Prey.
When this word slipped into her mind, Sami herself was taken aback, but the unprecedented sense of reality calmed her brain completely. She had no time to think; an invisible tether seemed to exist between the two of them, pulling her forward, onward. The script's contents had transformed into instinct, firmly imprinted on her soul. She entered a whole new world without hindrance, a world that belonged to Henry.
She stared blankly at the tear-streaked face before her, eyes swollen, and weariness evident in the brows. The gaze concealed behind those lashes remained elusive, only capturing fragility in the disarrayed cheeks. The profound sadness had solidified into palpable coldness, surging wave after wave.
Yet, hidden behind the coldness was despair, and it made her heart start to beat, thump, thump. It was as if their bloodlines were connected, stepping to the same rhythm. Even their souls began to merge. But the demon deep within whispered: no one is worth trusting, no man can be trusted. They are all the same. To her, men were nothing more than tools for making money, prey for her survival.
So, Erica gently bit her lower lip, then raised her index finger to wipe away the blood oozing from her lips. Her large, bright eyes stared unwaveringly at the man. She didn't pretend to be pitiable, but her delicate brows, innocent gaze, and crimson lips naturally portrayed her vulnerability, revealing her disadvantaged position.
Her gaze roamed, studying the man from head to toe. It settled on the dirty ground of the bus, not lifting again. She observed his shiny leather shoes, lost in thought. The freeloaders and the slapper from moments ago were already forgotten. She thought, maybe she could make her first fortune of the night from this man. So, what price should she ask for?
These outwardly refined gentlemen often concealed more terrifying beasts within, and to maintain their perfect image, they were willing to pay a higher price.
Erica couldn't help but feel a bit excited. She discreetly lifted the corner of her eye, using peripheral vision to gauge the man's reaction. How could he not be moved when he saw such a helpless and delicate version of herself?
However, Erica was disappointed. Her peripheral vision only captured numbness, radiating icy detachment. It silently distanced the two of them. The gradually relaxing brows appeared calm and composed. The eyes hidden behind the tears and lashes were deep and serene, devoid of any special expression. There wasn't even a trace of sadness, which was in stark contrast to the tear-streaked face. It was jarring, like a glazed cloud that had been baked, making one's heart ache.
Erica quickly lowered her gaze, gathering her thoughts. She clenched her fist in self-reproach. Then, she straightened up again, casually patting the dusty spot. Her mind raced. At the very least, he didn't seem threatening, and his aloof indifference was so soft, as if the ice layer that had accumulated for millions of years over Iceland, transparent on the surface, gradually seeped into its core, transforming into deep blue. She had expected it to be icy, but it felt gentle in her hands.
Erica felt every muscle in her body groaning with protest. The pervasive pain made her arch her back almost intolerably, but she couldn't give up. So, she gripped the handrail with both hands, clenched her teeth, and straightened her body. She swayed gently with the bus's motion, revealing her slightly exposed waist and the cheap fabric hugging her buttocks. She lowered her head and looked up at him, her lips forming the most dazzling smile. Her gaze slowly, slowly rotated over his face, and the unspoken ambiguity was as clear as day.
The man didn't evade her gaze; he simply lifted his eyes and looked at her calmly. She could easily see every detail of his expression. However, Erica was disappointed. She captured nothing, as if she were a stone, and the numbness left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.
Beneath this calm and peaceful surface, it seemed like nothing was said, yet it felt like everything had been. That world-weariness, that numbness, that desolation, in the night, it was like the pure moonlight pouring down.
This made Erica's expression falter slightly. The pained look swirled in her eyes, and her anxious emotions collided incessantly, leaving her disoriented. She pretended that the corner of her mouth was hurting, avoiding eye contact, but those calm eyes made her feel an unprecedented vulnerability, not disdain, not desire, and not pity, just a calm acceptance. However, this kind of acceptance was sharper than any negative emotion, making it difficult for her to lift her head.
Henry watched her clumsy and vulgar seduction technique, inexperienced and naive, so awkward that it was almost laughable. There was a strong sense of absurdity. But there was no trace of a smile on his lips or in his eyes. There was only a fleeting hint of fading interest. He was tired, weary, exhausted, and all he wanted was to leave, to get far away.
