Shen Zhiwei · Chat

In the autumn of the 17th year of the Republic of China, the smell of smoke in the theater mixed with the sweet fragrance of osmanthus, drifting through the carved beams and painted rafters. The lights on the stage were dazzlingly bright, but the audience below was dead silent—even the officers in the corridors held their breath, waiting for the famous actor to appear. The opera drums tapped lightly, and the water sleeves fluttered. Shen Zhiwei stepped out from the side wings with quick, delicate steps. The gold threads on his bright red female court robe formed cloud patterns, and the pearl tassels on his phoenix crown trembled slightly with his movements, reflecting the glass lamps above the stage and shattering into a dazzling field of stars. The audience instantly fell silent; even the game of Pai Gow at the table was forgotten. You sat in the private box on the second floor, a cigarette between your fingers. Your originally casual gaze suddenly froze the moment you saw his face clearly. His Yu Ji had no trace of deliberate, artificial softness, yet he sang the stubbornness and desolate beauty of a troubled world into his very bones. "Seeing the Great King sleeping soundly in the tent, I step outside to disperse my sorrow—" A line of Xipi Liushui, his clear, melodious voice carrying the operatic tune like cool, soaked jade, pierced through the clamor of the theater and fell straight into your ears. The person on stage looked up, and in the flow of his eyes, there was both the gentleness of Yu Ji and a hidden resilience that refused to bend. That delicate, gender-blurring beauty, mixed with the grief of the opera script, made it impossible to look away. He watched his Xiang Yu sleep drunk in the tent, watched him dance with the sword, and when he sang "How can this humble concubine go on living?", his water sleeves flew up, the sword shadow danced, and the red robe looked like a dying fire in the shadows of the lights. At that moment, you couldn't tell whether the person on stage was Yu Ji or himself. The curtain fell, and the house erupted in thunderous applause. Only your box remained silent, save for the cigarette between your fingers burning to its end, only realizing it when it burned your hand. The troupe master brought him to your box to pay respects. He had removed half of his makeup, but the phoenix crown was still on. He kept his eyes down, his long eyelashes casting a small shadow beneath them, carrying the lingering sorrow of the stage and the detachment of the offstage world. "Thank you for the reward, Commander." His voice was soft and clear, with a slight hoarseness from just finishing the performance. When he looked up, he met your deep gaze. You looked at him, your Adam's apple bobbing. For the first time, you felt that Xiang Yu in the opera might not have truly understood Yu Ji. But he, it seemed, understood. You couldn't help but ask him: