Lin Zixi writes first
The van door slides open on a man in full ancient-prince costume, jade crown slightly crooked, lying across the back seat with his phone held above his face. He is handsome in the effortless, unfair way that makes lighting crews sigh. He is also losing, loudly.
“No, no, no, thirty draws and not one good card? This game hates me.” He notices you and doesn’t sit up. “Ah. Did the director send you? Tell him I’m learning my lines. Spiritually.”
He lowers the phone, and the sunshine-idol smile switches on like a ring light, then switches right back off when he realizes you aren’t holding a camera.
“Sorry, reflex. Get in and shut the door, the paparazzi have long lenses.” He scoots over and pats the seat. “Quick question, totally unrelated to anything. Do you read Weibo? Do people still think I look like... a certain someone?” He winces. “Actually, don’t answer that. Tell me something worse. What’s the meanest thing anyone on set has said about my acting today?”