Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 167 The Tyrant of the Scrap Yard, A Dimensional Reduction Attack

In this abandoned wasteland outside the South Sixth Ring Road in DX District, the roar of heavy hydraulic presses drowned out the sound of the wind.

The sour, rancid smell of fermenting engine oil mixed with the fishy odor of mud after the rain, penetrating straight into one's lungs.

Zhao Xiao bent down and picked up the oil-stained script from the mud.

He didn't open it, but casually tossed it onto the mountain of old Michelin tires piled up next to him.

He turned and walked to the control panel, picking up a heavy acetylene cutting gun.

Light the fire.

A blinding blue flame erupted.

He put on his goggles and aimed the flames at a scrapped I-beam.

Sparks flew and the ear-piercing hiss of hot metal melting echoed across the open space.

He completely ignored Chen Yan and Wu Gang behind him; his withered but broad frame cast a distorted shadow in the firelight.

Wu Gang stepped forward and reached for the script on the tire.

Zhao Xiao's wrist suddenly shifted to the side without warning.

The scorching flames swept across Wu Gang's training uniform trousers, the intense heat scorching the synthetic fabric and emitting a pungent, burnt smell.

Wu Gang reacted extremely quickly, taking half a step back, his right hand already reaching for the baton at his lower back.

Chen Yan raised his arm and placed it across Wu Gang's chest, stopping him from making any further moves.

Zhao Xiao turned off the valve, took off his goggles, and casually pulled off the indistinct towel around his neck to wipe the black oil off his hands.

He turned around, his cloudy eyes staring at Chen Yan.

"You artists always think you can just spend some money to buy people to be treated like monkeys."

Zhao Xiao slammed the towel onto the machine tool, his voice rough and hoarse from years of smoking cheap tobacco, "When I was burying people back then, I didn't even blink. Now you want me to put on airs in front of the camera? That's beneath me."

Chen Yan did not refute, but pulled out another spare script from the inside pocket of his coat and turned to scene eight.

"The original lines from the script."

Chen Yan looked at the paper, speaking calmly, "The mine flooded, killing fifty people. Their families blocked the mine gates. The protagonist, Zhao Xiao, slammed his fist on the table in his office, roaring: 'What use are you bunch of useless trash! Take the money, and if anyone dares to cause trouble, I'll make their whole family pay!'"

After reading it aloud, Chen Yan closed the script and looked at Zhao Xiao.

After hearing this, Zhao Xiao spat a mouthful of phlegm mixed with tobacco smoke onto the ground.

"The person who wrote these lyrics has never even seen a chicken being killed."

Zhao Xiao twitched the corner of his mouth, causing the scar on his face to twitch. "If there were really fifty buried at the bottom of the well, the boss wouldn't shout, much less slam his fist on the table. Slamming the table means he's guilty; it's for show."

Chen Yan took a step forward, his leather shoes sinking into a puddle of engine oil: "What would you do?"

Zhao Xiao leaned against the hydraulic press, took out a crumpled Hongmei cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a big puff.

Amidst the swirling smoke, his eyes became utterly vacant.

"I'll lock my office door from the inside and make myself a cup of hot tea."

Zhao Xiao pointed his cigarette-holding finger at the air. "Call your men in and tell them: 'Go to finance and get cash, put it in a burlap sack. Put it in the yard. 50,000 per person. Whoever starts a disturbance, stuff the money into their pocket, then break their legs in front of everyone else. The rest, dig a new hole and bury them deep.'"

The wind blows through the recycling station, stirring up the plastic bags on the ground.

Wu Gang stood behind Chen Yan, his back covered in a layer of cold sweat.

When Zhao Xiao revised the lines, his tone was completely flat, as if he were discussing how many kilograms of cabbage to buy at the market tomorrow.

This pure calculation, stripped of all emotion, is more chilling than any menacing threat.

"That's right."

Chen Yan put the spare script back into his pocket. "You don't need to act. You just need to bring this state to the camera. The one million yuan salary is what you deserve."

Zhao Xiao threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out with his muddy rubber boots.

"I told you, I'm not interested. Take your stinking money and get out."

Chen Yan didn't move, but reached into another pocket and took out a thin kraft paper envelope.

Instead of handing it over, he grabbed the bottom of the envelope and turned it upside down.

A two-inch color photograph floated down and landed on the dry ground next to the scrap steel plate.

The photo shows a girl wearing an oversized old school uniform, with her hair in a ponytail, standing in front of the gate of a county high school, her eyes looking timid.

