Chapter 143: Humans Are No Exception
Filming had already begun, so if changes were to be made, they had to be made quickly. Fang Qingqing left right after finishing her meal. Xie Xizhao continued eating his salad when a message popped up in the work group chat, announcing that the evening’s shoot would be canceled. It said that Yu Lin’s health had not yet recovered.
The staff, of course, were more than happy to get some rest. But every extra day the filming location was rented meant extra costs. Meng Xuran’s tone sounded stiff. Xie Xizhao glanced at the curt message, only a few short and cold lines, then turned off the screen.
He tidied up the table first, throwing away the takeout containers. Then he went out for a walk.
After completing all the usual routine activities, he sat down at his desk.
It was his work desk — a large table that held only papers and a laptop. On the left side was a thick stack of Specter’s script, and on the right were several reference books. These were all standard tools for an actor, but even so, the state of the desk would have prompted outsiders to comment on his professionalism.
Only Xie Xizhao knew that, to him, the most valuable part of this desk wasn’t any specific corner of it.
It was the wooden panel directly facing the desk, covered with sticky notes filled with fragments of writing.
They came in all sorts of colors, the handwriting mostly messy — some of them looking like rushed scribbles made right after waking from a dream.
Every inch of those notes was densely filled, all about one person.
If Fang Qingqing had walked just a little further into the suite earlier, she wouldn’t have asked that question. She would have realized that the so-called “fifty percent” was merely Xie Xizhao being modest.
Even if the script wasn’t changed at all, Xie Xizhao’s chances of success would have reached seventy or eighty percent.
Not because the script was especially well-written, nor because Yu Lin was particularly foolish.
It was purely because the one who had gotten the role—was Xie Xizhao.
—
How did one bring a character to life?
Ji Yan had once asked Xie Xizhao that question. At the time, he had just received a new script. It was a project he had agreed to long ago and couldn’t back out of, but he had grown tired of formulaic performances and cookie-cutter character designs.
He asked the question out of confusion, and Xie Xizhao’s first response was:
“There’s no such thing as a cookie-cutter character in this world.”
Ji Yan didn’t understand.
So Xie Xizhao asked him:
“There are so many people in this world—have you ever seen two who are exactly alike, in both appearance and personality?”
Humans, from the moment they were born, were like saplings growing into trees.
Wind and frost, rain and snow, blazing sun and heavy gloom—all of it became part of the tree’s growth.
Humans were no exception.
From the moment Xie Xizhao received the script, there was one thing he had done every single day:
He filled in the backstory behind the few lines the screenwriter had written about Huo Xiangyang.
“Filling in” was a broad term, but Xie Xizhao’s approach had never been about making things up out of thin air.
Every detail he added was grounded in the screenwriter’s existing characterization. Because he understood—character and plot were intertwined, each shaping and supporting the other to build the full story. Only when the additions were rooted in the character’s foundation could the script’s logic remain intact.
And from that starting point, he began to fill in Huo Xiangyang.
Huo Xiangyang came from a happy family. Then, naturally, he must have had loving, respectful parents. His personality carried a confident, slightly roguish edge, so clearly his parents couldn’t have been timid or overly reserved.
A cheerful, generous couple with a harmonious relationship—how might they have met?
Perhaps it had been a long romance that began in school uniforms and ended in suits, or maybe it had been love at first sight after a fleeting glance in the workplace. Whichever it was, it was clear they had been deeply in love.
Because, generally speaking, only a harmonious family environment had a high chance of raising a child with a sound and healthy personality.
Xie Xizhao didn’t hesitate—either scenario was possible. He even used a die to randomly choose one of them. Because he knew: this wasn’t really Huo Xiangyang’s life.
What he needed to do was simply construct a life for the character—one that, from start to finish, aligned with logic and personality. One that would give him a foundation to anchor his performance.
It was like a building-block game. The beautifully crafted treehouse was the final character outline—summed up in just a few brief lines on paper. But no matter how pretty it looked, it couldn’t be suspended in midair. He had to build it a solid and beautiful foundation.
