C140

When Gu Yueze came home from work, he saw Shi Fei lying on the sofa, reading a script.

Taking off his suit jacket and hanging it on the rack, Gu asked, “So you’ve decided to take this role?”

Shi Fei, intending to tease him, said deliberately, “I thought that script was a bit too difficult. Since it’s my first time acting, I figured I’d start with something simpler — I switched to a school idol drama.”

Gu Yueze’s movements paused for a moment before he calmly walked to the water dispenser, took a cup from the shelf, and asked, “Didn’t you really like that Infinite Death script before?”

Shi Fei flipped through the new script casually. “I do like it, but too many people are mocking it. I’m worried my first acting gig might flop, so I decided to pick a role I can handle more easily.”

Gu Yueze frowned slightly. “Since when do you care about what others think?”

Shi Fei replied, “It’s hard not to care. I’m in showbiz, after all. Besides, this script isn’t bad — it’s a school romance, sure, but it’s got some fantasy twists. The main character can hear other people’s thoughts. If it’s filmed well, it might become an unexpected hit of the year.”

Gu Yueze poured himself a glass of water, gripping it tightly. “I don’t think a school idol drama suits you,” he said after a pause. “You’re still young — you shouldn’t be acting in things that are all about romance.”

Shi Fei raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I’m exactly the right age for this kind of role. And it’s not just a cheesy campus love story — there are plenty of fun, creative elements. Oh, and get this — the female lead is apparently really beautiful. The director said she’s the campus belle from the art school.”

Gu Yueze’s knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the glass, looking like he might crush it at any moment.

“Mister Gu, I’m thirsty — pour me some water, will you?” Shi Fei said, eyes still on the script.

Gu Yueze poured him a glass and said, “Here, drink this. I’ll make you some noodles.”

Shi Fei grabbed his wrist. “Don’t bother with noodles. I don’t feel like eating those tonight. I’ll cook dinner.”

He handed the script to Gu Yueze. “Just sit here and read this. After dinner, help me rehearse some lines.”

Before heading to the kitchen, Shi Fei playfully smacked Gu Yueze on the butt. He’d wanted to do that earlier when Gu Yueze was standing there pouring water — that perky little backside was just too tempting.

He thought to himself with amusement, That’ll definitely be fun in bed someday.

Although he’d already had hotpot with Qian, Qu, and Cao earlier, he hadn’t eaten much himself, so he was still hungry.

In the kitchen, he looked over the ingredients and decided to make something simple — braised beef brisket with potatoes.

He filled a pot with water and set it to boil, then took out some tomatoes, scored an X on each, and dropped them in. Next, he peeled and washed the potatoes, cutting them into chunks.

By the time he finished cutting, the water had come to a boil. He turned off the heat, took out the tomatoes, and easily peeled off their skins.

“Ah, I forgot to cook the rice first,” he muttered. It had been so long since he’d cooked that he’d forgotten the order of things.

When he turned around, he saw Gu Yueze standing silently in the kitchen doorway. Acting as though nothing was wrong, Shi Fei said cheerfully, “Mister Gu, come help me wash the rice and start the cooker.”

Without a word, Gu Yueze walked over, took out the rice cooker, and started measuring rice.

Shi Fei noticed him pouring in three full bowls and reaching for a fourth. Alarmed, he quickly stopped him. “That’s enough, that’s enough! You don’t need that much. Put some back!”

When Gu Yueze put the bowl he’d used to rinse the rice back down, he looked at Shi Fei and asked, “You think it’s funny watching me get jealous?”

Shi Fei grinned. “A little bit.”

Gu Yueze reached out, intending to smack him for being so cheeky, but before he could, Shi Fei quickly rose on his tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his lips. With a teasing lift of his eyebrow, he asked, “Does that make it better?”

Gu didn’t respond — that faint raise of his brow clearly meant ‘you think I’ll let you off that easily?’

Shi Fei traced little circles on Gu Yueze’s chest with his fingertip and said softly, “Do you know why I like seeing you jealous?”

Then he leaned close to whisper in Gu Yueze’s ear, his breath brushing against his skin. “Because I like seeing you lose control — that way, I know how much you care about me.”

The warmth of his breath lingered in Gu Yueze’s ear. Gu Yueze caught the mischievous hand that was still drawing circles on his chest, wrapped an arm around Shi Fei’s waist, and pulled him close until their bodies were pressed tightly together, their breaths mingling. His tone turned low and possessive. “Keep teasing me, and I’ll take you right here. I don’t mind if our first time is in the kitchen.”

Shi Fei nipped lightly at his lips, grabbed his collar, and glared up at him playfully. “Getting bold now, huh? Daring to threaten your daddy?”

