July in Shancheng.
In the early morning, a thin mist floated in the air.
Before the daylight could fully spread, the old tenement building deep within Binjiang Old Street was already surrounded by the crew.
The exterior walls were yellowed with age, withered vines climbing up the cracks. Water stains in the corridor layered upon one another, and the narrow windows couldn't block the river breeze. Moisture seeped into the two-bedroom apartment, lifting a thin corner of the paper on the desk.
The first scene to be shot was the one where Chen Jingan writes in his diary.
Most of the crew had not yet arrived, but Jiang Yue was already standing in the room, his fingertips brushing against the edge of the peeling wooden desk. The wood was ice-cold, the flaking paint scraping his fingertips. He gained a better understanding of how to play this scene.
Cheng Songran had mentioned beforehand that they would record a version of the male lead's complete diary voiceover today. During the official shoot, this voiceover would play beneath the footage, serving as the breath and rhythm of the entire scene.
This was a bit different from Jiang Yue's usual acting habits.
He hadn't been in the industry for long; in the past, the director usually set the pace, the camera marked the spots, and someone off-camera supported him through every pause and transition.
This time, Cheng Songran handed the rhythm over to him.
There were no prompts or corrections, and no one would be making gestures off-camera. His breathing, his pauses in writing, the intervals between raising and lowering his eyes—every empty gap in between would support the skeleton of Chen Jingan's solitary scene.
Shooting this way carried considerable risk, but the benefit was that the emotions wouldn't be fragmented from start to finish; they could follow a single continuous line.
Chen Jingan's fragmented memories from three years ago would be left for post-production editing to patch in; for now, they had nothing to do with Jiang Yue.
He only needed to sit down and become Chen Jingan.
The early morning light filtered through the old glass, cut into several pieces by the window panes, falling onto the peeling wooden desk and the vintage desk lamp. The lamp was lit, its halo covering only a corner of the desk, while the rest of the room was submerged in darkness.
The stagehand checked the diary and fountain pen one last time, then retreated out of the camera's frame.
The set quieted down, and the clapperboard fell.
The camera pushed in from the doorway, passing the old sofa, passing the peeling plaster on the wall, and finally resting on the man in front of the desk.
Chen Jingan wore dark loungewear. His figure was lean, and his eyes bore the fatigue of long-term insomnia. The sharp edge that once belonged to a genius actor had been dulled by a three-year slump, leaving only a tiny, stubborn spark that refused to die.
He sat there, so quiet it felt suffocating.
When his fingertips touched the cover of the diary, he did not open it immediately.
【Another sleepless night.】
Chen Jingan lowered his eyes, his eyelashes trembling slightly, and finally flipped open the blank page. The tip of the pen pressed against the paper but stopped for a few seconds, the ink bleeding into a black dot within the paper fibers.
【The psychologist said I must keep writing, recording emotions, recording illusions, and recording every strange loss of control. Perhaps one day, the scattered pieces can be put back together, and I will be able to remember what exactly happened three years ago.】
The pen tip finally moved. Chen Jingan wrote lightly, his wrist a bit stiff.
To an outsider, these would only look like a few lines written by an insomniac in the middle of the night.
Only he knew that this diary had sustained him for three years. He relied on it to fight amnesia, fight confusion, and fight the self-doubt that surged again every morning upon waking.
The psychologist told him to write, so he wrote day after day.
【But I am actually afraid of remembering.】
With this sentence written, the pen tip stopped.
【That scene is forever nailed into my mind. Someone falling right before my eyes, the sound of the impact heavy and dull.】
Three years had passed.
The fatal fall on the set had not faded with time; instead, it returned to his dreams over and over, dragging Chen Jingan back to the exact second the accident occurred.
【I was at the scene back then. I saw everything, but after waking up, I couldn't recall a single detail. The police investigated; the evidence, statements, and scene traces all cleared me of suspicion. The law said I was innocent, and the incident was ruled an accidental fall.】
At least in the case files of that year, he was innocent.
But the internet never judged people based on case files.
