Li Wei, Zhang Yue, and another nervous-looking boy stepped onto the stage together.
Below, the writer adjusted her glasses, her gaze cool and impatient. Chen Hao and Lin Qian sat beside her, whispering idly while waiting.
The third boy was already pale. His shoulders slumped under Zhang Yue's bright aura, and the writer's expression sharpened the moment she noticed his trembling hands. In her mind, he had already lost points before he even began.
"We don't have much time," the writer finally said, her voice clipped, as if she'd sat through a hundred dull acts already. "So let's see how you perform. Good luck."
Her tone carried no warmth. It was more an instruction than encouragement.
Naturally, all eyes drifted toward Zhang Yue. He was the obvious favorite. Even Chen Hao and Lin Qian leaned forward with interest, their casual chatter pausing.
But strangely… their gazes also flickered toward Li Wei.
Unlike the others, he didn't fidget and didn't rehearse lines under his breath. He simply sat calmly, eyes closed for a brief moment, as if conserving strength. To Chen Hao and Lin Qian, it was unexpected—an odd kind of composure, considering the pressure of this audition.
Then Zhang Yue began.
He slipped into the role with natural ease. His voice carried confidence, and his expressions matched the script. Every gesture felt practiced and polished. When he spoke his final line, the atmosphere did carry weight. Even Li Wei, standing nearby, could acknowledge that it was a good performance.
The judges clapped lightly. A few of the students in the audience also nodded approvingly.
But for Li Wei, it was just that—an act.
Zhang Yue hadn't truly become Sung Hao. He lacked the grit, the raw vulnerability of someone who had clawed his way up from nothing. How could a boy from comfort and wealth understand Sung Hao's quiet scars?
As Zhang Yue bowed slightly and stepped back, Li Wei rose.
He tugged at his shirt, loosening it casually. His necktie slid askew, the top button undone. His sleeves rolled up with a faint rasp of fabric, baring lean forearms.
And just like that… Li Wei was no longer Li Wei.
The air shifted.
The writer's tired eyes sharpened. She hadn't expected much—but the way he carried himself now, rough around the edges yet grounded, drew her attention instantly.
"This is…?" she murmured, intrigued despite herself.
"Like you know," she said aloud, covering her interest with indifference. "Just act. Which part do you want to perform?"
Li Wei's eyes flickered with calm certainty. "Anything is fine."
The confidence in his tone wasn't arrogance—it was the steadiness of someone who knew the script as if he had lived it.
"Oh? Confident." The writer's lips curved faintly. She reached for the script, flipping through pages before tapping one. Her gaze was sharp, almost mischievous.
"Let's see you handle episode nine," she said. "The confrontation scene. You catch Chen Hao and Lin Qian's characters hiding something from you. You've followed them, and now you demand answers."
Zhang Yue exhaled in relief—it wasn't him chosen. The other boy beside them almost sagged in terror at the thought of being given such a part.
Even Chen Hao and Lin Qian straightened at the mention of that scene. It wasn't easy.
Because in that moment, Sung Hao wasn't just confronting his friends. He was confronting the weight of betrayal. His first crush was standing before him, hand in hand with his closest brother. Anger was too simple an emotion. The real challenge was to show the heartbreak, the bitterness, the self-mockery… all without losing Sung Hao's quiet warmth.
No one wanted to attempt this scene during an audition.
The writer knew it. That was why she chose it.
But Li Wei only nodded. "Okay."
The moment he shut his eyes, the classroom, the stage, and even his own heartbeat seemed to vanish.
And when he opened them again—
—he was no longer Li Wei.
The sharpness in his gaze, the flicker of pain that passed like lightning across his features, the way his shoulders hunched slightly as though bearing invisible weight… it was Sung Hao.
The boy who had loved quietly.
The boy who had lost silently.
The boy who smiled even as his heart cracked.
The writer's breath hitched. She leaned forward, unable to stop herself.
"...He's not acting," she whispered.
"Why?"
The word slipped from Li Wei's lips, but it wasn't his voice anymore.
It was softer, heavier—carrying unspoken questions, a trembling undercurrent of emotions barely restrained.
On the stage, under the pale auditorium lights, his presence shifted. His eyes seemed to sink into another man's grief, and every tilt of his shoulders radiated weariness. The Li Wei who had walked onto the stage minutes ago was gone.
Before them stood Sung Ho.
"Just let me in," Li Wei continued, voice low but firm, as though grasping onto a fraying thread. His gaze flickered between Chen Hao and Lin Qian, no longer classmates but the characters themselves. "I know you two are up to something dangerous. At least let me… help from behind."
The weight in those words cut sharper than any volume could. His tone wasn't begging, nor commanding—it was the plea of someone desperate to remain by his friends' side, even if it meant being hurt.
At this stage of the story, everyone knew Sung Ho was nearing his breaking point. The rumors circling campus—that he was nothing more than a "third wheel," a spare limb dragging behind—had already left cracks in his heart. On the surface, Sung Ho brushed them off with his usual boldness, laughing it away, confronting them head-on with Chen Hao's character.