The bus arrived at its stop.
Henry got up and stood by the back door. Erica followed closely behind him. Then, Henry got off the bus, and Erica followed suit. They walked away, one in front of the other, disappearing into the darkness.
They walked, and the cameraman walked with them. Without hearing the director's instructions, they could only keep moving. But this scene had already been filmed. The next scene's shots and lighting weren't prepared yet. In the blink of an eye, the three of them vanished into the darkness.
Tony stared blankly at the screen, an uncontrollable sense of sadness welling up. The bitterness and despair pent up in his chest made it hard to breathe. At this moment, he truly understood what a perfect performance meant. What it meant to deliver a brilliant portrayal. What it meant to push the boundaries of acting. With just one performance by an actor, they had connected the entire plot's beginning, development, and climax, as well as elevated the themes to new heights. The vivid layers, complex angles, and rich subtext were all brilliantly displayed in this short performance.
Now, Tony finally understood what Renly meant. Why Renly insisted on retakes, why Renly placed such importance on communication with the script, the character, the director, and the writer. Why Renly always self-reflected on the details of the performance. Most importantly, he understood what was missing in their previous performances, which piece of the puzzle was absent.
Tony didn't know what exactly Renly had added to the performance. After all, he wasn't an actor, but he could clearly sense that Renly's entire performance had undergone a profound transformation, achieving a qualitative leap. Now, he could finally feel that the entire performance, the entire story, the entire space were all brimming with life—every additional moment was excessive, and every missing detail was inadequate. It could be called perfect.
What was even more commendable was: there were no lines. Throughout this entire scene, Renly didn't utter a single line, yet the precision and placement of emotions filled the entire camera frame. This was true acting!
"Wow!" Tony finally snapped out of it, exclaiming in amazement. He then covered his mouth, but the emotions welling up in his chest were too overwhelming to contain. He couldn't help himself and jumped up, raising his hands high and cheering, "Wow! Brilliant! Brilliant! It's damn brilliant! Perfect! Ahhhh, it's unbelievably perfect!" Then, he started hugging everyone around him like a child, shouting with glee, completely disregarding his directorial image.
In stark contrast, the rest of the crew remained silent and stiff. They exchanged glances, their eyes filled with uncertain confusion: what had just happened?
They were experts in their respective fields, knowing their jobs inside out. However, when it came to the actors' work, they lacked a clear understanding, and many of them didn't even possess basic discernment skills. But everyone had eyes and feelings. They could profoundly sense the uniqueness of the scene they had just witnessed. The rich and intricate emotions were indescribable, leaving nothing but a bitter taste in their mouths. They couldn't put it into words, but the sense of sorrow and loss hung heavy in the atmosphere.
They realized that acting could be this magnificent, this astonishing, this marvelous, and that it could provoke so much reflection and contemplation. They realized that acting could complement and enhance the script, not merely serve as a pawn in the director's hands, but also become the key to illuminating the entire work.
The gap between actors and non-actors had never been more apparent to them.
Everyone had their own yardstick, and there was no doubt about the excellence of this performance. Renly's relentless persistence had finally paid off. Looking back, the crew members had worked tirelessly. Why did Renly, who could genuinely cry on set, insist on personally acting in every scene? Why did Renly constantly study, challenge, and reflect on the script?
They had shot this one scene a total of sixty-nine times, while they simply stood by, repeating the same set of tasks, monotonous and dull. But that was all. What had Renly experienced during these sixty-nine takes?
No one knew. Because Renly had never complained. He had always silently prepared, pondered, and analyzed. Whenever he had time, he revisited the script repeatedly, and whenever there was a break, he self-examined over and over again. No one could fathom the pressure Renly had carried on his shoulders.
Jeremy lowered his head to wipe away the mess on his cheek, sneakily glancing at his colleagues beside him. However, everyone awkwardly avoided eye contact, pretending to gaze into the distance. The shame he felt left Jeremy at a loss. But he had to muster the courage to speak up, "Tony, the shoot isn't over yet."
After hearing the reminder, Tony finally realized, "Right, it's over, done, cut, cut."