Let’s assume his parents were that couple—a long-term love story stretching from school uniforms to business suits, finally culminating in a happy ending after many years.
They shared a stable, loving relationship, and at some point, they had a joyful product of that love.
So then…
What about the child?
Huo Xiangyang had clearly grown up in a stable and loving family. He achieved excellent academic results, so his parents must have raised him well. The entrance score for the Public Security University was not low, and the school also had requirements for eyesight and physical fitness. That meant he must have developed good habits in both daily life and routine.
He was a smart, energetic, and healthy child.
At some point in his growth, he must have encountered the figure of a police officer.
Perhaps, like many others, he had been captivated by thrilling police dramas on TV. Or maybe he had passed by a training field and witnessed the well-ordered drills of a police academy. If we allowed for a more dramatic angle, it was even possible that he had personally received help from a police officer during his youth—planting a seed deep in his heart.
Family, upbringing, experiences.
…Even down to daily habits.
While eating, Xie Xizhao would wonder—how would Huo Xiangyang eat? Would he take big bites or chew slowly and carefully? Would he scroll through Weibo on his phone while eating, or would he finish quickly and immediately dive into work?
While waiting on the red carpet, he would think—would Huo Xiangyang wear a watch? If so, what kind of watch would it be? And if not, why?
Xie Xizhao never forced himself to think about these things. He simply made Huo Xiangyang the center of his life.
He used every bit of his soul and free time to shape this person.
Huo Xiangyang was not just a few hastily sketched lines in a script. He was not a supporting tool to highlight others. And he was certainly not a mere instrument for earning praise or proving a point.
He was simply Huo Xiangyang.
He was vivid, specific, and real. He was the character Xie Xizhao was going to portray, and at the same time, he was his closest and most intimate friend.
How did one bring a character to life? The answer was simple:
First, he was not a “character.” He was a person.
—
Xie Xizhao hadn’t immersed himself in a role like this for a long time. This method was mentally exhausting—especially when he still had to socialize.
During the red carpet event, he had almost lost focus. It was Fu Wenze who had tugged him back to reality, frowning as he asked, “Are you feeling unwell?”
In the eyes of TP’s members, Xie Xizhao would never falter—unless he was sick.
Led forward by Fu Wenze, Xie Xizhao felt a little embarrassed and replied, “No.”
That moment, when Fu Wenze had guided him onto the red carpet, was captured by fans. The “mom fans” had gone wild. Since his debut, Xie Xizhao had only grown more composed and steady. It was only within TP that his fans could still catch a glimpse of him being doted on by his older and younger teammates.
But that was the only time. After that incident, Xie Xizhao made sure not to immerse himself too deeply in public settings.
The fact that he had to put in so much effort ultimately came down to him doing the screenwriter’s job as well. As the lead actor, many of the details he had to fill in should have already been included in the character’s backstory.
But at this point, Xie Xizhao didn’t dwell on it anymore.
If he could reach an agreement with Meng Xuran, then all these details could be discussed with the screenwriter and officially incorporated into the character’s canon. He glanced at the script, covered in sticky notes, then tore off a new one and began jotting down fragments of inspiration from the day.
He stayed busy until midnight before turning off the lights and going to sleep on time.
The next day, when he arrived on set, Meng Xuran’s expression had already turned… complicated.
—
Xie Xizhao had no idea what Fang Qingqing had said to Meng Xuran, but the outcome was about what he had expected.
The production didn’t shut down, but that very night, the screenwriter came to his room to go over the script. There were minor adjustments, and of course, Yu Lin was informed. His reaction was intense, but every complaint was blocked by Meng Xuran.
For the next couple of days, dark circles hung under Meng Xuran’s eyes, and his temper on set skyrocketed.
Whenever he lost his temper, the actors were the ones who suffered the most.
He didn’t dare yell at Yu Lin, so the smaller actors bore the brunt of his frustration. Strangely enough, though, he barely said anything to Xie Xizhao.
It wasn’t because he didn’t want to.
It was because he simply couldn’t find a reason.
