Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

The final warehouse set has been set up for three days.

The prop team added another layer of dust to the iron frame so that when light shines through the high window, tiny particles can be seen slowly floating in the air.

The shell casing marks on the ground were newly made, with several places still bearing scorch marks from gunpowder burning. He Xu knew that the props team had gone to the shooting range a couple of days ago to test-fire the shells and then aged them.

He stood at the edge of the scene, clutching a stack of script pages that had been turned until the edges were frayed.

The costume was tattered—a ripped hole in the dark gray tactical jacket and a cut in the left thigh, exposing the meticulously crafted gunshot wound to the light.

The mask hung loosely around his neck, revealing Langdon's true face.

He Xu has been unable to sleep since last night.

It wasn't because he was nervous—he'd long since passed that stage. Nor was it because he was afraid of not performing well.

As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his mind went over every word of Langdon's final monologue.

"I could have let you go."

"I could have done nothing."

"But you taught me one thing—when you decide to be a human being, you can no longer pretend that you are just a tool."

He read those lines over and over again more than a dozen times, and each time he felt the tone was off.

To put it mildly, it sounds like complaining; to put it harshly, it sounds like accusation. He never found the right balance.

He knew where the problem lay.

The filming took nearly three months, and he has already transformed himself into Langdon Waugh.

The precise, ruthless force he displays during combat, the natural placement of his finger on the safety when drawing his gun, the slight tilt of his head when silent—all of these qualities have been ingrained in him through training and filming.

He has even started thinking like Langdon.

But this play is different.

Langdon doesn't need to hide, pretend, or wear a mask in this scene.

He wanted to shed all pretense and, in the final moments of his life, reveal everything he had never told anyone.

He Xu didn't know how to act out this "removing the disguise"—because he himself had never done so.

He opened his eyes and glanced at the other end of the set—Jonathan was standing at the edge of the set, wearing Marcus's old leather jacket, with a microphone clipped to his chest, confirming the last movement point with Carter.

His expression had switched to "Marcus Hale" mode, his gaze deeper than usual, his jawline slightly taut, as if he had already mentally rehearsed the entire scene.

Carter's voice came from behind the monitor, interrupting his reverie: "Actors, take your positions. He Xu, go to your spot."

He Xu rolled up the script and handed it to his assistant, stretched his shoulders, and then walked into the depths of the warehouse set.

The prop team had laid out a dark gray old carpet on the ground, its edges worn and frayed—the wall that Langdon had leaned against after being cornered by Marcus.

He Xu sat down on the carpet, leaning against the wall, with his left leg straight and his right leg slightly bent.

His right hand rested on his knee, with a prop pistol beside him.

This was the first time he had entered the shooting position in this pose.

In all his previous action scenes, he was standing, running, and rolling around.

He consistently used physical movement to drive the character and the rhythm of action to fill the gaps in emotion.

But now he can only sit here, leaning against a wall, waiting for Jonathan to come in, and then recite Langdon's last words one by one from the script.

He looked down at his fingers resting on his knees, his knuckles slightly white.

Jonathan walked in from the other side of the set, wearing Marcus's old leather jacket. He stopped in front of He Xu, looked down at him, and asked, "Ready?"

He Xu didn't look up: "...Mm."

"You don't look ready."

He Xu's eyelashes fluttered, then he looked up and met Jonathan's gaze: "...I was just thinking, this should be my last scene."

Jonathan looked at him, remained silent for a moment, then squatted down and looked He Xu straight in the eye: "Then you take good pictures of it."

He Xu didn't speak, but he slowly loosened his fingers from his knees.

Carter's voice came again from the monitor: "He Xu, I'll tell you the positioning one last time. Jonathan walks in from the main entrance of the warehouse, stops about two meters in front of you, you talk, then he'll take a step closer to you, and then—you know what happens next."

He Xu nodded: "...I've got it."

"Alright, script supervisor, get ready."

The clapperboard fell to the edge of the camera with a crisp sound.

"Scene 55 of The Piece, Shot 1—Beginning."

He Xu leaned against the wall and heard Jonathan's footsteps approaching from the direction of the warehouse entrance.

Jonathan's figure appeared at the edge of the set, his silhouette outlined as a dark shadow against the light streaming in from the high window.

He stopped about ten steps away from He Xu, and then walked closer step by step, his leather boots crunching over the scattered pebbles on the ground.

He stopped about two meters in front of He Xu.

The warehouse was quiet for a moment.

Jonathan looked down at He Xu, and when he spoke, his voice was deeper than usual, almost unable to contain himself: "...It's you."

He Xu leaned against the wall, looked up at him, breathed silently, and then spoke.

The voice was softer than he had expected: "...Marcus."

Jonathan's breath hitched.

