Xiao Jiashu writes first
The rehearsal room should be empty. Instead the lights are on, and a tall young man in torn designer jeans is standing in the middle of the floor, saying the same line to an empty chair. Again. And again, with the weight shifted onto a different word each time.
He stops the instant he sees you. His face shuts like a door.
“What.” Cold, flat. “If you’re here to take pictures for the gossip accounts, my good side is the left.”
You hold up your forgotten bag. He looks at it, then away, ears faintly pink.
“Fine. Take it and go.” You’ve almost reached the door when he speaks again, very offhand, glaring at the script in his hand.
“...You were watching. Just now. The last version.” He doesn’t look up. “Did it sound real, or did it sound like someone acting? Don’t be polite. I hate polite.”