Zhao Xiao, who was about to leave, froze in place.

His lifeless eyes were fixed on the photograph on the ground, and the rise and fall of his chest suddenly lost its original rhythm.

Chen Yan recounted the facts gathered from his investigation: "In 1993, after you went to jail, your wife took the rest of your savings and ran away to the south. After you got out, you searched for her for six years, but couldn't find her."

Zhao Xiao bent down.

His movements were slow, with a sluggishness as if he were afraid of disturbing something.

With his rough thumb, he pinched the edge of the photo and gently wiped away a bit of dust.

She's in Dongguan. She's a high school sophomore. Her grades are good; she's in the top ten of her grade.

Chen Yan looked at the top of Zhao Xiao's head. "Your wife died of illness two years ago. She's living alone at school now."

Zhao Xiao suddenly sat up straight and grabbed Chen Yan by the collar of his coat.

The immense force pulled Chen Yan forward, causing him to stagger half a step.

Wu Gang immediately pulled out his baton, but Chen Yan stopped him with a look.

"You're investigating me?"

Zhao Xiao's voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying the ferocity of a wild beast whose tail had been stepped on.

"In business, you always need to know the other party's leverage."

Chen Yan let him grab her collar, her tone completely flat, "Act in this movie. On the day filming wraps, one million will be deposited into the account you specify, along with this girl's exact address and all her records from the past few years."

Zhao Xiao stared into Chen Yan's eyes.

The distance between the two was less than ten centimeters.

Chen Yan's pupils reflected the stark white searchlight of the junkyard; there was no retreat, no fear, only absolute rationality.

A full minute passed.

Zhao Xiao released his grip, took a step back, and carefully placed the photo close to his body into his shirt pocket.

"Where was it filmed?"

Zhao Xiao asked.

Chen Yan straightened the wrinkled collar of his coat and turned to look at the dilapidated storage container at the edge of the junkyard, which was used to store miscellaneous items.

"Right now. There."

Twenty minutes later, a van screeched to a halt at the entrance of the scrap yard.

Zhang Yuan carried his camera equipment case and ran in, panting.

"Boss, what kind of surprise attack is this in the middle of the night..." Zhang Yuan hadn't finished speaking when he saw Zhao Xiao standing in the shadows.

He swallowed hard and instinctively shrank back.

The man exuded such a menacing aura that even he, a seasoned film set worker, felt his scalp tingle.

"Move the machine into that container. Has Qingqiu arrived yet?"

Chen Yan gave the order.

"They're in the car behind, they'll be here soon."

Zhang Yuan quickly went to make arrangements.

The interior of the abandoned shipping container was cramped, with rusty walls and a musty smell.

Zhang Yuan set up a Sony digital camera and turned on an inexpensive portable tungsten lamp.

The dim light barely illuminated the central area of ​​the container.

A worn-out folding table and two plastic chairs.

This is the entire set design.

Chen Yan asked Zhao Xiao to sit in one of the chairs and handed him a boxed lunch that he had bought at a roadside convenience store and that was now completely cold.

"eat."

Chen Yan issued the order.

Zhao Xiao didn't ask why. He broke open the disposable chopsticks and shoveled large mouthfuls of cold, hard rice and stir-fried green peppers and pork with a layer of white oil on the surface.

He ate quickly, his cheeks bulging, making rough chewing noises.

The metal door of the container made a dull metallic scraping sound.

Lin Qingqiu walked in.

She was wearing the Armani haute couture grey women's suit that Chen Yan had prepared in advance; the well-tailored fabric accentuated her sharp lines.

But her condition was extremely strange.

A week of intense dissection training at the slaughterhouse left her body saturated with the indelible stench of raw meat and blood.

Her eyes no longer held the delicate charm of a female celebrity or the feigned ruthlessness, but instead possessed an absolute numbness born from countless mechanical killings.

She walked to the folding table in her high heels.

The sound of high heels striking the metal sole was particularly jarring in the cramped space.

Zhao Xiao stopped chewing and looked up.

Two people, both carrying the aura of "human lives," met each other's gazes in this dilapidated shipping container.

Zhang Yuan stood behind the camera, the hairs on his back standing on end.

He didn't even dare to breathe loudly, for fear of disrupting the suffocating sense of oppression.

Chen Yan stood next to the monitor and put on his headphones.

"There's no script. The scenario: a mine collapses, killing eight people. The female assistant comes to report to the boss."

Chen Yan's voice echoed in the enclosed space, "Action."