Then his voice rose, hoarse with a kind of suppressed urges finally bursting forth: "You fucking—do you know who she is? You know her—she cooked for you! She asked you if you were tired from cooking—you sat at her dining table eating her cooking, and you told me—you said you didn't have a home—"

He Xu's eyelashes drooped, and her gaze fell on her fingers resting on her knee.

"……I know."

"You know—you fucking know—"

Jonathan took a step forward, his boots slamming heavily into the ground.

His voice finally cracked completely, squeezing out a broken, shattered sound from his throat: "I treated you like a son—I fucking treated you like a son—"

He Xu did not look up.

His gaze remained fixed on his fingers resting on his knees.

The knuckles are slightly closing and then opening, closing and then opening again.

When He Xu's voice came out of his throat, it trembled slightly, without him even realizing it: "...I know."

The set was quiet for a long time.

Carter's voice came from the monitor, calmly and emotionlessly breaking the silence: "Carter. The rhythm is there, but the delivery of the lines needs some adjustment—He Xu, when you said 'I know,' your pace was too flat. Langdon should have been completely unburdened at that moment—you could try smiling. Give it a try."

He Xu sat on the carpet with his hands on his knees, facing the director's gaze from behind the monitor and several staff members watching from the side.

He found that he couldn't get in.

The emotional channels I had prepared in my mind seemed to be blocked by something.

He knew the weight this scene should carry, and he knew what Langdon should be in at that moment—but that state didn't apply to him.

He opened his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was noticeably stiff, even to himself: "...Okay, let's do it again."

Second time.

The clapperboard fell again.

Jonathan walked in from the entrance, taking ten steps, five steps, two steps, and stopped in front of him.

"...It's you."

"...Marcus."

He Xu leaned against the wall and, following Carter's instructions, tried to move the corner of his mouth when he said "I know"—but he found that he couldn't smile.

When he tried to create that curve, it looked like a stuck gear, stiffly stuck there, so he gave up.

Carter's voice came again: "Carter. He Xu, that laugh you just gave—it wasn't a laugh. Langdon at that moment wasn't forced to admit it; it was a feeling of finally not having to pretend anymore—do you understand?"

He Xu lowered his head, his fingers tightening: "...I understand."

"Then do it again."

The third time.

Still not right.

His lips moved, but the smile was stiff and unnatural.

Carter paused for a few seconds, then said, "Let's rest for fifteen minutes first."

The people at the edge of the set dispersed; some went to get water, some squatted down to tidy up the cables, and some went to a corner to light cigarettes.

Jonathan stood two steps away, not leaving.

He looked at He Xu, who was still leaning against the wall, motionless, and then squatted down next to him.

"What were you thinking about just now?"

"...How do you want to act it out?"

"Act right," Jonathan repeated the word. "You're thinking about how to 'act right'—of course you're not acting right."

He Xu turned his head and glanced at him: "...What do you mean?"

"Langdon doesn't need to act anymore in this scene. He's exposed, his identity is gone, and his mission is over—for the first time in his life, he doesn't have to act for anyone. But you've been 'acting' for someone who no longer needs to act, going back and forth. That's a paradox."

Jonathan's voice was not loud, and each word landed on the rough floor in front of He Xu.

"How did you get into character before?"

He Xu thought for a moment: "...I'm thinking about my own things."

"Then try it now. Langdon, have you ever felt this way coming to this point?"

He Xu's eyelashes trembled slightly.

He lowered his head, looked at his fingers resting on his knees, and paused for a long time.

He thought back to when he was twenty, sitting on a hospital bed in the emergency room, when the doctor told him there would be long-term effects. His first thought was—it's happening again. It's him again. Why is it always him?

He thought back to when he was sixteen, in a practice room in Seoul, when that person stepped on his ankle, and no one around him spoke up for him.

He thought back to when he was six years old, sitting on the empty living room floor waiting for someone to come home, waiting until it got dark, waiting until the streetlights came on, only to be met with deeper silence.

He has been treated like something that can be discarded his whole life.

When Langdon sat on the warehouse floor looking up at Marcus, they probably shared the same weariness.

The same compromise and resentment.

The break is over.

The clapperboard rang out once again.

But this time, He Xu's face truly wore a bitter smile, as if he were facing certain death.

The curve wasn't pronounced; the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, carrying a bitter, self-deprecating meaning.

It's like someone finally reaching the end of the road and looking back at all the wrong paths they've taken.

Then he spoke, his voice tinged with a bitter laugh: "...I could have let you go."

Jonathan stood before him, impersonating Marcus, looking down at him: "...What?"

"I could have let you go," He Xu said again. This time, the smile in his voice hadn't faded, but it had a different meaning—

It's like a reverse expansion after being compressed to the extreme, starting to become deformed and crazy.

