Chapter 160: “A Little Souvenir.”
Xie Xizhao brought the Chinchilla cat home.
At first, he planned to keep it at his parents’ house. His parents hadn’t been home much in the past couple of years, so the place was usually empty — perfect for one person and one cat.
But that plan was quickly and firmly rejected after he took the cat for a walk around the dorm.
“You,” Ai Qingyuan said, “put the cat down.”
Xie Xizhao squeezed the cat’s paw, gave a little wave with it, and sighed, “The bad uncle robbed me.”
Ai Qingyuan: “…I’m your brother!”
The kitten was being thoroughly squished and rubbed in his arms, mewing softly and cutely. Yun Pan wanted to hold it but didn’t dare, just stared longingly.
Xie Xizhao waved him over and asked, “There’s a role — want to try it?”
Yun Pan: “Huh?”
“But you’ll need to audition,” Xie Xizhao said. “I think it suits you. Just wanted to get your thoughts.”
Off to the side, Ai Qingyuan shouted, “Xizhao, what’s our little princess’s name?!”
Xie Xizhao calmly replied, “Candy Corn.”
“Great name,” Ai Qingyuan praised. “We’ll call you Tangtang then.” (Tangtang = Candy Candy)
He then started talking to the cat.
Xie Xizhao was amused.
Yun Pan had made up his mind and whispered, “Then I’ll give it a shot?”
Xie Xizhao nodded. “I’ll send you the audition details.”
—
The next day, after recording their variety show, Zou Yi and Fu Wenze returned home. Miss Candy Corn began living her life as the adored group pet, while Xie Xizhao was busy promoting Yun Pan’s audition.
He didn’t go in himself, and didn’t tell Yun Pan he was even there.
Du Wei poured him a glass of water and said, “Is this the one you picked out before?”
Xie Xizhao paused for a second before realizing he was referring to the talent show days. He answered, “Yeah.”
“Not bad, becoming a dad so young— I mean, his vibe fits the role,” Du Wei said. “Just not sure how his acting is.”
“He’s average — hasn’t had any formal training,” Xie Xizhao said. “But he should be good enough.”
A moment later, Yun Pan came out, his face flushed with excitement. Xuan Yang followed behind him, looking pleased as well.
After Yun Pan left, Xuan Yang said to Xie Xizhao, “His acting’s a bit raw, but he’s got good instincts. The character Fan Xing doesn’t have a ton of screen time anyway — just needs to be himself.”
Fan Xing was the last role to be cast in The Player.
Before that, Xuan Yang and Du Wei had been casting all over the massive landscape of domestic entertainment, throwing out nets left and right, trying to reel people in. They’d managed to assemble about 90% of the cast.
But Fan Xing was a special case. In the show, he’s the lead singer of an underground rock band. Xuan Yang had a specific type in mind — a “puppy-like” guy. He also had a bit of OCD and couldn’t stand fake playing or lip-syncing, so the actor had to actually know how to play in a band. As soon as Xie Xizhao heard that, he thought of Yun Pan and said, “Save that role — I’ll find you someone.”
And he did. With that, The Player officially started filming.
The scenes weren’t shot in script order, and the first day was a crowd scene. A bunch of people in bizarre outfits were packed into a small room — some playing dance arcade games, some trying to grab toys from claw machines, some tossing toy basketballs into hoops. A “beep” rang out from the scoreboard.
Someone yelled “Cut!” and one of the extras couldn’t hold back his excitement: “Director! I made a three-pointer!”
Xuan Yang: “…”
Xie Xizhao tried not to laugh, waving the kitten’s paw to cheer him on: “Wow, brother, you’re amazing!”
Xuan Yang took a deep breath and asked Xie Xizhao, “How about you?”
Xie Xizhao said, “Already played. Win streak.”
On the screen in front of him, the fighting game displayed two big flashing letters: “K.O.” A muscular character was throwing punches, his face full of rage. Xie Xizhao’s tone was quite proud.
Xuan Yang twitched at the corner of his mouth.
“You all came here to play, is that it?” he said flatly.
“The director’s mad,” Xie Xizhao paused, then faithfully relayed the message, “Everyone, focus up.”
The extras all nodded vigorously.
—
They did try to be serious — but off-camera, everyone still played around.
The filming location was filled with massive arcade equipment. The production had rented out an entire arcade for the shoot, and most of the early group scenes were set there.
