On the fourth night of the training camp, the production team arranged a solo interview for the "Contestant's Voice." Facing the camera in a cozy little room, the female director gently guided him:
"Lin Chen, I heard you come from a very remote mountainous area. Can you tell me about your family? What do your parents do? Do they support your singing?"
"It must have been incredibly difficult for you along the way. Have there been any particularly sad, difficult moments, or even times when you felt like giving up?"
"If you fail this competition, what will you do? Will you feel sorry for your parents' expectations?"
The questions seemed caring, but in reality, they were carefully crafted, trying to guide him into telling a "tragic and inspirational" story of "coming back from the odds" to generate buzz and garner sympathy. Lin Chen felt a surge of resentment. His family was poor, and his parents had faced challenges, but he never considered that "tragedy" to be something to be displayed or exploited. His love for music stemmed from the joy and fulfillment the mountains and the countryside brought him, not from an escape from reality or a complaint.
He avoided the expected "tearful" moments and calmly recounted his love for the mountains and rivers of his hometown, the freedom music brought him, and his cautious yet sincere hopes for the future. A subtle hint of disappointment crossed the director's face, but he quickly regained his professional smile.
After the interview, Lin Chen felt a deep exhaustion—not physical, but mental. He walked alone to the quiet stairwell of the hotel's fire escape, devoid of cameras. He leaned against the cold wall, slowly sat down, hugged his knees, and buried his face in them.
He missed the unreserved mountain wind, the deafening roar of the waterfall, and the villagers who listened quietly to his singing. Here, his every word and action was scrutinized, interpreted, and incorporated into a vast, calculating system called "dreams." He seemed to see himself in a polished mirror. He reflected himself, dressed in the production team's uniform training uniform and with impeccable makeup, but his eyes began to show signs of confusion and struggle.
The shadow of the young man, carrying a bamboo basket and singing aloud on a boulder in the mountain stream, was becoming blurred.
"A phantom in the mirror..." he muttered softly.
Just then, the stairwell door gently opened. A figure walked in. It was the female director who had interviewed him earlier. She looked at Lin Chen, huddled in the corner, her professional smile vanishing, replaced by a complex emotion.
"Are you feeling unwell?" she asked, her voice much more genuine than during the interview.
Lin Chen raised his head and shook his.
The female director was silent for a moment, then whispered, "Stick to what you believe is right. In this industry... sometimes, authenticity is more precious than a persona, though it's also more difficult." With that, she turned and left, as if her previous words had been just a spur-of-the-moment remark.
In the empty stairwell, Lin Chen was alone again. But those brief, sincere words, like a small spark, touched his heart, which had almost frozen with confusion.
The illusion was certainly alluring, but perhaps the weight of reality was the ultimate force that kept him going. He stood up and dusted himself off. Training continued, and the competition was about to begin. He had much more to face than just the lights and applause on the stage.