A real killer playing a villain; the guy surnamed Zhen in Detective, run!

VIP ward of orthopedics at the Municipal Central People's Hospital.

Zhao Xiujie lay face down on the hospital bed, his buttocks in the air, his legs spread wide at an awkward angle. The nurse had just finished changing his dressing and left; fluid was still seeping from the skin beneath the gauze.

The burn area is not large, but the location is too extreme.

The chubby assistant stood at the door, holding a bowl of millet porridge, unsure whether to go in or back. Zhao Xiujie had already smashed two water glasses and a tablet; the shards were still scattered on the floor, and no one dared to sweep them up.

"Have you made any contact with the scar?"

The chubby assistant shrank back: "I got in touch. He said... the price will have to be increased."

"How many?"

"150,000."

Zhao Xiujie remained lying down, motionless. After a few seconds, he pulled his phone from under his pillow and transferred the money with one hand. "Tell him he'll give me fifteen more after it's done. But I want more than just a lesson."

He tossed his phone onto the bedside table.

"I want to cripple him. Pierce his instep. Let's see how he'll ever stand in front of the camera again."

The chubby assistant's lips trembled slightly. He knew Scarface; he had a criminal record for intentional assault, was on probation, and would take any job.

"I've already had the nails made," the chubby assistant said in a low voice. "The ends have been removed, and they've been sanded down to seven centimeters. There will be a lot of people in the group fight scene tomorrow, so he can blend in with the extras and strike in the chaos. Nobody will be able to find out."

Zhao Xiujie buried his face back in the pillow.

"Get out."

The portly assistant bent down and left the ward, closing the door behind him. The footsteps in the corridor faded into the distance.

---

The following morning. Outside the film set.

The sun was unusually kind, and its rays felt warm and comforting on my skin.

Lu Yuan squatted down next to the fire escape in shed number five, with a piece of cardboard torn from a lunchbox spread out in front of him. Old Liu lay sprawled on the cardboard, his two hind legs stretched out straight, revealing his pinkish-white belly.

It was enjoying the premium service that Lu Yuan was providing by brushing its fur with a five-yuan plastic comb.

Lu Yuan's technique was very steady, and Lao Liu squinted and snored.

"Your fur is all knotted up like barbed wire." He pulled off a small clump of fur and flicked it to the ground.

The sun warmed his back. He yawned, tears welling up in his eyes, and wiped them with the back of his hand.

The call sheet says the group battle scene will start filming at 1 PM. There are still two hours to go.

Want to lie down for a while?

He put the comb in his pocket, leaned back against the base of the fire hydrant, his canvas shoes stacked on the side of the cardboard, and Lao Liu rolled over and lay on his chest.

Three seconds. Breathing evened out.

---

The interior of Studio 5 has been changed.

An underground bank. Neon lights, iron cages, scattered banknote props, three card tables, and an old brick wall covered with red talismans.

The props team piled up over twenty boxes of empty beer bottles in the corner, each with a custom label, and the distressed look was very well done. A straight walkway, about twelve meters long, was cleared in the center of the venue from point A to point B.

Su Qinghan stood in the middle of the aisle, holding a red marker, and drew marks directly on the floor.

She drew three crosses: the starting point, the middle section, and the ending point.

"The core of this scene is not the fighting."

She was surrounded by Lao Jin's stunt team, plus eighteen extras who had been temporarily brought in today. She looked up and scanned the area, her gaze finally settling on position B at the end of the aisle.

"The fighting is in the background. There are over thirty people fighting each other in this space. Props tables are overturned, bottles are broken, and someone falls from the second-floor railing. Shen Yibai walks from one end to the other, twelve meters."

She threw the marker on the table.

"He didn't dodge, he didn't block, he didn't speed up, he didn't slow down. All violence was irrelevant to him. He simply walked from his living room to the balcony to water the flowers."

Old Jin rubbed his chin: "Director Su, what about that fist and bottle that brushed past you—"

"The recent impact points have been kept within 15 centimeters. I need realistic wind pressure, not exaggerated fake pressure."

Old Jin gasped. A 15-centimeter safe distance is called "face-to-face flying" in the martial arts world. Veteran martial artists with more than three years of training can do it, but the variables become too great when extras are involved.

"Don't worry," Su Qinghan said without turning her head, "he can handle it."

---

Extras changing area.

A dozen or so extras were huddled behind a metal partition, putting on their costumes. Black T-shirts, fake temporary tattoos, tattered leather jackets. The room was noisy, filled with the smell of sweat mixed with cheap hairspray.

In the corner, a man with a half-scarred face was tucking the leg of his work pants into his boot.

A scar. In his early thirties, with high cheekbones, a long-standing scar running from the corner of his left eye to his ear, like a centipede crawling across his face. He slipped his right hand into his sleeve and used a sports strap to secure something to the inside of his forearm.

Seven centimeters. Remove the head. Grind until both ends are sharp.

The bandage was wrapped three times securely. When the arm hangs naturally, there is no visible abnormality from the outside.

He flexed his wrists a couple of times.

12:40 PM.

Jiang Yan stood next to the fire equipment cabinet inside the side door of shed number five, her position strategically positioned in the blind spot between two fixed camera positions. She was used to this spot; it offered a view covering 75% of the entire area.

The extras entered the scene one after another and began rehearsing their positions.

Jiang Yan's gaze swept over each person, a professional habit. She had checked most of these people a few days ago; they were just idle people making a living and posed no threat.

But today's list includes a few more temporary workers.

She frowned slightly.

I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and the emotions of so many people, and there's a hint of violence mixed in, all drowned out by the overwhelming noise.

She had no evidence. Only intuition.

One o'clock.

Lu Yuan has arrived. He has changed out of his sportswear; this outfit was specially chosen for him: a black cashmere coat over a turtleneck, and a replica watch that the props team found.

He stood at point A, his hands in his coat pockets.

Su Qinghan, holding up the megaphone, gave a final instruction: "You go your way, they fight theirs. Control the pace yourself, and finish your lines between steps six and nine. Remember, you are the only thing in this space that doesn't belong to violence."

Lu Yuan nodded.

"Attention all departments—"

Raise the clapperboard.

Thirty-four stuntmen and extras were scattered throughout the money exchange scene. Some held prop machetes, some crouched behind the card table, and some hung from the second-floor iron railing, ready to fall. Old Jin stood outside the scene, a walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth.

Scarface was hunched over and head down in the second row on the left side of the card table.

His eyes peered through the shoulder gap of the person in front of him and locked onto the back of the figure in the black coat at point A.

He'd walked that route three times already. Lu Yuan would pass through his area on the eighth step from point A to point B. At that moment, he'd pretend to be knocked down, roll to Lu Yuan's feet, and then strike, piercing Lu Yuan's instep.

I went through the entire chain of motion in my mind at least twenty times.