Without another word, Gu Yueze’s hand slid under his shirt — but the moment he brushed against Shi Fei’s ticklish spot, Shi Fei burst out laughing and quickly surrendered. “No, no, Mister Gu, I was wrong! Let me finish cooking first. I’ll serve you properly after we eat, okay?”

Gu looked at the sly little demon in front of him — always flirting, always setting fires he never put out — and, as much as he wanted to take him right then and there, he sighed. Shi Fei had been staying up late reading scripts lately; he decided to let him off this time.

“Fine. But tonight, I will eat you,” he said on his way out, his tone dark and low.

Shi Fei muttered under his breath, “We’ll see who eats who,” once Gu Yueze was gone.

After dinner, Shi Fei lay on the bed, diligently reading through his script and jotting down character notes.

Even though he was the lead actor, some parts of the character’s background hadn’t been fully developed by Cao An. Shi Fei needed to flesh it out himself to better understand the role.

The next day, he received the revised opening script from Cao An. The male lead’s name had officially been changed to Qian Yinian.

Apparently, the three of them had “fought” over it before deciding on the final version — they’d kept the surname Qian because it symbolized good fortune (“money” in Chinese).

But the moment Shi Fei read the new opening scene, a chill ran down his spine.

The original underworld rebirth concept had been replaced — now, every time the character revived, he woke up in a bathtub. The notes even specified that the scene should show him bare-chested.

Gu Yueze, who was getting ready to leave for work, noticed Shi Fei’s furrowed brow and said, “What’s wrong? You look frustrated. Is there something wrong with the script? I can skip work today and help you run lines.”

Shi Fei immediately closed the script and said quickly, “It’s fine, really. Just a small issue — I can handle it.”

No way was he letting the King of Jealousy see that scene. His legs might not survive it.

Gu leaned down, kissed Shi Fei on the forehead, and said, “I’m heading to work.”

Shi Fei nodded. The moment the door closed behind him, he flipped the script open again and groaned. “That damn Cao An, is this revenge or what?”

Because in this story — a thriller about endlessly respawning to find a killer — if every rebirth happened in a bathtub, that meant he’d have to film the bare awakening scene over and over again.

By the time the show aired, would he even have his legs left intact under Master Gu’s jealous wrath?

No — this had to be changed.

He immediately called Cao An. “Why did the script get changed like this?”

Cao An replied innocently, “Changed like what? You’re the one who told me to revise it. You said the supernatural elements weren’t realistic, so I figured rebirth in a bathtub would make it more tense. Bathrooms are perfect for creating horror scenes.”

Shi Fei asked, “That’s true, but why does he have to be nak-ed when waking up in the tub? He could be wearing clothes, right?”

“Have you ever seen anyone take a bath with their clothes on?” Cao An shot back.

“Anyway, this setup doesn’t work. Change the rebirth location.”

“Why? I think it’s great,” Cao An said, genuinely puzzled — though he did have his own reasons for liking the idea. With Shi Fei’s looks and popularity, it would be a waste not to make use of it.

Just imagine the headlines: ‘Shi Fei shows dedication by stripping for art!’ or ‘Shi Fei’s first on-screen shirtless scene!’ — perfect for marketing.

“Because I don’t want to take my shirt off in front of so many people. I get shy, okay?” Shi Fei protested, offering a weak excuse.

“What’s there to be shy about? It’s just guys around anyway. We can ask the actresses to step out during filming,” Cao An coaxed. “Shi Fei, if you want to be a serious actor, you’ve got to be professional. It’s just your upper body — people film kissing scenes, love scenes, bed scenes all the time. They don’t act shy.”

Cao An’s persuasion was earnest, but Shi Fei’s refusal was just as firm. In the end, under his persistence, the rebirth scenes were finally changed so that the character would be wearing a dress shirt in the bathtub.

Three days later, Shi Fei arrived at the Infinite Death set, dragging his suitcase behind him.

Even with his 30 million yuan investment, the production was still dirt poor. Most of the actors had to bring their own costumes.

Shi Fei’s character, Qian Yinian, was a university intern, so he needed to wear suits at work.

Shi Fei, who preferred hoodies and hated formal clothes, had been rescued by Gu Yueze — who had somehow managed to get him more than twenty sets of perfectly fitted suits without even asking for his measurements.

Clearly, someone had secretly measured him while “inspecting his body” at night.

Despite the shoestring budget, the crew still held a small opening ceremony. Everyone lit incense and prayed for a smooth shoot. Shi Fei even met several veteran actors — not famous, but true masters of their craft.

It was obvious that Qian, Qu, and Cao had put real effort into this project. These older actors might not be household names, but their skills were rock-solid.

