A shiver rolled through her in wave after wave. Ying Yin kept her gaze fixed on the door for several long seconds before her eyes gradually found their focus again, emerging from the haze.
Her slender waist was still limp beneath her as she turned her head over her shoulder, looking back at Shang Shao, who had already stepped away. There was something in her eyes that was difficult to name – perhaps hurt, perhaps reproach.
Breathing unevenly, Shang Shao steadied himself before asking in a low, hoarse voice, “Where’s the light switch?”
“Don’t turn it on.”
“I want to see you.”
“No…” Ying Yin called softly, catching his raised hand before he could reach for it.
Her clothes were in disarray, and she was still wearing Yin Xueqing’s costume – a gaudy, flamboyant outfit utterly unlike the poised, elegant way she normally presented herself. She didn’t want Shang Shao to see her like this.
He yielded to her wishes without another word.
In the darkness, the quiet rustle of fabric lingered as Ying Yin silently dressed herself. Deep within her body, the warmth and traces he had left behind still remained. It had been so long that every sensation felt vivid, impossible to ignore. He had come to her with unwavering intensity, yet withdrawn without hesitation, as though his only concern had been to satisfy her.
Ying Yin found herself thinking: So there really are men who feel no urge to linger over such things.
When the rustling of fabric finally ceased, Shang Shao brushed a hand lightly over her eyes. “Finished? I’ll walk you back to the set.”
How desperately he wished she wouldn’t go. But she was an actress. If he kept her here, held her down and made her miss this scene, tomorrow there would be gossip branding her a love-struck diva – unprofessional, treating the production as a joke.
He had come here to support her, not to hold her back.
To be the string that steadied her kite, not the reins that restrained her.
“You…”
The words were too embarrassing to finish.
“It’ll settle down in a while,” Shang Shao answered quietly.
It was already past six. The moon had not yet climbed high enough to reach the window, leaving the room steeped in darkness. Everything existed only as outlines. The solid, rustic handmade furniture, the bedding and sofa, the tiered silhouette of the dressing table – all of it seemed heavy and blunt. Only the two of them, facing each other in silhouette, remained graceful and slender, like two fine brushstrokes in a meticulous ink painting.
Ying Yin moved closer and slipped into his embrace.
What if this is schizophrenia? she thought.
It felt so real. So beautiful. Left to herself, she feared she might never wake from it.
May I stay forever drunk, and never wish to awaken.
Shang Shao opened the door and accompanied her outside.
Moonlight washed over the snow, making the night far brighter than the room had been – not bright with daylight, but with a deep sapphire glow, as though the world had been suspended inside a block of Klein-blue acrylic.
Their footsteps crunched softly across the snow for a few paces before stopping.
Shang Shao caught Ying Yin gently by the arm and, in that muted light, studied her in silence.
Her face and slender neck were as luminous as carved jade, flesh lying close against delicate bone with flawless precision. Every proportion was exquisitely balanced. Beneath the moonlight, her skin seemed to glow with a soft jade-like sheen, while a touch of silver rested upon her brow, the tip of her nose, and the curve of her chin like droplets of clear water gleaming on polished jade.
He looked at her with such quiet concentration that his gaze felt almost tangible.
Ying Yin lifted her face and held his eyes for a long moment. As she blinked, he leaned in and kissed her softly.
It was the kiss they had omitted earlier, after all the reckless passion inside the room.
By the time they were only a short walk from the set, the warm glow spilling from the wooden cabin was already visible.
The New Year’s gifts Ying Yin had prepared proved perfectly timed. The moment she stepped inside, the sweet aroma of butter cookies, almond pastries, and dried tangerine peel cakes filled the air. There was none of the usual anxious energy of a cast waiting to shoot. Instead, the atmosphere felt almost like a family gathering before New Year’s Eve dinner.
“I’m so sorry, everyone. I’m a few minutes late,” Ying Yin apologized sincerely.
It was the first time anyone had seen her arrive with someone.
Around the set, people’s eyes darted between Shang Shao and Li Shan.
In the short time since she’d left, speculation about the Best Actress’s mysterious boyfriend had escalated from a mainland yacht club heir to a Hong Kong tycoon, from an overseas-returned executive to a university professor. Every theory imaginable had been floated.
“No way he’s an executive. Doesn’t have that vibe.”
“That watch on his wrist is ridiculously understated. Worth over ten million, I’d bet. If you didn’t know better, you’d mistake it for an ordinary IWC.”
“The helicopter’s his too, isn’t it?”
“Then he definitely isn’t some professor.”
In the end, though, no one had managed to uncover anything.
Now that the man himself stood before them, all the whispered theories seemed to dissolve.
He simply carried an air of nobility.
Standing there, he wasn’t saying anything, nor was he deliberately imposing himself on anyone. Yet somehow, his presence alone made people instinctively lower their voices. Even the most unruly characters found themselves treating him with respect; even the crudest among them unconsciously remembered their manners.
Take Old Cai, the chief cinematographer. On ordinary days he’d squat anywhere smoking his Huanghelou cigarettes, picking his teeth without the slightest concern for appearances. But now he stood ramrod straight, hands where they ought to be, posture impeccable, an inexplicable smile fixed politely on his face.
