(Author's Note: Many readers commented that this chapter felt off. After some reflection, I agree—it does come across a bit too "omniscient author." I was focusing on the plot and the inevitable conflict between the protagonist and this character. But since the MC has just transmigrated and isn't planning to inherit the original host's grudges or attachments, this may feel jarring. That's on me. Also, don't worry—Song Xin will not be joining the protagonist's crew. There will be no cliché green-hat or reconciliation plot. Just relax and enjoy.)
"I agree with you—this project will depend heavily on the female lead's performance. Of course, it's not a film that requires deep emotional breakdowns or extreme tragedies. There's no epic life-or-death drama here. So as long as the actress has decent skills, she should be able to pull it off," said Jing Yu with a nod.
"Which means… more than acting, looks are everything."
Romance dramas were different from wuxia or business thrillers—no one wants to watch two unattractive people fall in love. And for something like 'My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday', that mattered even more.
The entire film featured just the male and female leads. The supporting cast combined barely had five minutes of screen time.
Jing Yu's own appearance—well, even someone as grumpy as Gao Wencang had to admit, it was top-tier. So when Jing Yu said he'd play the male lead himself, Gao had no objections.
It wasn't uncommon to see writer-director-producer trios in film. Even adding "lead actor" wasn't unheard of.
"Jing Yu… filming starts tomorrow. Honestly, if you go looking for actresses through outside agencies, the good ones are probably already booked. And the ones who aren't… they're either newcomers or lack experience. Plus, you don't even have time to audition anyone properly."
After Jing Yu gave him the director's role, Gao Wencang had completely let go of the grudge over being tricked out of 30,000 yuan. In just half an hour, their old friendship had been restored.
Men's arguments tend to flare up quickly—and fade just as fast.
And now that they were back on good terms, he didn't hesitate to speak up.
"Instead of hunting through outside agencies, why not consider our station's in-house talent? We've got a few contract actresses who might fit."
"In-house?" Jing Yu considered it.
Jinhui TV didn't just produce dramas. They also made variety shows, documentaries, reality competitions—whatever the market demanded.
But drama was still the main moneymaker, especially with ad revenue. After that came variety shows.
"You mean… Song Xin?"
A face popped into Jing Yu's mind: delicate, innocent, and classically beautiful.
Song Xin.
The original host's ex-girlfriend.
She was originally a variety show actress, a position that came with lower status and pay compared to drama roles. But with Jing Yu's father being a veteran screenwriter at the station—someone who had casting power—Song Xin likely got close to Jing Yu just to have a foot in the door.
When the old man died suddenly and the family was basically ruined overnight, Song Xin broke up with the original host almost immediately.
And shortly afterward, she ended up dating none other than Jiang Shiqing, the screenwriter of White Lovers.
That double blow—losing his father and his girlfriend—was part of what led the original host to mental breakdown… and ultimately, death.
That's when Jing Yu's soul took over.
He flipped through the original memories. Song Xin's actions weren't criminal or cruel—just cold and pragmatic.
In the script-driven world of television, getting a lead role required good ties with the writer. Staying with someone while they were useful, and dumping them when they weren't—it was harsh, but also realistic.
You see it all the time in the workplace.
Even so, Jing Yu didn't feel anything personal toward her.
Those weren't his memories—they were like movie clips from someone else's life. It wasn't enough to make him angry.
Their breakup had been clean, no melodramatic twists or lingering grudges.
So he quickly moved on to assessing the feasibility of casting Song Xin as the female lead.
In terms of looks, she was flawless. One of the recognized beauties at the station.
She had that pure, sweet charm. Though she'd grown more worldly after a year in the industry, she was still a theater major graduate with decent acting skills. She had done well in the roles Jing Yu's father had given her in the past.
"But… given your history with her," Gao Wencang hesitated, "and now the two of you would be playing lovers on screen—if you're uncomfortable…"
"Not an issue," Jing Yu said plainly.
"She might not be the best option—but she's a qualified one. And most importantly—she's affordable, within our budget, and definitely free for the next two weeks."
After all, Song Xin had landed a third-lead role in White Lovers thanks to her new boyfriend, Jiang Shiqing. But with the show on hold due to the female lead's injury, she was also sitting idle.
Song Xin might not be perfect, but she had great cost performance.
"You…" Gao looked at Jing Yu, stunned.
"You've really changed. A week ago, the old you could never have decided this."
"People grow," Jing Yu replied, his heart skipping slightly, but he smoothly brushed past it.
He didn't feel awkward or conflicted.
Right now, he was focused solely on survival in this world.
He had no home, no backup plan. This wasn't one of those "if it doesn't work, I'll just go back to my hometown" situations. He had no hometown.
He had to prioritize. Emotions came after the job was done.
"I've still got her number. It's nearly noon—we need to move fast and finalize the cast. Gao Wencang, head over to the station's actor database. Find someone to play Takayama's best friend, Higashi. And we'll need two cute child actors for the younger versions of the leads. As for the male lead's parents, grab any middle-aged actors. They've only got two minutes of screen time anyway."
"I'll call Song Xin and ask if she's interested."
No point in discussing it further if she said no.
Jing Yu took a breath, pushed aside the last of his hesitation, and pulled up her number—a number he knew by heart.