The corridor outside Room 12A smelled of ironed fabric and fresh paint.
Costume racks lined the hallway wall, neatly labelled in blocky script: General, Maiden, Court Official. Rich silks and faded linens swayed slightly with the building's central air. Assistants whispered into earpieces, their voices blending with the soft hum of overhead fluorescents. Clipboards. Coffee trays. Purpose in every step.
Jiang Yue passed through the security checkpoint without pause, her audition badge pinned just above her collarbone. No makeup. No jewellery. Her hair, tied into a low twist, revealed the slope of her neck and the clean line of her jaw. She didn't look around. Didn't smile. She simply arrived.
A woman with horn-rimmed glasses took her measurements with brisk, impersonal touches.
"Zhao Lin, right? You're the second one today."
Jiang Yue nodded once.
The assigned costume was a muted grey robe embroidered at the cuffs, belted at the waist with a jade clasp. The fabric had weight—real silk, not the scratchy blends she was used to wearing. A soft-spoken crew member led her to the changing room.
Behind the curtain, Jiang Yue dressed slowly.
Each layer tightened something in her. Not in discomfort, but in focus. Her hands moved with care, smoothing the robe, adjusting the clasp, tying the belt until it sat just right. When she looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn't her reflection she studied.
It was Zhao Lin.
She closed her eyes. Drew in a breath that wasn't fully hers.
And let it settle.
When she stepped out, the hallway's mood changed.
Not sharply. Not obviously. But unmistakably.
An actress looked up from her phone. An intern whispered something. Someone said her name was Jiang Yue, not with recognition, but with interest. Like a question that suddenly deserved a closer look.
It wasn't the robe. It wasn't the makeup she didn't wear. It was the stillness around her. A kind of gravity that pulled the silence in.
She followed the crew member into the studio.
The set was half-built. Wooden platforms shaped like a noble hall. Silk screens swaying lightly from the nearby AC. Cameras on rails. A boom mic hovering above like a waiting vulture.
The director sat behind a monitor, his face impassive.
Lin Qichen.
Precise. Quiet. Known for accepting only one take if the first was true. Notoriously unrehearsed.
He looked at her, nodded once. "Begin when ready."
No handshake. No introduction.
A stage hand cleared the silk curtain.
And Zhao Lin stepped into the scene.
She stood in stillness. Not passive. Not frozen. Still.
The audio cue played, a voice recording of the sister's confession, layered and distant.
"I never meant for it to end like this."
Zhao Lin didn't blink.
"He was a soldier. He knew the risks."
Her gaze didn't change.
But the air did. Slightly. Sharply. Like heat rising from stone.
"You would've done the same."
Then, finally, she turned her head slowly. Not in shock. Not in fury. In resignation.
"I would've died with him."
Her voice wasn't broken. It was intact. Too intact.
"But you chose to survive."
And still, she did not cry.
"Tell the court what you like. I've stopped writing poetry for ghosts."
Silence.
It stretched past the edge of the scene.
A soft voice called from behind the camera: "Cut."
No one spoke.
Lin Qichen tapped a key, rewound the footage. Watched it again. Still silent.
Then he nodded. "Reset the light. Save take two for reference."
He didn't look at her again.
He didn't need to.
The rehearsal hall, by contrast, smelled of floor polish and sweat. Red tape marked the performance grid. Foam swords waited on the floor, their edges dulled but their weight true.
The scene was a ceremonial duel. A weapon raised not in violence, but in despair. Zhao Lin, surrounded by betrayal, forced to draw, not to win, but to be heard.
Names were called.
Jiang Yue stepped forward.
Her grip closed around the sword's hilt. Familiar. Balanced. Her body moved as if the moment had been rehearsed in another life. Pivot. Draw. Lunge.
A fraction too late, her toe caught the edge of a raised plank. The floor gave under her weight.
Time slowed.
She twisted mid-air, body curled protectively, breaking the fall with her forearm.
The foam blade clattered across the floor.
Gasps filled the air. Footsteps rushed in.
Lin Qichen walked over, hands in his coat pockets.
"Anyone else would've broken something," he said.
The room exhaled.
"She didn't fall wrong," someone whispered. "She redirected mid-air."
"Ex-stunt?"
"Yeah. Doubled for Li Yiran back in the day."
"That's her?"
Her name passed through the room like smoke curling under a closed door.
Jiang Yue stood. Shook out her wrist once. Then picked up the blade.
Without flinching.
That night, her name surfaced in industry chatrooms.
Who's Jiang Yue? A callback from Lin Qichen, and she doesn't even have an agency? Must be backed. No one gets that kind of grace. Or she's just good. Word is she redirected a fall mid-rehearsal. Tight instinct.
A name passed in whispers. A ripple of notice. But no spotlight—yet.
At midnight, Shen Rui stood by the penthouse window. A wine glass rested untouched in his hand. City lights flickered across his reflection.
The tablet chimed softly.
System Alert: Rumour Escalation , "Sponsored Starlet?" Tag Active
Optional: Leak Controlled Callback Footage for 6,000.00 BP
Recommendation: No Action. Monitoring…
He didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Some stories needed time to unfold before the truth caught up.
He placed the glass down and looked out at the city, still breathing beneath him.
In her room, Jiang Yue sat cross-legged on the floor, an ice pack resting on her wrist. Her screen showed no trending tags. No fame. Only a whisper of her name, linked to a quiet rumour and a callback no one expected.
She scrolled once more.
Then locked the phone.
The rain tapped gently on her window.
She leaned her head against the glass. The ache in her arm had dulled, but not disappeared.
She didn't cry.
She didn't smile.
But for the first time in years, her presence had drawn breath from a room.
And that was enough.