If this were the sort of scene written in a third-rate romance novel, Shang Shao would be compared to a deity, or to the moon hanging high in the heavens – his mere appearance enough to leave everyone awed and slightly intimidated.
Li Shan, however, paid no attention to the subtle shift in the mood on his modest little set.
He studied Ying Yin for several seconds before calling the makeup artist over, lifting his chin in indication. “Touch up her makeup.”
No assistant director or department heads needed to call everyone into position.
By then, every member of the crew had already returned to their stations.
Jiang Te had just been forced by Junyi to rinse with nearly half a bottle of mouthwash. His mouth still burned fiercely, and he couldn’t help thinking, City people really do invent the strangest ways to make themselves suffer.
Now, seeing Junyi produce another fresh bottle and hand it to Ying Yin, he merely folded his arms lazily across his chest and watched, waiting to see what would happen next.
Jiang Te never looked directly at Shang Shao, but his instincts were as sharp as a wolf’s roaming the grasslands and forests, alert to every subtle shift around him.
The moment he sensed Shang Shao’s gaze pause briefly on him, Jiang Te finally drew his own eyes away from Ying Yin.
He looked at Shang Shao without emotion.
Shang Shao returned the look with equal composure.
Neither of them knew who had won that silent exchange.
Jiang Te knew only one thing – that his fists had clenched without his realizing it.
In truth, he roughly understood.
The man before him belonged to the very highest tier of their society. A single pair of leather shoes, a single pair of tailored trousers, could probably buy every cow and every sheep his family owned.
That effortless bearing came from someone born to stand above others, supported by the natural ease and authority of a man who had never needed to fight for his place.
So this is the kind of man she likes?
Yet the first time he’d met her, she had seemed like a deer… or a lamb.
Delicate. Pure.
A creature that, by nature, seemed meant to be pinned beneath the paws of a powerful beast.
She was the kind of woman who could awaken every instinct in a man at once – the urge to conquer, to possess, to protect, and to control.
But this man…
He wasn’t like that.
He stood calm and unshakable, as steady as a mountain, unmoved by anything around him. He was unlike any dominant male Jiang Te had ever known.
Ying Yin, meanwhile, was particular about such things. She wouldn’t rinse her mouth where others could see. She slipped into the restroom, turned on the tap, and the sound of running water echoed for a while.
When she emerged, her lips were fresh and glistening with moisture. Dabbing them dry with a tissue so her lipstick would go on smoothly, she walked back toward the set.
“Let’s go over the scene one more time.” Li Shan clapped his hands together. “It’s getting late, everyone’s in the right headspace now. Let’s aim to wrap it in three takes or fewer.”
His gaze settled on Ying Yin. With a look and words that only she would understand, he asked discreetly, “Can you do it?”
The shock of what had just happened had not yet left his body. His heart was still pounding so hard it brought on a cough, and the lingering fright and exhaustion made him look older than usual.
But his leading actress had asked to continue filming.
He had no reason to refuse.
Even so, for the only time in his directing career, mercy surfaced.
His eyes told Ying Yin that if she wanted to stop, he would give her an out. They could postpone the scene until another night.
Ying Yin met his gaze. “We’ll try.”
“Good.” Li Shan began explaining the scene.
“This is Yin Xueqing and Ha Ying’s first kiss. Before this, they’ve already shared moments of desire, but they’ve never actually kissed. Why? Because Yin Xueqing believes she isn’t worthy. She thinks she’s filthy, degraded. Too many men have visited these lips, and those men are just as filthy and degraded as she believes herself to be. So she resists letting Ha Ying kiss her.”
“But this time… she accepts it.”
“Do you remember what I said about the ratio of her soul?”
He looked at Ying Yin.
“By this point, the woman in her has finally outweighed the prostitute. She no longer sees what she shares with Ha Ying as a fleeting affair before death. She sees it as love – a gift bestowed upon her. She surrenders to the pull between love and desire, allowing both body and soul to be immersed in love. It’s like stepping into a vast field of untouched snow – someplace perfectly pure, somewhere she’s never set foot in before. She trembles. She’s overjoyed. She experiences happiness. But…”
Li Shan gestured for Ying Yin to continue.
“But she knows they’ll inevitably be separated,” Ying Yin said softly. “Every day they spend together is another day closer to the end.”
She lowered her lashes. “The more deeply she gives herself to this man, the more she drags his life down with hers.”
“So she’s filled with despair. Every extra day together is a day stolen from fate.”
“She hates herself for being so selfish.”
“But she can’t stop.”
‘After I die, let raging flames consume me; let me be condemned to endless damnation. While I live, I will take my joy – and after death, I will repay the debt.’
“She’s a heroine in love,” Ying Yin finished quietly. “The courage she possesses comes from having abandoned herself.”
After I die, let raging flames consume me;
Let me be condemned to endless damnation.
While I live, I will take my joy –
And after death, I will repay the debt.
Those words were written in Yin Xueqing’s character dossier.
Ying Yin herself had written them.
