Why is This Clingy Snow Leopard Acting So Innocent? - Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Evasion — Why?

Su Wen stared at him for a long while before asking, “Film what?”

Yun Shu raised the camera and turned it toward him. In the viewfinder, Su Wen’s reflexes kicked in; he jerked his head away instantly.

“You.”

Su Wen was dazed for a moment, then replied almost instinctively, “No need.”

“Hm?” Yun Shu looked at him. “Why not?”

Su Wen avoided that piercing gaze. “No reason.”

He turned around, grabbed his bag from the table, and prepared to head back to his room. Just as he twisted the doorknob, Yun Shu’s voice rang out behind him—cold, serious, and stripped of his usual playful nonchalance.

“Su Wen.”

Su Wen froze, but he didn’t turn back.

“Do you plan on running away from the lens for the rest of your life?”

His body went rigid. He felt as though his skin had been peeled back, leaving nothing but raw flesh and a thumping heart exposed. They stood in a stalemate for a long time. Yun Shu’s gaze felt like a sharp scalpel, slowly carving into him.

A few seconds later, Su Wen pushed the door open and entered his room, ignoring the man behind him.

The door closed with a click. Outside, the silence returned—a long, heavy stillness.

Su Wen sat cross-legged by the bed. Warmth from the main hall seeped steadily into the room, chasing away the initial chill. He lowered his head, his mind a chaotic mess. The feeling of being struck exactly where it hurt left him unsure of how to face Yun Shu.

He had been avoiding the lens. It was so obvious that even a virtual stranger could pinpoint his problem with surgical precision.

…

“Scopophobia.”

Across from him, a psychiatrist held a report and delivered the diagnosis.

“What?” Su Wen felt as if the air had been sucked out of him. He sat there, dazed, repeating the word: “Lens? Fear of the camera?”

“Yes,” the doctor said professionally. “It’s a specific phobia, essentially a situational anxiety response. You mentioned that during filming, you instinctively want to hide? That your heart races and you feel distressed?”

“Yes.”

“And do you feel panic, sweat, or a desire to flee just by thinking about filming?”

Su Wen was an actor. He hated admitting it, but he could only reply, “Yes.”

“Have you experienced panic attacks—like difficulty breathing or dizziness—because of a lens?”

Su Wen fell into a long silence. During his first romance film after his return, he hadn’t known what was wrong with his body. During an interview at the opening ceremony, a literal sea of cameras swarmed him. Without warning, he had collapsed—his limbs went weak, and his heart felt like it was trying to leap out of his chest. Shortness of breath. Intense vertigo.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s no doubt,” the doctor said firmly. “It’s Scopophobia.”

In that single sentence, his acting career seemed to have been handed a death sentence.

After a long time, he whispered, “Can it be cured?”

The doctor looked at him with deep pity. This man had been the youngest Golden Dragon Best Actor. Such a diagnosis was something even fans wouldn’t be able to accept.

“You haven’t told me yet: before these symptoms appeared, did something happen that made you fear the camera?”

Su Wen remained silent. Eventually, he just said, “No.”

The psychiatrist obviously didn’t believe him and tried another angle. “Have your photos ever been used maliciously? It’s common among public figures. Are you sure it’s not that?”

“Yes.”

“What about forced filming? Has that happened?”

Su Wen gripped his hands tight until the doctor comforted him. “You can tell me. My confidentiality is 100%. You’ve seen my professional feedback. We can only solve the problem if we analyze why it appeared, right?”

“Yes.”

Sometimes he felt he was being dramatic. Everyone else was moving forward, while he was the only one trapped in place. It wasn’t even a “major” event. It hadn’t even caused physical injury. He had just had some… unpleasant photos taken.

But everything he had—all his status—had vanished like a bubble because of it. Why did it turn out like this?

The doctor noted something on the computer and said, “It’s usually curable. You’re in the early stages; the recovery rate is at least 70%.”

He was terrified of being part of the 30%.

After eight weeks of medication and systematic desensitization, he was almost completely better. He could even present himself naturally before a lens. So, he took on a second project. He decided romance wasn’t for him and chose a sci-fi film instead.

The intense fear surged again. With no other choice, he relied on Alprazolam for short-term relief. He didn’t go back to the hospital. He didn’t continue the desensitization. He told himself he was fine; he just needed long-term pharmaceutical intervention.

