: A dramatic reaching gesture from a famous Chinese drama meme.)
The only visible dark pupil beneath the hat brim turned toward him. Chen Bai waved his hand, voice muffled by the bun, “Mornin’.”
Technically, it wasn’t early. And judging by his half-awake state, Chen Bai didn’t look awake either.
The sunlight cast a golden hue on his messy curls. His light gray pupils were unfocused, his expression drowsy, but he still made an effort to say hello.
Considering that he had woken up at two in the morning to steam buns, it was no surprise that he was still half-asleep.
Xu Sinian glanced at the outstretched hand, then at the man slumped on the counter, and finally gave a slight nod. “Good morning.”
Receiving a response, Chen Bai was satisfied. He withdrew his hand, rested it under his head, finished his bun, and peacefully drifted back into a sunlit nap.
The beautiful morning continued with an impromptu nap at work.
“…”
“…The lighting is perfect. So aesthetic.”
“Stop talking, just take the pictures. We need to head back after this.”
The noises of the old neighborhood gradually became clearer. Chen Bai, who had been motionless on the counter, finally stirred.
Half-asleep, he heard faint voices nearby and slowly opened his eyes.
His mind felt much clearer now, but his buns were gone. And so was his neighbor.
Lifting his head slightly, he spotted two young girls standing at the entrance of the shop, cameras in hand.
Clearly, they hadn’t expected him to wake up so suddenly. The two froze, lenses still pointed at him. After a brief moment of panic, they quickly bowed their heads and repeatedly apologized.
Chen Bai wasn’t bothered. He yawned, sat up from the counter, propped his chin with one hand, and smiled lazily. “Just delete the ugly ones, okay?”
He was relaxed, his smile casual. With the sunlight hitting him just right, he looked warm and easygoing, as if he truly didn’t mind.
One of the girls hesitated, then stepped forward with a shy smile. “Want to see? They all turned out really nice—there aren’t any bad ones.”
Out of politeness, Chen Bai leaned over to glance at the camera screen.
The second girl joined in, and before he knew it, he was chatting with them.
The two were students from a nearby university’s journalism department, currently studying photography. They needed portrait practice, so they had come outside the campus for street photography. However, they were too shy to take photos of awake people—until they saw him sleeping like he’d never wake up.
After browsing through the photos, Chen Bai commented, “Good thing I don’t drool in my sleep.”
Both girls burst into laughter.
They chatted pleasantly for a while, but not for too long, as the girls had class and needed to rush back.
After saying goodbye, Chen Bai finally started working properly. He handled two locksmithing jobs and, in his free time, opened the document the assistant had sent him that morning.
The document contained information about Bai Yueguang.
The original novel had been a blur—mostly focused on the supporting character’s one-sided, tragic love story with God of Wealth Huo Chuan. Other details were barely mentioned, leaving Chen Bai with no useful reference material.
He didn’t want a toxic love story. He just wanted to expand his 120,000-yuan-per-meal gig.
To grow and improve, he needed to understand Bai Yueguang completely.
According to the assistant, Bai Yueguang was quiet, gentle, and soft-spoken. Due to health reasons, they weren’t very active. Most importantly, they disliked physical contact.
Though the assistant didn’t say it outright, Chen Bai could easily infer that this aversion likely included Huo Chuan.
Good thing I dodged him at the restaurant.
As he finished reading, a call came in from his landlord. The background noise was loud—it sounded like a crowded place.
“Xiao Chen, it’s me…”
Chen Bai grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper, jotting down key details as he listened.
Another job.
Someone needed a locksmith and had called the landlord. But the landlord was currently at the hospital with his grandson for a vaccination and couldn’t make it, so he asked Chen Bai to handle it.
The location wasn’t far—just next door to the old street.
Arriving at the site with his toolkit, Chen Bai saw sheets of metal blocking part of the road. That’s when he remembered—this was where the film crew had set up.
Looks like I’ll be unlocking something for them.
Standing outside, he dialed the contact number the landlord had given him.
As he spoke, a door nearby swung open, and a tall, thin man ran out, immediately scanning his surroundings.
