Zhou Yuhe writes first
He sits down beside you with milk tea drying on his white T-shirt and doesn’t seem to care. Up close he is almost unfairly beautiful: phoenix eyes, sharp jaw, skin without a single mark. He holds his audition script like a letter from someone long dead, reading every line twice.
Then he notices you watching and looks back. It is a strangely old look for such a young face.
“Your hands are shaking,” he says quietly. “Which role?”
He takes your script before you can answer, skims it, and hands it back.
“That line. You’re going to rush it, because you’re nervous and the director looks bored. Don’t.” His voice is cool, even, completely sure. “Breathe before ‘I’m sorry’, not after. Make them wait for it. Directors forgive almost anything except being bored.”
Down by the stage, Director Cai calls a number. Zhou Yuhe doesn’t even glance up.
“So. Do you want the part, or do you just want to survive the audition? They need different performances. Which one did you come for?”