The speculation and slander regarding his acting and health moved from the internet to his every offline appearance. But as long as he stood before the lens, he was still the actor shining on the screen—or so he tried to be.

His former manager had bypassed his sister, Su Jian, to tell him: “Fire me yourself. I feel like you’ll take a different path in the future, but I need to stay in this industry.”

The changes were obvious. In the past, because he was one of the owners of the company and possessed raw talent, everyone scrambled to work with him. There was a saying: If Su Wen is in the movie, everyone from the director to the minor roles has a chance to skyrocket.

After two movies, that saying changed to: If Su Wen is in it, everyone better prepare to flop.

Su Wen fired the manager. Su Jian didn’t object. The two of them didn’t act like siblings; they acted like strangers. He had forgotten how he used to interact with his sister. Now, he even wondered: if not for the blood bond, would she have abandoned him without hesitation?

“Fine. Go home. I’ll hand the rest of the work to Andy.”

It was handled quickly. His former manager was a “Golden Medal” agent with no lack of suitors; Su Jian gave the opportunity to a newcomer instead.

A few days later, a document titled “Retirement Statement” was sent to Su Wen’s email. But that wasn’t what he wanted.

“Retire?!” “Why?!” “Why should I retire?!” His reaction was violent. Even when people pointed out his declining skills at roadshows, he hadn’t been this agitated. “On what grounds?! You think I can’t do it too?!”

The emotions he had suppressed for so long finally erupted hysterically.

“On what grounds?! Why should I retire?!” “Because of that person?!” “He locked me up!!” “It was him!!” “He stripped me!!” “He held his phone and filmed me!!” “Is it my fault?!” “Is this my fault?!”

Once the words left his mouth, he collapsed to his knees. In his head, he could hear the voices of those two people as they were being arrested, shouting his name: “Hey, hey! Su Wen! I have your photos! Remember to pay up! Bring money to trade!!”

The criminal who had dealt a near-fatal blow to his career was only sentenced to four years because “no serious consequences” were caused. He couldn’t understand. Why? Why come for him? He didn’t even know who they were. Why did this happen to him?

Was it a punishment? A punishment for being the only survivor?

Su Jian fell into a long silence. She had handled the aftermath almost perfectly; it took less than an hour from his disappearance to the arrest. Aside from those involved, almost no one knew. It wasn’t in the news. No one knew. Even the criminals were punished.

Only he had turned into this “ghost.”

She couldn’t empathize with him. He had been protected too well, adored since childhood, guarded by bodyguards. No one had ever spoken a harsh word to him. He was like a child who had never grown up. So fragile that a single strike hit home. It seemed any small thing could defeat him.

“Fine,” she stood up. “I didn’t actually make you retire. But… this is your last chance. If you can’t grab it, then retire. There’s no point in persisting.”

Su Wen lowered his head and accepted the ultimatum.

…

Su Wen opened the search bar and typed in “Retire.” The first result was his name: Su Wen Retiring. He clicked it. There were several posts spanning three years, the most recent from last month. It had even trended.

#Su Wen About to Retire# #Former Manager Hints Su Wen Retiring Due to Illness#

The comments were full of speculation—the car accident, sibling discord, or inheritance disputes. His former manager had left a clarifying comment, but the implication was even more obvious.

He hadn’t dared to check his 99+ notifications for a long time. Until now. They were from the fans who had stayed.

— Wenwen, don’t retire!!! — You definitely won’t retire!! — Always supporting you, no matter what, we are always here!!

At many moments in the past, he felt he had let himself down, let his dreams down, let his years of hard work down, and let the version of himself that stood high on the Golden Dragon stage down. But perhaps, the ones he had let down the most were those standing behind him.

A sharp pain came from his fingertip. He had bitten the skin without realizing it. A bright red bead of blood seeped out, quickly coating his knuckle. He wiped it off on his clothes.

For the first time in four years, he posted a blog.

He made up his mind, stood up, and pulled the door open.

Yun Shu was sitting quietly on the uncomfortable wooden sofa in the center of the living room, staring at his phone. Hearing the noise, he looked up and started to smile, but his eyes swept down and his brow furrowed.

“Is your hand hurt?”