【Everyone is asking why I don't speak, why I can't remember, and why I, of all people—the sole witness—know absolutely nothing. Speculation and rumors have swirled, and for three years, the abuse has never stopped. Apathetic, guilty conscience, withholding information... these labels were pasted onto me, dragging me into the mud.】
The former Chen Jingan was a brilliantly talented method actor. He had a bright future ahead of him, bathed in the spotlight, and everyone said he would become the finest actor of the next generation.
Yet a single accident and a blank memory were enough to nail him to the pillar of judgment.
Head trauma, mental trauma, post-traumatic amnesia—these terms had meaning in a professional diagnosis, but in the court of public opinion, they only became fresh material for mockery.
【No one cares that I suffered head trauma, no one cares that I was traumatized into amnesia, and no one cares that I have nightmares night after night, unable to tell if I am awake or not even during the day. They all say I am a method actor, that getting too deep into character is my talent, and also my retribution.】
Was it absurd?
But he barely had the strength left to refute it.
【I don't know when it started, but something went wrong with me. I can suddenly see through other people's lies, and I possess observation and judgment skills I've never had before. That state is not the self I am familiar with; another person has moved into my body.】
As he wrote this, Chen Jingan's hand tightened around the pen. He looked down at the neat characters on the paper, fear slowly spreading to the depths of his eyes.
He was sick.
The sudden sense of fragmentation, dislocation, and terrifyingly lucid indifference all made him feel as though he was being taken over by something foreign.
【My psychologist tells me it's my subconscious trying to save itself. It has grown a hard shell for me, bearing the fear and darkness that I cannot handle. In private, I call him Lu Zhichen.】
When this name was written on the paper, the wind in the room seemed to soften a bit.
【I fear him. When he appears, I briefly lose control of my body, making judgments I wouldn't dare make and speaking words I wouldn't dare say. He is sober, restrained, and perceptive of everything, while I am cowardly, evasive, and trapped in my memories. I've never been able to tell whether I am the one who is sick, or if it is only because he is alive that I have managed to survive until now.】
【Taking on the script of 《Prisoner's Game》 this time, everyone thinks I'm crazy. But only I know that I want to take a gamble. By replicating a similar scene, I want to force out my lost memories. I want an answer.】
A glimmer of light finally appeared in Chen Jingan's downcast eyes. He stood at the edge of a cliff, knowing full well that taking a step forward could shatter him to pieces, yet he still wanted to see clearly what was buried below.
【Am I truly an innocent bystander, or... am I really a sinner?】
After the last word was written, the pen tip pressed against the paper, leaving a somewhat deep ink spot.
The camera slowly pulled back, passing the dim desk lamp, passing the open diary, passing the lonely figure sitting at the desk.
The river breeze entered through the window, lifting a corner of the page, only for it to quickly fall back down.
The suffocating oppression in the room did not dissipate. Deeply immersed in Chen Jingan's life, Jiang Yue laid bare before the camera a man held back by trauma, crushed by public opinion, and repeatedly tortured by self-doubt.
Cheng Songran called "cut." No one on set spoke immediately, and even the sound recordist was in no hurry to take off his headphones.
Cheng Songran raised his hand to rub his temples, pulling himself out of the emotion.
“Let's do a safety take.”
Only when those words fell did the set come alive again.
The sound recordist took off his headphones, and the stagehands entered the room quietly to organize the props.
Jiang Kaiwen stood by the door, watching Jiang Yue rise from the desk, not stepping forward to hand him water just yet.
He before this only knew that Jiang Yue could act.
When 《Manhunt》 was broadcast, the praise online was overwhelming. Even though 《The Grand Game》 hadn't premiered yet, Chu Yan had already gone viral through the trailers and variety shows.
But watching it with one's own eyes on set was completely different from watching it through a screen.
During the dozen or so minutes just now, Jiang Kaiwen didn't even dare to budge. Even as an outsider, he could feel the suffocating atmosphere weighing down on everyone in the room.
Jiang Yue raised his hand and flexed his wrist.
On the open diary, in the center of the page, the ink was still wet.
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