A disco ball in the corner spun, casting bizarre, colorful lights everywhere. When the machines were idle, they chimed out cheerful electronic jingles. One of the extras summed it up best: “In this kind of vibe, it’s really hard not to play.”
So, every break, from leads to extras, everyone was glued to a game.
Of course, the rented machines still cost money. Over the past few days, Xie Xizhao had been carrying around a pocket full of game tokens — half for himself, half for the cat.
Du Wei, dead serious, said, “Teacher Xie, I take back what I said earlier — are you three years old this year?”
Xie Xizhao replied, “Don’t put it like that. I’m applying to grad school. I haven’t even graduated yet.”
The kitten climbed up his leg and curled up in his lap, settling into a comfortable little ball.
It had really warmed up to him over the past few days — super clingy, even liked sleeping pressed up against him.
Du Wei thought about it and sighed. Time really is a butcher’s knife. Looking all melancholic, he walked off.
He was still holding a little whack-a-mole toy, hitting a head each time it popped up, again and again.
—
A week later, the days of everyone hanging around and playing arcade games finally came to an end.
The entire crew moved on to the next filming location.
Yun Pan clutched the beat-up guitar he’d scavenged from his old hangouts — the paint was practically peeling off — and struggled up onto a makeshift stage, which was raised just one step above the ground. Amid the noisy crowd, he kept his gaze down, like a true underground “star.” The nervousness and inexperience of his early performances were long gone.
As soon as he struck the first chord, the background performers on drums, bass, and synth joined in seamlessly. The lights remained off, but the atmosphere began to pulse and stir in the darkness — like a secret, grand celebration.
Before the cameras rolled, both Xuan Yang and Xie Xizhao had gone through multiple rounds of interviews.
One was the genius director who rose to fame with a single hit.
The other, a top-tier star who had stayed in the spotlight without fading.
And this — Xie Xizhao’s debut as a film actor.
Those few keywords alone were enough to draw the entire entertainment industry’s attention to this soon-to-be-launched film. And among all the questions, the most frequently asked were:
“Director Xuan, can you tell us what kind of film this is going to be?”
“Xizhao, can you talk a little about the role you’ll be playing? Is it similar in style to Tao Yan? Are you aiming for awards again this time?”
Questions like these —
Pure curiosity.
Everyone was curious. Reporters, the industry, fans — all of them.
And that curiosity reached its peak as more information about The Player trickled out during the film’s pre-production.
Every leak and behind-the-scenes rumor shared a strange common thread: ridiculous yet somehow believable — believable, yet somehow still ridiculous.
And that fit Xuan Yang’s style perfectly. Based on his past work, he clearly had a taste for the bizarre and whimsical.
But that made it all the more interesting — because Xie Xizhao’s recent vibe had been… different. Not just in contrast to Xuan Yang, but different from how he used to be.
He had always been composed, in control of everything. Even during the filming of Tao Yan’s Summer, in all the behind-the-scenes leaks, as the investor, he was clearly the one managing everyone.
But this time, since coming back from that trip, he had changed.
Of course, he was still in great shape as always — still just as professional and focused, whether at work or during public appearances.
But… he’d adopted a cat. A beautiful, sweet cat who now enjoyed top-tier celebrity treatment online. Every photo Xie Xizhao posted of her was flooded with fans leaving absurdly affectionate comments like “Auntie loves you~ come here, let me cuddle and lift you up!”
And beyond the cat — he just seemed… more relaxed. He wasn’t the perfectly polished, almost too-good-to-be-true idol that people once saw him as.
He didn’t work around the clock anymore. These days, most of his posts were cat photos. Sometimes he’d grumble about the director’s latest tantrum in a cute way, then get caught in fan-shot candids wide-eyed and innocent, secretly drinking milk tea behind his manager’s back — 70% sugar, no less. His bedhead would be tousled wildly by the wind, ready to flop down with a single poke.
It was hard to put into words. But for the fans, it felt like opening a surprise loot box — something new, refreshing, a little more…
Real.
“This is a real movie,” the director and the creative team kept saying.
They said it often — yet it always felt half a revelation, half a mystery. From the fan leaks, it looked absolutely unhinged — in a way that felt apocalyptic, chaotic… but very real.
Fans were both nervous and excited.
And now, the shoot had reached the midway point.