Today was the first day of filming, and as was tradition, the first scene was meant to go smoothly in one take — a good omen for the rest of production.

Usually, that honor went to either the lead actor or a well-respected veteran.

In this crew, they had veteran actors, but none particularly famous.

Wang Yuanzhi assumed the first scene would definitely go to him — after all, he’d heard that Shi Fei had paid 30 million yuan to “buy” the male lead role.

When he first heard that, he’d nearly choked with rage. He only had enough money to buy the second male lead role!

Would Shi Fei, that rich investor, end up throwing his weight around and making everyone else’s life miserable?

Even as he worried about being bullied, Wang Yuanzhi was already scheming how to steal the first scene for himself.

If the first scene were given to him—the second male lead—it would be like a silent announcement to everyone that his acting skills were better than Shi Fei’s, that the director trusted him more.

Wang Yuanzhi felt 99% sure the first scene would go to him. After all, he had both skill and popularity; who else could possibly deserve it more?

Subconsciously, he had already written Shi Fei—the first-timer—out of the picture entirely.

But when he looked at the shooting schedule, the first scene wasn’t his. Not just the first—neither the second, third, fifth, nor sixth.

He had to scroll way down before he finally found his name after the tenth scene.

Annoyed.

No problem, he thought. He’d just wait until Shi Fei flubbed his first take and embarrassed himself in front of everyone.

Director Qian Mi was already seated behind the monitor, walkie-talkie in hand, ready to call the shots.

The moment Shi Fei saw what Qian Mi was wearing, he knew the man’s “lucky color” of the day had to be green.

While everyone else wore festive red for a shoot’s opening, Qian Mi was in a full green suit—and to top it off, he even wore a green hat.

Shi Fei had long given up on understanding his fashion sense.

But somehow, watching him command the set with sharp focus, that ridiculous outfit almost faded into the background. In that moment, Qian Mi actually looked… kind of cool.

Shi Fei put on his black trousers and white shirt, then sat in the tub of warm water. The surface was covered with foam for a more cinematic look.

Qian Mi picked up the walkie-talkie.

“One, two, three—cameras ready? Action!”

Shi Fei slowly submerged his head underwater. When he rose again, he had become Qian Yinian—water dripping from his face, wiping it away with both hands before reaching for a towel.

It was the very first shot of episode one, before the rebirth ability even activated. Shi Fei’s performance was completely natural.

“Cut,” Qian Mi called. “Good. Pass.”

Shi Fei had nailed it. Still, Qian Mi frowned slightly, as if something didn’t sit right.

He walked over and said, “Shi Fei, I think you should take off your shirt for this scene. The character’s supposed to have mild OCD—he showers every morning. Have you ever seen anyone shower with their clothes on?”

Cao An chimed in, “See? I told you he had to take it off. He wouldn’t agree—said he was shy.”

At the word shy, Wang Yuanzhi couldn’t help but snort. “Shy? It’s just taking off your shirt, not a full strip.”

Shi Fei: “…” He really wanted to punch someone.

The veteran actors nearby overheard and started giving advice too.

“At first, you’ll feel embarrassed, but an actor has to push past that!”

“You’re playing a character, not yourself. Show what the role demands!”

“Don’t be shy—we’re all men here; what you’ve got, we’ve all got.”

“When I was your age, I shot bed scenes without blinking. This is nothing!”

“You can do it, kid—we all believe in you!”

Qian Mi even brought Shi Fei to the monitor to show him the shot. Wrapped in a towel, Shi Fei had to admit—it did look weird seeing himself in a shirt inside a bathtub.

With everyone insisting and the logic making some sense, Shi Fei finally relented. He couldn’t keep rewriting the script just because of his own hang-ups.

He took off his shirt, draped a large towel over himself, and slid back into the bathtub, hiding the towel beneath the foam.

The camera would only capture his bare shoulders and arms—not anything lower.

The first bathtub scene—before the rebirth—was easy. It didn’t require major emotional shifts.

Once that smooth first take was done, though, the real challenge began.

Because the whole show revolved around the main character dying and being reborn over and over—in the bathtub—each “rebirth” scene demanded different emotions: shock, pain, confusion, then eventual calm acceptance.

Shi Fei hit every one of them perfectly.

Even the other actors who’d doubted a singer could act were stunned watching him perform.

So young, and yet his emotional control was impeccable.

Even Wang Yuanzhi—who’d been waiting to laugh at him—was speechless. Was this guy good at everything?!

Finally, he found one thing to comfort himself with: His body probably isn’t that great.

“Just look at him,” Wang Yuanzhi thought bitterly. “So shy about showing skin— he even has to hide behind a towel. His physique’s got to be worse than mine.”

That was the only thing he could tell himself to feel better.

 

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