Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

The screening schedule for Chapter 80 is from 2025.

Chen Yan stepped onto the dark red carpet, the sound of his leather shoes hitting the ground echoing down the corridor.

As the side door of the press conference was pushed open, the cold air from Hall 3 spilled out through the gaps.

Su Wan stood in front of him, her grip on the schedule distorting its shape.

"Lin Qingqiu is waiting in the wings. It will start in five minutes."

Chen Yan glanced at the clock at the end of the corridor: "How many media outlets have arrived?"

"Thirty-six of them, all of which are mainstream European newspapers."

Su Wan handed over a bottle of mineral water. "Vincent wants Lin Qingqiu to show the scars on his spine on the spot. He wants the front page."

Chen Yan took the bottle and scratched open the plastic wrap with her fingernail: "According to my plan. He wants to play the victim, I want to sell my film."

The press conference hall was filled with a continuous stream of flashing lights.

Lin Qingqiu entered the venue leaning on a sandalwood cane. Her deep purple cheongsam was padded at the waist to support her deformed bones.

With each step she took, the sound of her right foot landing was heavier than that of her left.

An Italian journalist raised a recorder: "Ms. Lin, there are rumors that Director Chen exploits actors on set to achieve a sense of realism. What's your opinion on this?"

Lin Qingqiu sat down, resting his cane on the edge of the table, his back pressed against the hard chair back.

"The word 'exploitation' is too amateurish. What Director Chen wants is control, not self-torture."

The German journalist zoomed in: "How do you explain that muscle spasms, that feeling of impending death?"

Lin Qingqiu placed her left hand flat on the table.

Under the watchful eyes of everyone, her fingertips began to move rhythmically, causing the muscles in her forearm to contract.

"This is a result of respiratory distribution. Spasms are induced by controlling oxygen intake."

Lin Qingqiu looked at the camera, her tone flat and even, "Before that mud scene, I was dehydrated for three hours. The performance wasn't about showing suffering, it was about precise, mechanical repetition."

The sound of camera shutters filled the entire venue.

Chen Yan stood outside the side door and listened to the whole conversation.

He didn't go in because Wu Gang walked over from the other end of the corridor, carrying a long, thin screwdriver.

"The person has been taken away."

Wu Gang said.

Seat L-14 in the back row of Hall 3.

This is a blind spot for the surveillance camera.

Wu Gang squatted down, and the tip of the screwdriver was inserted into the gap under the seat. The sound of the wood cracking was extremely faint.

A plastic bag was removed.

Chen Yan opened the package; inside was a sheet of coated paper.

[82nd Venice Film Festival - Official Screening Schedule]

Date: January 2025, 8.

The list of sponsors below includes the logo of a semiconductor giant that has not yet been established.

Chen Yan's finger traced the "Special Screenings" section and saw that familiar name:

"The Sound of Rain in the Old City", directed by Chen Yan.

There was a line of blue ballpoint pen writing on the back of the paper, with sharp, forceful strokes:

"You made 'Thunder' to save Lin Qingqiu, I'll release 'Rain in the Old City' to save you. Chen Yan, don't choose the wrong film."

Chen Yan folded the paper and stuffed it into his inner pocket.

Wu Gang leaned closer, staring at the date: "2025? Who's behind this?"

"It's not playing tricks, it's killing us."

Chen Yan stared at the red light in the projection window. "Lu Haiming has the complete film."

Su Wan's footsteps quickened as she passed through the row of seats: "Director Chen, Marco's team received an anonymous email. It's a 4.5GB compressed file with the attachment titled 'The Sound of Rain in the Old City' (complete version)."

She shook her handheld computer: "The jury has already gone to Editing Room Two. Henry brought a script registration form from nineteen years ago; he wants to verify your copyright ownership."

Chen Yan walked through the corridor at a very fast pace.

Outside the editing room number two, Henry was fiddling with a coin.

The coin skipped across his knuckles, striking with a crisp metallic sound.

"Director Chen, Editor-in-Chief Marco is inside analyzing the film. If you can't prove it's fake, your entry will be blocked."

Chen Yan walked up to him, pulled out the film schedule, and pressed the edge against Henry's chest: "What did Lu Haiming leave at the end of the tape?"

Henry glanced at the dates on the schedule without even lifting his eyelids: "At the end of the tape, he left a confession from you. At twenty-eight, you admitted that you stole this film."

Chen Yan gripped Henry's wrist with great force.

"Take me to see him."

"No rush, let's wait until we finish watching the movie."

Inside the room, the sound of film passing through gears abruptly stopped, replaced by the noise of negatives being scratched by a hard object.

Marco pushed open the door and walked out, clutching a piece of broken film in his hand.

"Chen, I need an explanation."

The film was thrown onto the long table.

When held up to the light, a date is clearly printed on the translucent part of the film: 1991.

In the picture, a thirteen-year-old boy is squatting under an old clock tower, holding an old-fashioned viewfinder.

That was Chen Yan in his youth.

The boy in the photo turned to look at the camera, his lips moved, and judging from the shape of his lips, it was four words:

You can't win.

Henry opened his arms and looked at the reporters who had gathered around him: "Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence in the plagiarism case is right here."

The camera beams swayed wildly in the hall. Chen Yan put down the film, ignored the reporters, and looked out the window.

On the opposite clock tower terrace, a figure in a black coat stood there, a piece of white paper between his fingers, swaying in the sea breeze.

It was exactly 3 p.m.

"Wu Gang".

Chen Yan's voice was extremely soft.

"exist."

"Disconnect all backup power supplies."

Chen Yan looked at Su Wan: "Prepare the original materials for 'The Night Watchman.' This isn't a film festival; this is a courtroom."

He shoved Henry aside, making the fire hydrant box rattle.

Chen Yan walked into the editing room and locked the door behind her.

He sat down at the control panel, his fingers resting on the metal knobs.

On the monitor, the boy's face began to contort.

[Illegal copy detected. System will self-destruct shortly.]

Chen Yan did not loosen the knob.

The sound of leather shoes tapping on marble came from outside the door, slow and heavy.

"Click."

"Click."

The sound stopped at the doorway, and a hoarse male voice came through the door.

"Director Chen, don't you like the future I've given you?"

Chen Yan picked up the sandalwood cane that Lin Qingqiu had dropped on the table and walked to the door.

"Lu Haiming, nineteen years have passed, and all you still do is cut film in the shadows."

The sound of breathing outside the door could be clearly heard.

"I am not Lu Haiming."

The man pushed the door, and the bolt protested, "I am Chen Yan, the one who died in the rain in the old city."

The screen was filled with blue light in the room.

The monitor screen was frozen on a portrait of a deceased person.

The man's face was exactly the same as Chen Yan's at this moment.

Chen Yan suddenly flung open the door.

There was no one outside the door.

There was only one envelope pasted on the opposite wall.

[Cinema 3, last row. You haven't finished watching yet.]

Chen Yan picked up the envelope and crumpled it into a ball.

Su Wan ran over with a flashlight: "Director Chen! Marco is missing!"

Chen Yan looked at the elevator.

The indicator light shows that it is descending into the garage.

He didn't chase after them, but instead turned to look in the direction of Hall 3.

The roar of a projector could be heard from there.

"Slap. Slap. Slap."

That was the sound of film reels striking empty discs, rhythmic like the beat of drums in some kind of ritual.

Chen Yan strode towards Hall No. 3.

The sky over Venice darkened completely at that moment, and torrential rain pounded against the sea.