Chapter Thirty-Two: Who Says I Don't Understand Movie Props?

This batch of props Zhang Ying was working on was a last-minute rush job she had taken on. The film crew was about to wrap up, but a few important interior scenes hadn’t turned out well, so reshoots were needed. According to the original production schedule, they aimed to finish everything this week and submit the first cut for review. So the work was especially urgent.

Li Shixin had planned to wait for Zhang Ying to finish so they could go home together and cook dinner. But he waited and waited, and still she wasn’t done. It wasn’t until the sound of neighboring shops rolling down their shutters merged into a continuous hum outside, and the yellow glow of the streetlights flickered on, that he realized Zhang Ying still showed no signs of completing her work.

Watching her stand at her workbench all afternoon like an assembly line worker, Li Shixin felt a pang of sympathy. Quietly, he packed away each prop he’d finished processing into boxes. Then he stepped out, bought some bread and milk from a nearby convenience store, and brought them back. He reminded Zhang Ying to at least have a snack, no matter how busy she was, and then headed home alone.

The crew’s requirement was that all decorative props had to be delivered that night, so Zhang Ying had no time for a proper meal. She simply divided the bread Li Shixin had brought among her two employees, then picked up the pace with her hands.

By the time they were finally done, it was past ten o’clock. With the last task complete, the project—over sixty props in just two days—was officially finished. The three of them were utterly exhausted.

Rubbing her aching back, Zhang Ying waved to her two colleagues with a smile. “It’s finally done. You’ve both worked so hard! It’s too late tonight to treat you to dinner, but tomorrow—tomorrow night we’ll have a big feast to reward ourselves! Hurry up and tidy things, count the props, and get ready to clock out. I’m going to call the production team.”

“Okay, Sister Ying,” answered Xiao Meng, a prop maker who’d trained with Zhang Ying, and together with Liu Shuang—the prop artist who’d clashed with Li Shixin earlier—began to tidy up.

“Sister Ying, everything’s already packed up!” Xiao Meng called out, spotting the items they’d finished that day neatly arranged in boxes under the shelves.

“Really?” Zhang Ying, phone in hand, walked over. She paused at the sight of the large boxes, all the props inside organized so neatly.

“It must have been your godfather who packed them,” she said with a grin, a wave of warmth rising in her heart.

How did that saying go? Having an elder at home is as precious as having a treasure.

Though he was getting on in years and couldn’t help with much, these little acts made up for the fatherly love Zhang Ying had rarely received growing up, filling her with a unique warmth.

“Hey! What happened to these props?” Just then, Liu Shuang, who had been checking the boxes to ensure nothing was missing, suddenly shouted.

“What’s wrong?” Zhang Ying, startled, hurried over.

Liu Shuang, agitated, thrust a small prop at Zhang Ying. “Look! What happened to this perfectly good prop? What did your godfather do to my work?”

Zhang Ying looked closely and felt her heart sink. In Liu Shuang’s hand was a metal thimble, once perfect, now full of tiny and large holes.

As she stood in shock, Liu Shuang tossed the thimble aside and rummaged through the boxes again.

“Unbelievable! I spent over an hour distressing the exterior of this thermos, and now someone has covered it with burlap—what is that supposed to be? And this certificate—I specifically used water aging to curl the edges, so who went and framed it, pressing it flat with glass? And this lunch box—who smoked it with fire until it’s all black now? How is anyone supposed to recognize it?”

One after another, Liu Shuang pulled out props, each altered in ways clearly not her own handiwork. She was losing her mind.

“Zhang Ying, can your studio keep operating like this? Is your godfather some joker sent here to mess with us? How are we supposed to use these props now? Isn’t this just sabotage?”

“Sister Shuang, please don’t get angry! If something’s wrong, we’ll just redo it,” Xiao Meng tried to soothe her, but the moment her hands brushed Liu Shuang’s arm, she was immediately shrugged off.

“Look for yourself! None of them are as they were. Redo it? Easy for you to say! With this workload, if you want to redo them, do it yourself!”

After venting her frustration at Xiao Meng, who was so startled she nearly burst into tears, Liu Shuang turned her ire back to Zhang Ying.

“Sister Ying, I’m not just upset about the overtime. Didn’t I tell you on day one? I can’t stand anyone interfering with my work. That’s why I refused my senior’s invitation to join his crew.”

Although Liu Shuang had a terrible temper, she was serious about her craft, and with the current demand for prop artists, finding a helper like her wasn’t easy.

Suppressing her frustration, Zhang Ying patted Liu Shuang’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Shuang. The damage to these props isn’t severe—we can still fix them…”

She was still speaking when her phone rang. It was the prop master from the crew, returning the call she’d made earlier, which had gone unanswered.

“This is Zhang Ying’s studio, right? The props are done? We start shooting first thing tomorrow, so bring them over right now. We’re filming night scenes, so if you set up tonight, you won’t delay tomorrow’s schedule.”

The caller barely gave Zhang Ying a chance to reply before hanging up. There was a lot of noise in the background; clearly, they were busy.

Overhearing part of the conversation, Liu Shuang snorted, ignoring Zhang Ying’s anxious face. “So how are you going to fix this?”

With that, she grabbed her coat and bag and left the studio without a backward glance.

“Sister Ying…” Xiao Meng looked nervously at the swinging door, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do we do now?”

What could they do? The crew wanted the props now—there was no time for anything else.

Zhang Ying forced a bitter smile and shook her head. “Forget it, Xiao Meng. You should go home. It’s late—be careful on your way. Call me when you get in.”

“O-okay. But what about you, Sister Ying?”

“I… I’ll deliver the props to the set,” Zhang Ying looked at the scattered items on the floor and sighed deeply. “Let’s hope I can get away with it.”

…

Zhang Ying rode her electric tricycle through the sleeping city, delivered the props to the set, and returned home past midnight. Bone-weary, she slipped quietly inside, only to find the kitchen light still on.

She glanced at Li Shixin’s bedroom door, closed tight, the faintest hint of snoring drifting through.

She took off her jacket and went into the kitchen, intending only to drink some water and go to bed. But when she picked up the kettle, she saw two lunchboxes neatly stacked on the table. There was a note attached: “Daughter, if you’re home late don’t eat too much—it’s not good for your stomach.”

Seeing the note, Zhang Ying’s resentment toward Li Shixin, the “hyperactive old man,” vanished.

Opening the lunchboxes, she found the food still steaming. She picked up her chopsticks.

“Old man, if only you could mind your own business, wouldn’t life be perfect?”

Muttering, Zhang Ying bit into a piece of sweet and sour fish so delicious it made her want to swallow her own tongue.