No director disliked an actor who was both dedicated and talented. Whether it was day or night, whether it was a casual scene or an intense one, Xie Xizhao’s NG count never exceeded three. And out of those three, two were times when he personally felt off and asked to reshoot.
As for Meng Xuran… to be honest, no matter how hard he looked, he just couldn’t see anything wrong.
After half a month of filming, the scales in Meng Xuran’s heart had already begun to tip. Late one night, he finally spoke his true thoughts to Xie Xizhao.
“I really don’t want to do this job,” he admitted. “If this script were my own, I would’ve walked away already. But I keep thinking—after this, there’s another project, and anyway, it’s just twenty episodes… damn.”
Then he asked, “You know Xuan Yang well. What’s he like when he’s filming?”
Directors of art films were a strange breed. Some in the industry looked down on their arrogance, but there was no denying that many secretly dreamed of creating a critically acclaimed masterpiece. Meng Xuran was one of them.
He admired, envied, and resented Xuan Yang—especially in moments when he felt completely constrained.
Xie Xizhao thought for a moment before answering, “If he were you, he’d have flipped the table and walked away by now.”
And Xuan Yang would have done exactly that. Xie Xizhao knew it.
He was Xuan Yang’s idol. Back then, if it hadn’t been him who came up with that version of the script, Xuan Yang would have fought him over it.
He was a true artist—someone who pursued his craft with dedication. He had his principles. Unlike Meng Xuran.
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Meng Xuran’s eyes, mixed with a hint of admiration.
“Forget it,” he sighed. “That level of conviction is beyond me. Let’s just shoot the scene.”
And so, all departments got into position. It was time to film another long-awaited scene between Yu Lin and Xie Xizhao.
Xie Xizhao adjusted his mindset and stepped into the interrogation room.
There, Yu Lin was already in full makeup.
After being detained for a while, his look was now deliberately “disheveled,” and his demeanor had taken on an erratic edge.
But Xie Xizhao knew—both in and out of the script—that the nervous energy was real, and that Yu Lin had already adjusted himself back into the role.
—
For the past half month, Yu Lin had been unusually calm.
This outcome had actually caught both Fang Qingqing and Meng Xuran off guard.
Once Meng Xuran was silently and unknowingly roped into their side, he ended up venting to them many times.
For instance, he told them that when Yu Lin was younger, he had an obsession with being first place. Back in acting school, he was so desperate to top his class that he even spiked his roommate’s cup with laxatives just to secure first place in a single subject.
And how did Meng Xuran know this?
“Because I was in the bathroom taking a piss at the time,” he said.
At the time, Yu Lin had told him it was just an effervescent tablet.
The truth was, there had been a time when the two of them were actually quite close. Meng Xuran said that back then, Yu Lin wasn’t as deranged as he was now. Occasionally, he would even confide in him about his frustrations—how he felt underappreciated, how he thought the whole world was against him.
And what happened after that?
Meng Xuran said, “I guess after suppressing it for so long, he just snapped and turned into a freak.”
It was only after joining the same production and working closely with him that Meng Xuran realized just how far gone Yu Lin was. But by then, the contracts were signed, the investors were in, and there was no turning back. He was stuck with him—along with Hong Wu and Xie Xizhao.
He sighed. “Old Hong really is a good, honest man.”
He didn’t say anything about Xie Xizhao.
Xie Xizhao didn’t mind missing out on a “good guy” card. Instead, he said, “Yu Lin won’t react.”
Sure, he might have been shaken by those harsh words back then, but at the same time, he would have realized that compared to a full-on fallout, it was more like an angry outburst. And tweaking the character’s persona, adding more details—none of it was anything more than a desperate, last-ditch struggle.
Just like Di Shuo that day.
—
It was the first time Di Shuo was suspected by Huo Xiangyang.
Huo Xiangyang took advantage of a time gap, used new evidence to detain him, and tried to lure him into revealing even the slightest clue during the maximum 24-hour interrogation period.
But Di Shuo saw through his strategy, skillfully dodging every trap hidden within Huo Xiangyang’s words.
And so, when the 24 hours were up, Huo Xiangyang had no choice but to release him.