Which meant they were actually filming the final sections. These scenes didn’t require extras. The entire crew had moved into a pre-booked location, and it was as if someone had hit a pause button — everything suddenly felt still and quiet, wrapped in a stark, sterile whiteness.
Back in the early shoots, Xie Xizhao had been the ringleader of the on-set “rebellions,” which had drawn a few complaints from Xuan Yang. But Xie Xizhao had excellent instincts — he knew exactly where the line between slacking off and staying productive was, and he walked it perfectly.
In the end, Xuan Yang hadn’t even been able to stay mad. If anything, with the current scenes being filmed, he was starting to feel a little worried.
Xuan Yang said, “This part of the shoot doesn’t burn money. We’re not in a rush. If you… need time, just take it slow.”
Xie Xizhao raised an eyebrow. “Wait — the location’s free?”
Xuan Yang opened his mouth… then closed it again.
“Still my money we’re burning,” Xie Xizhao helpfully reminded him of the fact he’d clearly forgotten.
Xuan Yang’s face turned bright red.
Yeah. He’d actually forgotten.
Xie Xizhao comforted him, “It’s fine.”
…Even though, yeah, it was kind of not fine.
When he lay back on that stark-white hospital bed again, the smell of disinfectant hit him like a punch to the face. A scent he knew all too well. The little cat seemed to pick up on his mood right away, meowing softly, pacing circles around the bed, and trying to bite at the IV tubes. Xie Xizhao, despite the stress, couldn’t help but laugh.
“We’re doomed. When I’m old one day, this little rascal’s probably gonna be yanking out all my tubes like a pro.”
That cracked up the whole room — both the people who were in the know and the ones who weren’t.
Yun Pan came over to scoop up the cat, and Xie Xizhao closed his eyes. Darkness rolled in like a wave.
He could hear the soft beeping of the machines beside him, and the slow, steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Then a sudden wave of… something. Dizziness? Pain? It came rushing in — disjointed flashes of blood, sharp aches — and for a second, he couldn’t tell whether it was real, or just part of some countdown-themed cutscene from a fake world. These images flickered through his mind, and for a heartbeat, pure, uncontrollable fear grabbed him by the throat.
He almost opened his eyes.
Screw it, he thought. Let it burn. It’s my money anyway.
But just before his eyes could snap open, his fingers brushed against something in his pocket — the dice.
That little die, curled up in his palm. It had been kind of quiet lately. Not sure if it was jealous of the new cat stealing attention, or if it had picked up on the fact that a part of Xie Xizhao’s inner turmoil… came from it.
But even at his most overwhelmed, he’d never seriously thought about throwing it away.
One of his colleagues had once said to him, “If I were you, once it’s over, I’d just forget everything. Like, wipe the whole memory clean if I could.”
At the time, Xie Xizhao had simply said, “I want to keep a souvenir.”
A souvenir of the past, a keepsake for the present. A memento of all that had once been vague and unreal — and all that was now so vividly, tangibly real.
His fingers rested on the smooth, warm die, and his heartbeat slowly evened out again.
—
Two days later, that brief but meaningful scene wrapped without a hitch. And during the final discussions about the film’s ending, the die got its cameo — just like the second furball at home, it ended up landing its own little spot in its owner’s movie.
A month and a half passed, and the entire first phase of filming was complete. The team moved into post-production and began the long process of editing and special effects.
Then — three months later — The Player suddenly dropped an official release date, and everyone’s jaws hit the floor.
This scrappy little crew… okay, maybe a bit more legit now, but still not what you’d call “by the book.” A director and lead creative team who seemed more chaotic than reliable. And those steadily escalating rumors — each wilder than the last. Everyone had assumed they’d take their sweet time, polish it into a slow-burning masterpiece, and drop it during some quiet, artsy release window.
Because let’s be real — Xuan Yang’s reputation preceded him. His films were known for being brilliant, weird, and often commercially cursed. Critics loved them, audiences… well, sometimes came around.
So when the release date dropped?
Shock. Across the board.
No delays. No cautious strategy. No waiting for the stars to align.
They shot it. Finished it. Got it approved.
And then — they locked it in.
Without warning, The Player barrelled into the most competitive box office bloodbath of the year — Chinese New Year — with the swagger of someone who showed up late to a party and still expected to be the main event.
Official release: Lunar New Year’s Day.
**TN
This novel is almost over. Only 6 chaps left. (●︿●)
