The sun filtered through gauze-thin curtains, laying soft golden stripes across pale marble floors. The penthouse apartment was quiet, holding its breath in the luxury of stillness. Far below, the city was already alive—horns echoing, storefronts opening, dreams beginning and ending at once.
Inside, Jiang Yue sat on the edge of the bed that wasn't hers. Her back was straight, posture alert in a way that betrayed years of sleeping light and waking fast. The room was too clean. Too still. It had no scent, no warmth, no presence of anyone living in it.
The digital clock blinked 6:12 AM.
She hadn't meant to wake this early, but old habits didn't care about silk sheets or air conditioning. Her eyes drifted to the suitcase near the dresser—her single, loyal companion. A frayed duffel bag with one zipper stuck halfway down, fabric stretched and thinned from overuse. It hadn't been touched, yet it looked out of place here. Like she did.
She dressed quietly.
The kitchen was already awake.
Steam curled from a ceramic teapot, rising in smooth spirals toward the ceiling. The scent of hot soy milk mingled with the faintest trace of fresh scallion and sesame oil. Shen Rui sat at the counter, a tablet in his hand, suit jacket draped neatly over the chair beside him. He looked like a magazine ad tailored, controlled, untouchable.
Their eyes met for a brief second.
"Morning," he said, like a man commenting on the weather.
Jiang Yue nodded. No more. No less.
The table was set. Two bowls. Two cups. A plate of lightly pan-fried scallion pancakes rested in the centre, still glistening. She took the seat farthest from him. No questions. No comments. She didn't ask how he knew what she liked. She didn't want to know.
He said nothing more, and she was grateful for it.
When she left a half hour later, she didn't say goodbye. She zipped her hoodie, shouldered her bag, and stepped into the elevator without looking back.
Shen Rui didn't stop her. He didn't offer a car. Didn't ask if she'd be home for dinner. They were, after all, not really married.
Only married enough.
The studio lot behind the train station had once been a warehouse. Rust crawled along the edges of the roof, and the paint peeled in long, tired strips. Someone had tried to cover the smell of smoke with citrus air freshener, and now the whole place smelled like burning oranges.
Jiang Yue reported to the assistant director with the same calm detachment she used for everything. Late by two minutes. Early by spirit.
"You're up for the jump," he said, not bothering with preamble. "Li Yiran twisted her ankle yesterday, and we're behind schedule."
Jiang Yue didn't flinch. "Is the rig calibrated?"
"It was checked this morning."
By who? she didn't ask. It wouldn't matter.
The harness was familiar. Its weight sat across her shoulders like armour. She tightened every strap twice, fingers moving with the precision of someone who'd done it in darker places and for worse pay. The assistant assigned to help her looked young, distracted. She didn't trust him. She checked it all again herself.
From behind the set wall, the alley stretch was visible. Concrete façade. Smoke machine waiting. Crash pad not fully inflated.
Someone shouted "ready," and time began to collapse into motion.
One step. Two. Launch.
Her feet left the crate with a whisper, not a thud.
The air shifted. Wind pressed into her ears. Her body flipped once—then again—and for a moment, she was weightless. Then the smoke flared, and everything went white.
No horizon. No frame.
Just instinct.
The landing came fast—too fast.
The left strap caught, jerking her mid-twist. Her balance faltered. The crash pad loomed.
Then—impact.
The jolt rattled her ribs, pain blossoming low and sharp.
But she didn't cry out.
Didn't wince.
She rolled, steadied her breath, stood.
From behind the camera, someone clapped.
"Cut! Nailed it. Moving on."
No one noticed the strain in her stance. No one cared that her breathing was off-rhythm, or that she limped slightly when she walked away. The scene was done. That was enough.
The locker room was dim, smelling faintly of rust and rubber. She pressed a cold pack to her side, counting silently as the sting pulsed through her skin. Her reflection stared back at her from a scratched mirror.
Eyes sharp. Mouth tight. Jaw set.
She didn't cry. Not because she was brave—but because she couldn't afford to.
She returned to the penthouse after sundown. The city outside burned in neon and headlights. She expected emptiness when she stepped through the door.
Instead, Shen Rui sat by the dining table, reading again. The room was quiet, lit only by the glow from a pendant lamp and the soft shimmer of skyline through glass.
An envelope rested beside a cup of untouched tea.
He didn't look up. "You're home."
It startled her, though she didn't show it. She slipped off her shoes, dropped her bag by the wall.
"What's this?"
"An audition."
She frowned. "I didn't sign up for anything."
"You didn't need to."
There was something about his tone. Not cold. Not warm. Just… certain.
She opened the envelope. The paper inside was heavier than expected. Not the cheap photocopy kind passed around by casting interns.
It was for Dust and Rain—a mid-budget drama with a solid cast and real backing. A female lead. A rare thing. Three roles open. One still unclaimed.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
She looked up slowly. "Why?"
"You're not meant to be a shadow."
She didn't answer.
"And if people are going to call you my wife," he continued, "they'll expect more than bit roles and broken stunt pads."
She stared at him. "We agreed on silence."
"I haven't said a word."
A long pause stretched between them.
He looked back to his tablet.
She folded the paper, carefully, and left without another word.
The script stayed on her nightstand that evening, resting beside her battered phone and the scarf she hadn't worn in weeks.
She didn't trust easy solutions. People who helped without asking for something always wanted it later.
But she stared at the audition page for a long time.
And then, for the first time in weeks, she exhaled without bitterness.
The hallway was quiet.
Water in hand, she passed by the room with the half-closed door.
Shen Rui's study.
The light inside was low, the air still. On the wall behind his desk hung a carefully arranged series of photographs—film stills, production photos, faces she vaguely recognized from old posters and award shows.
At the centre, one image had been freshly pinned.
Her.
Midair. In motion. Caught in the split second between control and chaos.
She stopped.
Then walked away.
Somewhere deeper in the silence, a thread was pulled.
System Log: Mission Complete +2500.00 BP
New Directive: "Influence Initial Casting Outcome, Optional Boost Available"
But there was no screen. No glowing panel. Just the quiet hum of something ancient, waking slowly.
In the heart of the penthouse, the man who had once died watched the city flicker and folded his hands behind his back.
"Scene one," he murmured to no one. "Reset."