But inside, the whispers had festered. A darker hand behind the scenes had fed the gossip, twisting it to drive the three apart.
Now, as he stood before them, it was clear: this wasn't just about secrets. This was about trust.
Chen Hao instinctively slipped into his own line, responding as the script demanded. "It's alright! We'll be back soon. It's nothing big…" His tone carried the casual reassurance of someone trying to dismiss worry.
He added, "Don't be so sticky about it, man. We've got things we need to work on."
But as the words left his lips, even he felt the sting in them.
The image flashed before Li Wei's mind: whispered words between Chen Hao and Lin Qian's characters, their distance these past weeks, and the shadow of them walking together into places Sung Ho could never follow. The sweet laughter they once shared in their earliest days is now growing faint, brittle, and out of reach.
Li Wei—no, Sung Ho—let out a quiet laugh.
A smile tugged at his lips, small and fragile. On the surface, it was the same warm smile he always gave his friends. But the warmth was gone, replaced by a shadow so subtle it made the air heavy.
"Is that so?" he said, his voice steady.
"Sorry for being sticky. I'll go back, then."
He turned slightly, his eyes carrying the glimmer of someone holding back a storm. And yet his face… still smiled.
The silence in the auditorium was deafening.
Miss Xu Nia, the writer, felt her chest tighten. That smile—simple, fleeting, and unbearably lonely—struck colder than a shout could have. She found herself leaning forward without realizing it, her own lips parting as though to stop him, though it was only an audition.
Even Chen Hao faltered. For the first time, his practiced composure wavered. The look Li Wei gave him was too real, too piercing. It wasn't a performance—it was a confrontation.
Lin Qian, sitting beside him, forgot herself entirely. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, reflected only Li Wei's expression, drawn into Sung Ho's heartbreak as though she were living it firsthand.
Around them, the students watching had fallen utterly silent. Nobody coughed, nobody whispered. They weren't seeing a classmate fumbling through lines anymore. They were witnessing something raw, alive, and unforgettable.
The writer exhaled slowly, a chill dancing down her spine.
"This…" she murmured under her breath, her expression flickering with shock. "This isn't acting."
For a heartbeat, even she couldn't tell whether Li Wei was performing—or whether Sung Ho himself had stepped onto the stage.
Zhang Yue was stunned into silence. For a long breath, he couldn't even blink. It was his first time witnessing a performance like that—so raw, so sharp—that it left his chest heavy, as if something invisible had pierced through his guard. He swallowed hard, shaken to the core.
On stage, Li Wei's expression shifted again. The faint curl of a smile tugged at his lips, but it wasn't the smile of triumph—it was something deeper. An exciting ripple stirred within him, as though he had touched upon an elusive truth. In that instant, Li Wei realized what it meant to act. Not simply to recite lines or mimic sorrow, but to feel. Emotion was the heart of performance, the lifeblood every actor chased after, yet so few could grasp.
And just now, he had felt it. Not forced, not imagined, but real—vividly real. It came to him naturally, as though he had lived Sung Ho's anguish himself. He could still recall yesterday, when those emotions had first stirred within him, carved sharply into memory.
"Thank you…" Li Wei whispered, his voice barely audible, as he turned away from the center of the stage. Step by step, he returned to his place, shoulders lighter yet heart strangely heavy.
"That was great, man. I was totally taken," Zhang Yue finally blurted out, his tone brimming with excitement. His eyes shone with admiration, the kind that only came when someone had witnessed something beyond ordinary talent.
Li Wei scratched the back of his neck, his smile coming out awkward and humble. He knew the truth. Without the strange system that had bound itself to him, none of this would have been possible. The real him—the one without that strange ability—would never have drawn such eyes, never have moved someone like Zhang Yue.
"Thanks! I guess… It just went with the flow," he replied lightly.
But even as he spoke, he wasn't lying to himself. Hypocrisy had no place here. That mysterious system was now a part of him. Whether he wanted it or not, its power flowed through his every gesture, his every word. So what else could he do but accept it with gratitude? To reject it would be to reject himself.
The audition rolled on with its relentless buzz. Voices rose and fell, laughter and tension intermingled, yet for Li Wei the world seemed faintly muted, blurred at the edges. Soon, he and Zhang Yue were guided to the waiting room, their parts complete. One by one, the other participants trickled out of the hall, leaving behind only echoes of nervous chatter.
As Li Wei sank into a chair in that quiet room, a long sigh escaped him. Satisfaction swelled in his chest, warm and grounding. He had worked hard, prepared tirelessly, and for the first time in a long while, he could say he felt… proud.
Yet along with satisfaction came the weight. The heaviness of slipping fully into Sung Ho's broken heart lingered in his mind, as though his own soul had been dyed with sorrow. A dull fatigue pressed against his temples, the price of carrying emotions too heavy to be his own.
Still, beneath the weariness, there was an undeniable spark. The stage had left its mark on him—deep, searing, unforgettable.