Before leaving, Di Shuo handed Huo Xiangyang a drink.
At the bottom of the cup, submerged in the liquid, was a realistic severed finger.
A blatant provocation.
The challenge was unmistakable, and the suspect was arrogant. But despite the smooth start, today’s shoot inevitably ran into some issues.
Lately, Xie Xizhao had been improvising a lot during filming. Normally, Yu Lin would tolerate it with a patient smile, playing the “gracious senior.” But today, he was nearly tricked into confessing.
At one point, he almost blurted out the actual crime details just by following the flow of the conversation. His face darkened instantly.
Meng Xuran called out, “Cut!”
Yu Lin took a deep breath, steadied himself, and joked half-heartedly, “Teacher Xie, have you studied interrogation techniques before?”
In front of others, he always maintained this facade—acting as if their falling out was nothing more than Xie Xizhao throwing an unreasonable tantrum. His tone was almost indulgent, and some crew members even secretly shipped the two of them.
But off-camera? There was no “off-camera” for them.
They didn’t talk.
Since Yu Lin asked, Xie Xizhao simply answered.
He smiled. “Sat in on a couple of forensic psychology lectures at my alma mater.”
He tossed the drink in his hand lightly, the severed finger bobbing inside. In that moment, he wasn’t just himself—he was Huo Xiangyang, the seemingly carefree but razor-sharp captain who could push Di Shuo into a corner. He smirked. “Looks like it worked pretty well?”
Yu Lin nodded. “Very well.”
He forced himself to adjust. When filming resumed, he had regained his composure, and they wrapped the scene in one take. The final shot froze on the cup sitting on the interrogation table.
And just like that, the shoot continued smoothly, appearing uneventful on the surface.
In the blink of an eye, the day of the official cast announcement arrived.
—
Although Xie Xizhao had acted in two dramas before, it wasn’t until Specter that he truly experienced the full production process of a drama under a mature capital operation.
The publicity campaign for this drama was primarily led by Yu Lin’s team, though Yaoxin also helped generate buzz for Xie Xizhao.
As the only top-tier traffic star in the cast, his fan club had already sent support gifts on the first day of filming.
Fans were well aware that Xie Xizhao had joined Meng Xuran’s production.
But when the official cast announcement was made, the news still stirred up a brief frenzy among fans and casual onlookers on Weibo.
[Double Best Actor winners! This lineup is insane—how much money did Meng Xuran have to burn for this?]
[They’re almost done filming, so he must’ve been cast right after he won the award. Damn, what a power move.]
[Wait, Hong Wu is listed as a special consultant? So he and Xie Xizhao have completely reconciled?]
[Catch up with the news! Hong Wu has been promoting Xie Xizhao like crazy. He even made a solo post congratulating him when he won his award. Plus, Dou Fei is his old friend’s disciple.]
But beyond the general audience, both Yu Lin’s fans and Xie Xizhao’s fans remained cautious.
Most of the comments under the Weibo post were the usual well-wishes, like “Wishing for a smooth collaboration” and “Best of luck for the production”.
The first group said it out of fear of backlash, while the latter did so purely out of respect for their senior—and also to avoid bringing unnecessary trouble to Xie Xizhao.
However, while both fanbases minded their own business, that didn’t stop nosy bystanders from stirring the pot.
On one of the largest entertainment forums, someone—who clearly had nothing better to do—started a thread:
[Double Best Actor showdown! One is a natural talent who soared to the top in just two dramas, while the other is a veteran who only recently got his long-overdue ‘consolation’ award. Place your bets! Will the east wind overpower the west, or will the west win over the east?]
It wasn’t just a discussion thread—they actually created a poll.
The title alone was inflammatory, and the comment section quickly turned into a battlefield. But that didn’t stop curious onlookers from diving in.
Maybe it was because the entertainment industry had been lacking fresh drama lately, or maybe it was just because anything involving Xie Xizhao guaranteed massive engagement.
What started as an ordinary clickbait post suddenly exploded. Within just an hour, the poll had already surpassed 20,000 votes.
And just like that, things got interesting.
