Chapter 22: Profane Acting

The small crew shooting the MV for Ji Yanjin was in a state of anxious impatience, all waiting for the leading man who had inexplicably run off, only to see his figure return an hour later, everyone wiping cold sweat from their brows in relief.

The little crew was essentially made up of Ji Yanjin’s friends, helping out as a favor, which meant Ji Yanjin had quite a bit of freedom among them. Otherwise, if he’d disappeared for an hour without a word, he would have been scolded mercilessly.

Of course, the MV for Ji Yanjin’s album was produced by a crew assembled by his agency, but this time he was planning to shoot an extra MV for an additional song to include in the album, with no change in price—a bonus for his fans.

The company, naturally, refused to set up a new crew for such a “willful” request, considering it a waste. With no other options, Ji Yanjin gathered a group of friends and paid out of his own pocket to rent the necessary equipment.

After all, it was just one song’s MV and wouldn’t take too much time.

Therefore, when it came to the lack of wages, Chu Luoxi, knowing the background, could easily understand.

“Oh, Jin, is this the fan who gave you the song? She’s a real beauty!” A man with a slightly round face and glasses came over, exclaiming with exaggerated surprise.

After returning to the mainland from Taiwan, Ji Yanjin had signed with another company and had a professional manager, but his assistant was still his best friend—this very man standing before them.

As for the song Ji Yanjin wanted to add to his well-prepared album, it was precisely the “good deed” done by Chu Luoxi.

During the Spring Festival, Ji Yanjin participated in a live entertainment show. One segment involved selecting a fan, and Chu Luoxi was the lucky one. Given their soulmate-like connection in a previous life, Chu Luoxi helped wholeheartedly. In a contest against another artist’s fan, she presented a song to Ji Yanjin.

In fact, this song was originally the collective work of Ji Yanjin’s fan group, “Spicy Shreds,” intended as a gift unique to him. Chu Luoxi merely delivered it earlier than it would have appeared in her previous life.

Receiving a song from fans, though not a classic, it was catchy and easy to sing—ideal for spreading widely. That New Year, Ji Yanjin became the envy of countless entertainers and the talk of the town.

“She’s not my fan at all! I’ve told you…” Ji Yanjin sighed. On stage, he’d already noticed how calm this “fan” was. Even when he called her later, she showed none of the typical excitement of speaking with an idol. He knew perfectly well Chu Luoxi wasn’t his fan.

After learning Chu Luoxi was a student at the Emperor Film Academy’s Acting Department, Ji Yanjin realized they would be friends and colleagues—“fan” hardly fit.

“So, this song really was written by a fan for Jin?” The assistant, nicknamed “Chubby,” asked Chu Luoxi curiously. She couldn’t see where the nickname applied, apart from his round face.

“Hehe, I promise, Jin already asked the same thing.” Chu Luoxi replied with some helplessness. In her previous life, this song wouldn’t have appeared in Ji Yanjin’s fan group until a year or two later, eventually reaching Ji Yanjin and being included in his second album.

Now, because she wasn’t Ji Yanjin’s fan, everyone seemed even more suspicious.

“No need to doubt. You know the lyrics, don’t you? Clearly, it’s written for Jin,” Chu Luoxi retorted confidently. Though she’d been reborn from more than twenty years in the future, she hadn’t plagiarized any popular classic songs for Ji Yanjin. She didn’t want to claim someone else’s hard work. The only reason she’d presented this song early was to restore it to its rightful place—it wouldn’t change anything.

“So, as I said, I didn’t write this song alone—it was a group effort by the Spicy Shreds. No need to give me all the credit.”

Such good fortune shouldn’t be claimed lightly. Only after much earnest explanation from Chu Luoxi did the matter pass.

Since it was a modern MV, makeup and preparations were quick. The storyline was simple—focused merely on portraying a fan-artist relationship. The settings were plain, the backgrounds uncomplicated, so filming progressed rapidly.

For Chu Luoxi, whose acting in her past life had become second nature—a conditioned reflex—such a task was hardly even a warm-up, no more effort than shooting a print ad.

Even so, Ji Yanjin’s friends were amazed, especially the one who, despite being the lead, kept getting called for retakes. “Xiao Xi, you really live up to being from the Emperor Film Academy’s Acting Department. Only a sophomore and already this good!” she heard, as she breezed through each take without a single NG, much to the frustration of her scene partners.

Chu Luoxi was speechless—if she kept messing up on just an MV, she might as well bang her head against the wall.

In her previous life, by the time she met and befriended Ji Yanjin, she had already graduated and worked for several years, making a name for herself. When Ji Yanjin started venturing into film from the music world, she essentially took him under her wing.

Back then, as his partner, Chu Luoxi could only be at a loss for words at Ji Yanjin’s acting. To professionals, someone with a dance background but little real acting experience like Ji Yanjin was a complete amateur, relying solely on imagination—an outsider through and through. He often caused plenty of laughs on set.

However, Ji Yanjin was humble and eager to learn. Once they became friends, he picked up a lot from Chu Luoxi about acting.

But Chu Luoxi had never expected that at this stage, Ji Yanjin’s acting was even more abysmal. Even shooting an MV required numerous takes—she could barely stand to watch.

No wonder he said it would take two days. Chu Luoxi had thought the MV must be terribly complicated, but as it turned out, it was just that he would waste too much time.

Hearing “Cut!” yet again, Chu Luoxi let out a deep sigh. She’d never found filming so nerve-wracking. Clearly, in her past life, meeting Ji Yanjin when she did was a stroke of luck—at least he’d improved a lot by then!

Really, why did he have to dabble in film? Why not just stick to singing—what was wrong with being a pure vocalist? There were still a few left, rare as they were.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Chu Luoxi stood up and decided not to remain a bystander. Before the director called for action, she chose a spot not far from the camera and called out in a clear voice, “Jin, when we start, just look at me. Don’t stare into the lens or let your eyes wander.”

Honestly, after the director’s guidance, his expressions were right, his emotions appropriate, his body language on point—so why wasn’t it working?

Handsome as he was, why did he keep darting his eyes around the camera, or staring too intently? Didn’t he realize that no matter how good-looking, it would come across as shifty? Didn’t he know that staring fixedly at the lens without controlling his facial expressions would make his beautiful eyes bulge like a frog’s, erasing all his charm?