This director only directs blockbusters.

The two sat there, neither moving. The shed was quiet, save for the hum of the machines and the sound of the fans.

The air was still stuffy, but there was a sense of relaxation.

Wuershan suddenly spoke, his voice a little hoarse: "Director Yang."

"Um?"

"Did you also meticulously edit the footage frame by frame when you filmed 'Zi Xiao'?"

Yang Ning thought for a moment. He remembered the last time he filmed "Zi Xiao," that was truly arduous.

With no money, no people, and no track record, such a large investment can be irrecoverable if it fails, forcing you to work your hardest.

"It was even more ruthless than that," he said calmly. "Back then, we didn't have as many people or as much equipment as we do now. We had to carry a lot of things on our own. Even if we couldn't carry them, we had to."

Wuershan turned to look at him. The light shone from the side, casting a deep shadow on Yang Ning's face.

"So how did you manage to get through it?"

Yang Ning didn't answer immediately. He took a drag of his cigarette, which was almost burned out and scalding hot.

He stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table.

The ashtray was bought by Han Duoduo. It's a little skull with its eye sockets stuffed full of cigarette butts, which suits the girl's rock and roll personality.

"Because there's no other way," he said, looking at the skull-shaped ashtray. "If you don't carry it, the film will be smashed."

"Once it's smashed, everything's gone. Money, reputation, opportunities—all gone. Getting back up is difficult, no, completely impossible."

Wuershan remained silent for a few seconds.

He looked down at his hands. They were large, with distinct knuckles, and calluses on the palms, the result of long hours of handling machinery.

Now these hands are holding the mouse, learning something new.

"When I was filming 'Soap Opera'," he suddenly said, his voice lowering, "I also got through it. No money, no equipment, no team."

I'm doing the work of three people—I'm the director, I'm the cinematographer, and I'm also the production assistant.

We film during the day and edit at night. When we get sleepy, we lie down on the floor of the editing room for a while, and then we keep working when we wake up.

When you're hungry, you eat instant noodles; when you're thirsty, you drink tap water. It has to be said, instant noodles are a good thing—convenient and affordable.

Countless people from the lower classes, like us, have relied on it to get through crucial times.

He paused, his fingers curling slightly.

"Later, when the film came out, nobody watched it. After three days in theaters, the box office was dismal. Theaters quickly pulled it from theaters, as if it had never existed."

Yang Ning didn't speak. As he listened, he also thought of those films that nobody watched in his previous life.

Those finished films gathering dust on hard drives, those creative ideas that no one cares about.

"During that time, I thought every day whether I was not suited for this line of work."

Wuershan said that the voice was very flat, but there was something underneath. "Shooting GG can make money, enough to support myself."

But I couldn't let out the anger inside. I felt suffocated, and would wake up in the middle of the night with a tightness in my chest.

He stared at the screen, the image still frozen on that moment of the flip. The car traced a beautiful, powerful arc in the sunset.

"I've been here all day," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Watching you guys work like this, meticulously editing frame by frame, grinding away bit by bit."

Suddenly, I felt as if that breath had returned. It hadn't gone out; it was still there, just hidden away.

Yang Ning looked at him.

Under the lamplight, Wuershan's face showed signs of fatigue—dark circles under his eyes and dry lines at the corners of his mouth.

But there was also seriousness, that kind of focused seriousness. And there was something else that's hard to define—

Like a spark beneath the ashes, it looks like it's about to go out, but if you blow on it, it lights up again.

"Take your time," Yang Ning said, turning back to face the screen. "Once this film is finished, there's the next one. Once that's finished, there's the one after that."

That's how this industry is; it's endless. You finish one, think you're done and can rest, but immediately another one is waiting for you to finish.

Wuershan also turned around, and the two sat side by side, looking at the frozen image.

"Keep grinding away?" he asked.

"Keep grinding away," Yang Ning said, "until it can't be ground down any further."

Neither of them spoke again.

The shed was quiet. The faint, muffled sounds of cars coming from the road could be heard in the distance.

After a while, Yang Ning stood up and stretched. His bones cracked a few times.

"Let's go back to sleep. We have to come back tomorrow."

Wuershan also stood up and stretched his stiff neck. His neck snapped, and he winced in pain.

"Director Yang."

"Um?"

"Thanks."

Wuershan spoke softly, but very earnestly.

Yang Ning didn't reply. He picked up his coat from the back of the chair and put it on. It was a black jacket, worn for several years, with a slightly faded collar.

He walked out, with Wuershan following behind.

The lights were turned off, and the door was locked. The special effects studio sank into darkness, with only a few standby devices displaying small red lights, as if they were asleep.

The night breeze outside the shed was cool, blowing in their faces with the chill of early spring. Both of them hunched their shoulders.

There were a few stars in the sky, scattered about, but they looked particularly bright in the hazy Beijing night.

Reaching the car, Yang Ning opened the door but didn't get in immediately. He turned around and looked at Wuershan.

"Old Wu."

"Um?"

"You just said that breath of life is back."

Wuershan looked at him and nodded.

"Then do a good job," Yang Ning said, his voice clear in the night wind. "Don't let it go out again. If it goes out this time, it might not be able to be lit again next time."

He paused, then added a sentence.

"In this industry, many people have lost their will to live and never shone again."

After saying that, he got into the car and closed the door.

The engine roared, and the headlights came on. A warm yellow light cut through the darkness, illuminating a cloud of swirling dust.

The car drove away, the red taillights growing smaller and smaller in the night, finally turning a corner and disappearing from sight.

Wuershan stood there, not moving immediately. The night wind blew through his hair and his jacket.

He felt in his pocket and took out his cigarette case. There was only one cigarette left, a little crumpled. He straightened it and lit it.

The lighter flame flickered in the wind before it lit the cigarette. He took a deep drag, and the smoke quickly dissipated in the cold air.

He looked up at the sky. The stars were still there, shining brightly.

He suddenly remembered when he had just graduated, standing at the entrance of the Central Academy of Drama, watching people come and go.

It was summer, and the sycamore leaves were a bright green, with sunlight filtering through them in dappled patterns.

He carried an old backpack containing his graduation project—a twenty-minute short film, roughly made, but full of his ideas.

At that time, he thought that one day he would make a movie that people would remember.

It doesn't have to be a blockbuster, but it has to be a good movie.

A movie that people can remember, recall, and say "This movie is good".

More than a decade has passed. That movie still hasn't been made.

He filmed GG, music videos, and a movie that nobody watched. Then he stagnated, felt lost, doubted, and almost gave up.

But now, he stands in the cold March night in Beijing, smoking his last crumpled cigarette, looking at the sparse stars in the sky.

He felt that the movie was coming soon.

It's really coming soon.

He finished his cigarette. He threw the butt on the ground, stomped it out, and turned to walk back to his residence.

He took big, steady steps.

The wind was still blowing, but he didn't feel cold.

The fire in my heart has been ignited. Though it's still small, it's warm enough.