She had shown them to Shen Ling and asked him if they captured the character.
He had remained silent for a very long time, looking at her with an expression so layered it was impossible to decipher.
Finally, he said, “If Yin Xueqing doesn’t win an award, it will be the greatest failure of Li Shan’s entire career.”
He had said “If Yin Xueqing doesn’t win an award,” not “When Snow Melts It Turns Green doesn’t win an award.”
When Ying Yin’s voice faded, Li Shan’s stern expression froze for a moment. On his aging yet smooth skin, a shiver rose rapidly, as though every pore had been pricked by countless tiny needles.
He knew he no longer needed to explain.
Ha Ying’s emotional layers were far simpler.
He knew this woman had hidden many secrets from him. A woman who had traveled alone to a snow mountain in the dead of winter, seeking death – how could she possibly have no secrets?
But he had no way of uncovering them.
He was a man who lived by instinct, not by logic or reason. So for him, this kiss was the fulfillment of a long-awaited desire.
It was the first time in his life that he truly understood love. Compared to it, what he had once shared with Nuerxiya was as pale and insubstantial as a thin illusion beneath the sunlight.
There was no doubt that, in order to fully capture the facial performances of both the male and female leads, this scene would be shot in close-up.
There were three camera setups: Jiang Te’s close-up, filmed through an over-the-shoulder push from behind Ying Yin; and the two-shot close-up, composed with a symmetrical side angle.
Li Shan’s most carefully designed element was Ying Yin’s close-up.
Her shot would be filmed through a mirror mounted against the wall.
Mirrors often symbolize lies and illusion. Here, they also represented a fabricated purity – for a mirror was, after all, not a naturally formed crystal.
At the same time, it was an artificial frame within the frame, revealing the presence of the camera itself. It pulled the audience away from the intensity of emotion and gave them the perspective of an observer – one who watched, examined, and cooled their gaze.
The audience might judge her.
They might sympathize with her.
Such reactions were intensely personal, shaped and guided by each individual’s own experiences of life.
A kissing scene was a standard part of filming, so there was no need to clear the set.
Unnecessary personnel had left the shooting area. Everyone waited for Li Shan to give the order. But Li Shan deliberately gave Ying Yin a few extra seconds.
He thought she would walk over and exchange a few words with Shang Shao.
But she didn’t.
And Shang Shao didn’t leave either.
Li Shan stopped waiting.
The script supervisor stepped into frame with the slate, announced the scene and shot numbers.
After the word “Mark” came the sharp clap of the slate.
The performance began.
Behind the director’s monitors sat Li Shan and Zhuang Tiwen. Standing nearby were the assistant director, cinematographer, and Junyi.
Junyi had originally wanted to ask whether Shang Shao would be coming over. But then she saw him standing there expressionlessly, a single unlit cigarette held between his fingers.
Her gaze shifted slightly.
She didn’t understand why he had wrapped his tie around his palm.
So informal.
So unlike him.
On camera, Ying Yin held a candle.
The flame was weak, barely burning, and wax tears had hardened along its side.
She turned around and, within the cramped space, met Jiang Te’s eyes.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
They had already spoken so much before this, so both of their emotions were fully built.
She froze briefly.
Within two seconds, her emotions shifted from tension to surrender. She accepted her fate, a smile mingled with tears –
Everything was perfect.
It could only be described as an “actress-of-the-year moment.”
Until the moment when she was supposed to kiss him.
Ying Yin turned her head instinctively.
And looked toward the man standing in the corner of the room.
Li Shan: “…”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Ying Yin instantly pulled herself out of the moment. “I didn’t mean to…”
She lowered her head repeatedly in apology.
Li Shan took a deep breath and did not criticize her. “The beginning was very good. Adjust yourself. We’ll do another take in one minute.”
One minute later.
“Cut!”
Li Shan lowered the director’s baton, crossed one leg over the other, and sat there expressionlessly with his arms folded across his chest.
The camera crew: “…”
Old Fu, the cinematographer, turned his head to look at the man standing in the corner of the room.
The lighting didn’t even reach him. He stood hidden in the shadows, keeping an extremely low profile.
Under the lights, Ying Yin took a deep breath and awkwardly shifted her gaze away from Shang Shao, looking back toward Li Shan. “I’m sorry, Director Li…”
Li Shan waved his hand, still patient. “One minute.”
Ying Yin paced slowly beneath the lights, taking repeated deep breaths. She tilted her head back, trying to empty her mind completely.
Shang Shao’s presence was simply too overwhelming.
He wasn’t doing anything.
It wasn’t like Shen Ji’s wife, whose stare had been so intense and fixed that it felt suffocating. Shang Shao was merely playing absentmindedly with the cigarette holder between his fingers, his attention seemingly elsewhere.
And yet, he was there.
And because he was there, Ying Yin kept wanting to turn around and look at him.
As if she were silently saying:
“Then I’ll go in first. You have to wait for me.”
Another minute passed.
“Cut! Cut, cut, cut – CUT!”
Li Shan threw down his director’s baton and stood up in fury.
“Get him out of here!”
“Producer! Clear the set!”
“Everyone – get the hell out!”