"I could have done nothing and let the trail go cold. I could have made sure you could never find her. I could have simply disappeared. But I didn't."

Jonathan squatted down in front of him, his voice rough with disbelief: "...Why?"

He Xu looked down at his hand on his knee, and his breathing began to quicken.

“Because in my original plan… I should have died long ago,” he said. “I was just living there, like a knife that could be pulled out at any moment. But you didn’t use me as a tool—”

His eyes reddened at this moment, and a thin layer of tears covered his eyelids.

"—You treat me like a person."

A tear slid down his left eye, along the curve of his cheekbone, and paused for a moment near the corner of his mouth, but he maintained that smile throughout.

Then he raised his right hand, slowly pulled out the prop gun from his side, and pressed the muzzle against his temple.

"...You taught me something."

He looked at Jonathan, his voice beginning to tremble, a tremor that rose from deep within his chest and spread outwards along the vibrations of his vocal cords: "It's when you decide to be a person—"

His voice suddenly stopped.

Then he suddenly rose higher, as if something inside his body had finally snapped completely.

"—I can no longer pretend I'm still just a pawn!"

His voice exploded in the warehouse setting, hoarse and broken, with a tearing sensation as if it had been suppressed for more than twenty years and was finally bursting out of his throat.

His eyes were completely red, and tears welled up and streamed down his cheeks, but he was still smiling—a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

"Do you know who I am?!" His voice rose another octave, his hand gripping the gun trembling violently. "I'll tell you who I am—I'm a fucking expendable pawn!!"

The word came out of his mouth almost as if he were shouting.

His body tensed up suddenly, the veins on his neck bulged, and he was like a string stretched to its limit, trembling violently on the verge of breaking.

His breathing became completely disordered, his chest heaving violently, each breath seeming to be pulled up from a deep place, carrying an undeniable, almost suffocating heaviness.

"You treated me like a son—" he repeated Jonathan's words, but this time his voice changed, becoming sob-like and hoarse, "You're the first person to treat me like a human being—"

His tears dripped down his jawline, landing on the carpet and leaving a small, dark, damp stain.

"...So I'm sorry."

His voice suddenly dropped at the last sentence, as if the outburst had exhausted all his strength.

He was still smiling, but the smile had lost its sound; only a bitter curve remained at the corner of his mouth, which he was still struggling to maintain.

He looked at Jonathan, tears still streaming down his face, his finger on the trigger, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible to the two of them: "...I'm sorry."

Gunshots.

The sound of the props exploded in the warehouse set, with a dull, compressed thud.

He Xu's body slumped down the wall and leaned against the gray wall.

The muscles on his face still held that bitter smile, his shoulders trembled slightly, and then slowly relaxed.

His hand slipped from his temple, and the gun fell onto the carpet with a dull thud.

Tears are still flowing.

Tears seeped from the corner of his half-closed eyes, trickling down his cheekbone, and solidified along with the lingering curve of his lips on his face, which was pale under the light.

Jonathan squatted down in front of He Xu and looked down at him.

He looked at He Xu, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

The tear tracks on that face hadn't dried yet, and the lingering curve at the corner of her mouth resembled a frozen, slowly fading aftershock.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just sighed deeply, as if he were exhaling his soul.

Then he stood up.

The movement was slow, and the knees made a slight clicking sound as they straightened up.

He turned and walked towards the warehouse entrance.

The sound of leather boots stepping on the concrete echoed subtly in the empty set, as heavy as when they arrived, but it didn't stop.

He didn't turn around.

The hem of the old leather jacket swayed slightly with each step, and his back was held very straight.

The iron gate of the warehouse set closed behind him with a dull thud.

The set was quiet for a long time.

Then Carter's voice came from the direction of the monitor: "...Pass."

No one moved at the edge of the set.

The lighting technician's hand remained on the color mixing console.

The young girl from the props team covered her mouth, her eyes already red.

He Xu leaned against the gray wall without moving.

The prop gun fell onto the carpet. He closed his eyes and finally dared to breathe after Carter finished speaking.

His chest was still heaving, and his tears had dried, but the tight, dry feeling at the corners of his eyes reminded him of everything that had just happened.

He could feel his breathing gradually calming down from its erratic state, each breath shallower than the last, like the receding tide.

He heard footsteps approaching, followed by Carter's voice above him: "He Xu."

He Xu raised his head.

Carter was standing in front of him, his hands in his overalls pockets, looking down at him.

The expression on his face was hard to define – it lacked the professional distance typical of a director, appearing more approachable and somber.

Then he let out a big laugh.

"Your scenes are finished—in other words, congratulations on wrapping up filming!" Carter said.