Chapter 21: The Fish-Killing Knife

No one in the crew noticed the glint from a distant camera lens or a pair of binoculars. Everyone was busy with their own tasks in an orderly fashion.

After finishing a scene, Mo Fei rubbed his cheeks, feeling as though his smile had frozen in place. The next scene would be his final one. The character he played, the fifth male lead, was to be shoved while fleeing for his life, fail to escape, and be stabbed straight through the heart—dead beyond doubt.

Mo Fei glanced at the script and gave a mysterious smile. How wonderful—once this is done, he could finally go home and sleep.

The lead actor, tasked with delivering Mo Fei’s final blow, gripped the prop knife and hesitated as he caught sight of Mo Fei’s odd grin. According to the script, he was supposed to stab Mo Fei to death—shouldn’t the psychopath be him? Yet Mo Fei seemed even scarier. Would this guy hold a grudge and seek revenge after the scene?

The lead actor felt conflicted; after all, he had a promising future ahead.

Mo Fei noticed him from the corner of his eye and walked over to greet him. “Hello, senior.”

The lead actor’s smile was stiff. “Hello, yes.”

Gazing at the fish-filleting knife in his hand, Mo Fei asked, “You’re going to use this to stab me in a bit, right?”

The knife had a slender blade, sharpened on one side—very sharp, with great visual impact. For filming, its edge was covered in a layer of transparent tape to prevent real injuries.

Mo Fei’s eyes gleamed with appreciation as he looked at the knife. “This is my first official wrap-up. Can I take a picture with the murder weapon?”

The lead actor’s expression grew even more rigid as he handed over the knife. “Of course, go ahead.”

He’d filmed plenty of scenes before, and seen people take photos together, but never with the weapon.

Mo Fei couldn’t care less what he was thinking. He took the fish knife and spun it deftly between his fingers, exuding a relaxed flair—the handle fit perfectly in his grip, as if it were an extension of his arm.

To bystanders, his skilled knife-spinning had a flavor all its own.

“That’s great!” Director Wang slapped his thigh. “That move is fantastic! Cool and stylish—Mo, teach him how to do it. We’ll put it in the final cut.”

“Huh?” Mo Fei fumbled with the knife, at a loss. “I don’t know how to teach it. Isn’t this something everyone can do?”

“Don’t give me that nonsense. You’re about to wrap—don’t make me yell at you.” Director Wang, now quite familiar with Mo Fei, had dropped all pretenses. “Don’t keep it to yourself! I’ll give you a big wrap-up bonus.”

Hearing there’d be a generous bonus, Mo Fei grinned from ear to ear. “No problem~”

He tilted his head toward the lead actor. “Shall we practice, senior?”

The lead actor: …

Did this guy really not realize that holding a knife didn’t suit him for playing cute?

The lead actor’s name was Wu Miao, about the same age as Mo Fei, a former child star with a solid fan base. He had basic training in most movements, so picking up a few knife-spinning tricks shouldn’t be hard.

Mo Fei demonstrated a few times for Wu Miao. The cold, pale blade danced nimbly in his hand, and the broodingly handsome man wore an oddly satisfied and appreciative expression as he watched the blade.

Wu Miao swallowed hard.

Over the years, he’d been trying to transition into more mature roles and had studied the work of several award-winning actors. Mo Fei’s expression would fit seamlessly into a horror or thriller film—and, most importantly, didn’t look like acting at all.

“Senior, do you know why a fish-filleting knife is designed this way?” Mo Fei’s gentle voice pulled Wu Miao from his thoughts.

A smile appeared on his face. “Don’t call me ‘senior,’ just Wu Miao is fine.”

“Alright, Wu Miao senior,” Mo Fei agreed with a smile. He held the knife upright, stroking the blade with one hand, his eyes full of admiration. “The blade is slender and the tip is sharp—this design makes it easier to pierce flesh.”

He bent the blade slightly between his fingers. “The fish knife is quite flexible, allowing it to move smoothly along bones and body curves. The handle is slip-resistant, so even when slick with blood, it maintains good grip and is easy to use.”

“Also, the blade is usually about twenty centimeters long, roughly the thickness of a human body, so it can handle most cuts of meat.”

A beam of cold light reflected from the knife onto half of Mo Fei’s face as he smiled. “So, do you understand your murderous little friend a bit better now?”

Wu Miao kept up his smile, but quietly took two steps back. “Incredibly enlightening—always something new to learn.”

Mo Fei handed him the knife. “Give it a try.”

Wu Miao stared at the knife in his hands, feeling as if it were a hot potato instead of a fish knife.

Good grief—didn’t Director Wang check if his actors had criminal records when casting? That severed limb the props department found a while ago couldn’t have been his doing, could it?

Meanwhile, a paparazzo lurking in the distance furiously clicked his camera shutter in excitement.

“Ha! This is gold, real gold. The nation’s little brother giving a rookie the cold shoulder!” the paparazzo exclaimed. “Not exactly a major scoop, but these photos should still fetch a few hundred, maybe a thousand.”

The man with the binoculars was puzzled. “You can sell this?”

“A rookie’s a rookie. Even if it’s not a big story, it’s still a hassle if it gets out—so people pay a little to buy the rights. It’s a good deal,” the paparazzo said with satisfaction, hugging his camera. “You don’t get affairs or drug scandals every day. Most of our income comes from this kind of minor stuff, you know?”

The other man, taking the lesson to heart, pulled out his phone and started typing a message.

“What are you doing?” The paparazzo, seeing his movements, had a bad feeling.

“Texting my boss.” The man fired off a long message before looking up. “Don’t worry, your nation’s little brother is your target. Mine’s the guy across from him—we’re not in conflict.”

The paparazzo opened his mouth, confused. “The guy across from Wu Miao isn’t famous. Why are you watching him…”

He trailed off mid-sentence, suddenly recalling that some people in the industry liked to play dirty. Aside from wanting to ruin someone, it could be about collecting dirt, coercion, or maybe the boss was just a total pervert. The rookie, though unfamiliar, looked pretty enough in the photos—running into a perverted boss wouldn’t be surprising.

The paparazzo felt no sense of justice about such things. Everyone was just making a living; truth be told, they all operated in the gray areas. Those who could live decent lives wouldn’t resort to illegal deeds, and people capable of those things wouldn’t hesitate to crush a small-time paparazzo.

In short, the less they knew, the safer they were.

He shut his mouth and went back to setting up his camera for more shots.

The other man, seeing his silence, glanced down at his phone again. After watching for so long, he now understood why his boss had assigned him to watch this person. Judging by the way he’d just handled that knife, this was definitely no ordinary man.

His phone buzzed—a message from his boss. As always, it was brief: Bring him to see me.

Putting his phone away, the man couldn’t help but marvel. He’d thought his boss was just bored and nitpicking, but now it seemed—he’d been far-sighted all along.