Their eyes met.
Chen Bai was about to raise a hand to signal him, but the man’s gaze skimmed past him, still searching for someone.
Not finding anyone, the man lowered his head, tapped his phone a couple of times, then resumed scanning his surroundings while making a call.
Chen Bai’s phone rang.
The man, who had been frantically looking around, froze. He stared at Chen Bai, his eyes filled with hesitation and doubt.
After a long pause, he cautiously asked, “…You’re the locksmith?”
Chen Bai lifted his toolkit slightly in response.
“…”
It’s real.
The man had expected a locksmith, but he hadn’t expected this.
Hanging up his phone, the tall, thin guy walked over. Seeing Chen Bai up close, he scrutinized his delicate features, his brows twitching slightly in disbelief.
“Has… has your industry gotten this casual?”
Chen Bai: “Hm?”
The man looked genuinely rattled, but instead of elaborating, he simply led the way to the locked door.
“This is the prop storage room,” he explained.
He was part of the props team. The storage room had two keys—one on him and one with his supervisor.
Earlier, while counting inventory, he had left his key inside. Somehow, the door had shut—either by accident or a gust of wind. Worse, the supervisor’s key had been temporarily given to an actor as a prop. That key had also ended up inside the locked room.
Now, both keys were trapped inside, along with the crew’s camera track equipment. Since they needed it soon, he had no choice but to call a locksmith.
Chen Bai clapped him on the shoulder. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
As he chatted, his sharp eyes casually scanned the film crew.
“Looking for a celebrity?”
The tall, thin guy had seen his fair share of newcomers. He could tell what most people who came to a film set were after. Out of kindness, he reminded Chen Bai, “You won’t see them at this hour. Group 2 is still filming, and Group 1’s actors are in their lounges. You can’t disturb them.”
“That’s not it.”
Chen Bai thanked him for the heads-up but kept scanning the area, watching the bustling crew move around.
“I’m looking for work,” he clarified. Then, casually, he added, “By the way, how’s the pay in your industry?”
Tall and Thin Guy: “…?”
Before the crew member could answer, a much louder voice interrupted him.
Chen Bai turned toward the source of the noise.
Not far away, a man in a vest was shouting at someone, his face and neck flushed red. He was completely losing it.
Chen Bai was impressed.
This guy looks pretty old, but his voice is still strong.
Following his gaze, the tall, thin guy muttered, “That’s the director. He’s pissed. Don’t go near him.”
Chen Bai, who had been about to yawn, immediately held it back.
His instincts told him there was a story here.
It wasn’t a secret, so the crew member explained.
There was an actor in the crew playing a minor supporting role—just a few scenes, but important ones with the lead actress.
However, due to various delays, this actor had kept pushing back his schedule. When he finally showed up, he was so out of sync that his performance was completely off.
The director, fed up, fired him on the spot.
The problem was that the previous backup actors had already been assigned to other roles. They needed to hold another round of auditions to find a replacement.
They had already spent most of the day auditioning, but no one suitable had turned up.
And now, to make things worse, the prop storage room was locked—because someone had brilliantly left the key inside.
“…I really can’t take this anymore,” the crew member groaned, rubbing his face.
Chen Bai patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll unlock it as fast as possible.”
And fast he was.
The locked door had a common mechanism. A few deft movements, and—
Click.
The door swung open.
The moment it did, Chen Bai stood up, pulled out his phone, and smiled brightly. “Friend, that’ll be fifty.”
A man owing 400 million yuan always smiles the most sincerely when collecting money.
Nearby, the director’s furious ranting finally came to a pause.
It wasn’t because he ran out of breath—it was because Group 2 had finished their scene, and the assistant director had come over to check on the situation.
“What’s going on?” the assistant director asked.
The director waved dismissively. “Nothing. Just that none of the actors we auditioned today were any good.”
The budget was limited, so they couldn’t afford big-name actors. The decent ones weren’t available, and the affordable ones didn’t fit the role. They had spent all day auditioning, and still, no one made the cut.
The assistant director sighed. “We can’t afford more delays. We should just pick someone and move forward.”
As he spoke, his eyes drifted toward the end of the street, where a figure had just stood up.
“Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “Is that someone here for the audition?”
The director followed his gaze, then frowned.
“No. That’s the locksmith.”
At that moment, the man in question—Chen Bai—was pocketing his payment and about to leave when a figure suddenly appeared beside him.
It was the director.
“Interested in auditioning?” he asked.
Chen Bai was only interested in money.
However, he had a solid grasp of reality. He could already guess what the audition was for and, knowing he lacked specialized acting skills, he turned it down.
The director, undeterred, added, “It’s a gentle and cheerful patient role. The audition’s free. If you pass, I’ll pay you.”
Chen Bai: “I’ll try it.”
Money talks.
The tall, thin guy and the assistant director watched them leave, momentarily stunned.
It wasn’t until Chen Bai and the director were some distance away that reality finally hit the crew member.
“…Wait, I forgot to grab the key from the prop room.”
The assistant director, meanwhile, decided to tag along—curious to see how this audition would turn out.
The director led Chen Bai to the other end of the street and pointed to a vine-covered gray-white building.
“See that window on the second floor?”
That was the patient character’s home.
“For the audition, go up to that window, write something on a piece of paper, and when you ‘see’ the heroine pass by, open the window, show her the note, and smile.”
Since it was just an audition, there wouldn’t actually be a heroine passing by—he’d have to act as if she were there.
Chen Bai asked, “What should I write?”
The director glanced at his watch. “Write whatever you want. Just follow the actions.”
“Got it.”
Chen Bai turned and walked into the building.
While he didn’t fully understand the role, something about it felt familiar.
A frail but warm-hearted character. Someone distant, yet lingering throughout the story.
This sounds like Bai Yueguang.
Maybe this was worth a shot.
Inside, the first floor was cluttered with set equipment, and the photography tracks hadn’t been removed yet.
Chen Bai carefully stepped around everything and went upstairs. He found the designated room on the second floor, where a few sheets of paper and a pen were already set by the window.
From here, he could clearly see the group of people waiting below.
The cameras were ready. The director stood nearby, surrounded by the crew.
With the weight of so many eyes on him, anyone else might have felt nervous.
But not Chen Bai.
A natural-born socializer, he actually performed better with an audience.
He flexed his wrist briefly, closed his eyes, took a breath, and then opened them again.
He picked up the pen.
Below, on the street, the director and crew watched as a silhouette appeared at the window.
The sunlight was bright, casting warm golden light onto the dark wooden windowsill.
Dusty glass blurred the figure behind it, but they could make out a thin, upright frame.
Tree shadows swayed gently in the breeze, and for a moment, time seemed to pause.
Inside, the pen moved slowly.
Then it stopped.
The figure seemed to notice something outside.
Their eyebrows lifted slightly.
The pen was set down.
The window was pushed open.
The sunlight fell on his pale skin, and his light gray pupils flickered with warmth. His gaze followed something unseen—something only he could see—and a faint glow lit his eyes.
Unconsciously, the people below followed his line of sight.
But there was nothing there.
Just a pile of filming equipment.
The assistant director glanced at the director.
For the first time today, the director wasn’t checking his watch.
Chen Bai, still leaning against the window, set the pen down, reached out, and held up the paper he had written on.
His brows relaxed.
Then he smiled.
The kapok trees swayed, and for a moment, it felt like you could hear the wind rustling the leaves, even though the street was silent.
Some people have a presence that shifts the atmosphere, like a breeze clearing the air.
For a moment, it felt real.
Everyone’s eyes drifted toward the note, eager to see what he had written.
[Can the God of Wealth give me more gold coins?]
…It was crossed out.
Below it, the final message remained:
[Time to make shaomai for dinner tonight.]
Everyone: “…”
It was as if the illusion of artistry had been shattered in an instant.
Gone was the poetic moment—replaced by this man’s most practical, down-to-earth wish.
Not only had they learned his innermost thoughts, but they now also knew his dinner plans.
Given free rein to write anything, this man had truly embraced full creative freedom.
