Rebirth: A big star falls in love with me

Chen Chen's shoulders trembled slightly.

She didn't turn around, but simply said "thank you" softly, then opened the door and left.

The moment the door closed, Zhang Yu leaned against the wall, the star-shaped birthmark under his left eye burning as if it were about to ignite. He could sense that Chen Chen's star-like mark was undergoing some kind of change—the pain had reached its peak, but at the same time... he was beginning to feel relieved.

Progress: 26.

But this time, he preferred not to have the mark.

---

One o'clock.

My phone vibrated; it was a text message from Song Qian, an international message from South Korea: "Director Zhang, I just finished training, I'm exhausted! I learned a new dance today, and the teacher praised my rapid progress. Are you asleep? How's it going in Hengdian?"

Zhang Yu stared at the screen for a long time before replying: "Still not asleep. It's raining in Hengdian. Take care and get some rest in Korea."

A few seconds later, Song Qian replied: "Director Zhang, why aren't you asleep yet? Are you too tired from work? You need to get some rest! I sent you some Korean red ginseng candy, which is said to be good for those who stay up late. It should arrive soon."

This seventeen-year-old girl, training late into the night in a foreign land, still remembered to care about him. Zhang Yu felt a surge of warmth in his heart.

Thank you. Take good care of yourself too.

"Yes! Director Zhang, when I return to China, can I come and watch you film a movie? I really want to learn from you on set."

"Okay. I'll wait for you to come back."

"Great! It's a deal then! Goodnight, Director Zhang, get some sleep!"

Zhang Yu put down his phone and walked to the window. The rain started again, tapping against the windowpane like someone's tears.

The night in Hengdian is dazzling with lights, and under each light lies a story. His story features the faces of 108 women—Chen Chen's tears, Zeng Li's smile, Bai Bing's coldness, Yang Mi's cunning, Gao Yuanyuan's purity, Zhao Liying's resilience, Liu Yifei's clarity, Liu Yan's wisdom, Wang Likun's elegance, Song Qian's passion...

There are also eighty-two unknown faces.

The road ahead is still long.

The rain is getting heavier.

Tomorrow, Chen Chen will be filming a scene where he jumps into a river.

And he will watch from the shore.

This is the game he chose.

Whatever the cost.

……

March 18, 2000, 7:00 AM, Hengdian, sunny, 5-16°C.

Sunlight pierced through the thin mist, casting its glow on the bluestone pavement of Hengdian World Studios. Zhang Yu stood before a window at the end of the corridor on the third floor of Hengdian People's Hospital, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, gazing at the gradually awakening streets outside. He had been standing guard here for three days.

Three days ago, Chen Chen actually drowned while filming a scene where he jumped into a river.

That afternoon, the weather was bad, with dark clouds hanging low. Chen Chen insisted on filming on location, saying she wanted to capture the feeling of Lin Shuwan's resolute rebirth when she jumped into the river. Zhang Yu couldn't persuade her otherwise, so he could only have the ambulance and divers stand by.

After filming began, Chen Chen, dressed in a moon-white cheongsam, jumped off the stone bridge. The scene was breathtakingly beautiful—the cheongsam bloomed in the air like a withered flower, and her long hair spread out like ink-black water plants. Her landing was very professional, with almost no splash.

But after thirty seconds, she did not surface.

Forty seconds.

Fifty seconds.

Zhang Yu's heart stopped beating.

"Save him!" he practically shouted, tearing off his coat and jumping into the river.

The water was cold, and visibility was extremely low. He dived down and saw Chen Chen's cheongsam tangled in the underwater weeds. She was struggling, but the more she struggled, the tighter the weeds became. At that moment, Zhang Yu felt time stand still—Chen Chen was looking at him with open eyes, her gaze filled with terror, despair, and a hint of…relief.

He swam over, forcefully tore through the seaweed, and pulled her up by the waist. When they surfaced, Chen Chen was already unconscious, her face as pale as paper.

The ambulance sped to the hospital. The doctor said it was a case of transient hypoxia, compounded by a cold, fever, and weakness, and that she needed to be hospitalized for observation for three days.

For the past three days, Zhang Yu hasn't left the hospital. The film crew has been put on hold, and Li Xiaoming is extremely anxious, but Zhang Yu only said one sentence: "We'll talk about it when she wakes up."

"Director Zhang."

Huang Ying's voice came from behind him. Zhang Yu turned around and saw her walking over with breakfast in her hands, her eyes red and swollen—she had barely slept for the past three days.

"Chenchen is awake," Huang Ying said. "The doctor said that visits are allowed, but not for too long."

Zhang Yu stubbed out the cigarette in his hand—actually, he hadn't lit it, he was just holding it out of habit: "Did she... say anything?"

“He didn’t say anything.” Huang Ying looked at him, her eyes filled with complex emotions. “Zhang Yu, the first thing Chenchen asked when he woke up was, ‘Is filming finished?’ Do you know what that means?”

Zhang Yu remained silent. Of course he knew—Chen Chen was using work to escape her emotions, and using Lin Shuwan's identity to escape Chen Chen's pain.

"I'll go see her."

---

The morning light in the ward at nine o'clock in the morning

The ward was a single room and very quiet. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds, cutting out alternating light and dark stripes on the white sheets. Chen Chen sat leaning against the headboard, wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown, her long hair loose, her face still pale, but her eyes had regained some sparkle.

She was reading a script, pen in hand, taking notes in the margins. She looked so focused, as if she hadn't been the one who nearly drowned three days ago.

When Zhang Yu knocked and entered, Chen Chen looked up at him, his eyes calm and expressionless: "Director Zhang is here."

This title still feels distant.

"How are you feeling?" Zhang Yu placed a bouquet of lilies on the bedside table—Chen Chen's favorite flower.

"I'm much better now, I can be discharged tomorrow." Chen Chen closed the script. "I'm sorry for delaying the filming schedule."

“Don’t say sorry.” Zhang Yu sat down on the chair next to her bed. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have let you film that scene.”

“No, that scene has to be filmed.” Chen Chen shook his head. “Besides, when I jumped in, I really found the feeling of Lin Shuwan—when struggling in the water, I suddenly wasn’t afraid anymore. I thought that if I died like this, it might be a kind of relief.”

She spoke softly, but every word felt like a needle piercing Zhang Yu's heart.

"Chen Chen..."

“Director Zhang,” Chen Chen interrupted him, “let’s talk about work. How should we adjust the later scenes? The shooting schedule needs to be rearranged while I’m in the hospital these past few days.”

She was running away again. Zhang Yu looked at her, this girl who used to cry, laugh, and act coquettishly in front of him, now wrapped herself in a hard shell, only talking about work and not feelings.

“The shooting schedule has been adjusted.” Zhang Yu took out a new shooting schedule from his bag. “Your scenes will be postponed by a week. We’ll shoot the supporting roles first. Zeng Li, Bai Bing, Yang Mi, and the others’ scenes will all be filmed in the next few days.”

"Yang Mi?" Chen Chen raised an eyebrow. "You added five minutes to her monologue scene?"

"how do you know?"

"Sister Huang Ying told me," Chen Chen said casually. "It's quite good; that scene was very well written. If Yang Mi can act it well, it will be one of the highlights of the whole film."

She spoke very objectively, offering her evaluation entirely from the perspective of a director and actor, without a trace of personal emotion. This calmness was more distressing to Zhang Yu than crying or making a scene.