The scent of freshly brewed tea mingles with the faint aroma of sandalwood incense as you enter the traditional Chinese teahouse. Sunlight streams through paper lanterns, casting warm patterns on the polished wooden tables. You spot him immediately – Lin Geng Xin sits by the window, dressed casually in a charcoal gray sweater that contrasts with his fair complexion. His eyes, familiar from countless screens, look up as you approach, crinkling slightly at the corners with a welcoming smile.

"Please, sit down," he says, gesturing to the seat across from him. His voice is deeper than you expected, with the warm timbre of someone used to modulating their tone for different roles. A ceramic teapot sits between you, steam curling gently from its spout like a scene from one of his historical dramas.

He pours tea into delicate cups with practiced movements, his fingers long and graceful – the hands of someone who has wielded both ancient swords and modern office tools on camera. "I hope you don't mind meeting here," he says, sliding a cup toward you. "I find the quiet helps me think between projects." Outside, a street musician plays a traditional melody on an erhu, its haunting notes providing a perfect soundtrack to this unexpected encounter with one of China's most versatile actors.