After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 170 Adding drama
During lunch break, the four of them squeezed into the crew's rest tent. Jiang Cimu opened the thermos; inside were portions of pumpkin porridge, each with a note: Alice's had a moon drawn on it, Farah's had a lollipop, Nancy's had "Less sugar to prevent cavities," and Sang Shuwan's had a drawing of little people holding hands on its lid. Nancy, biting her spoon, suddenly spoke up: "I wrote a new script about three female CEOs and their superstar best friends, with a subplot about how the best friends' husbands are jealous yet doting on their wives."

“Then the male lead’s character should be—” Farah mumbled through her lollipop, “a seemingly aloof CEO, but actually preparing twenty different kinds of breakfast for his wife every day, and also acting as her driver for her best friends.” Alice kicked her foot: “Don’t forget that you also have to help them snag limited edition figurines. Last time, Ci Mu helped me get a moon-themed blind box, and the way he was sitting in front of the computer at three in the morning—” She suddenly burst out laughing, “was even more serious than my Wanwan when she filmed a crying scene.”

The afternoon's scene involved running on the playground. Sang Shuwan wore Fara's modified school uniform sneakers, with half a centimeter of height added to the soles—her agent had said, "We can't let Mr. Jiang appear too tall, as it would ruin the adorable height difference between campus couples." As she ran past the podium, Jiang Cimu suddenly leaned closer, his voice so soft that only the two of them could hear: "Remember when you fainted during the 800-meter run? I carried you to the school clinic." Her ears burned, and she almost lost her rhythm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nancy recording with her phone outside the camera's view, muttering, "That heart-pounding micro-expression is amazing."

After work, the four of them sat on the bleachers of the playground watching the sunset. Farah suddenly pulled out a small notebook filled with photos of them together over the years: hot cocoa backstage at Milan Fashion Week, an embrace under the aurora borealis in Iceland, and a celebration party after an awards ceremony. "I plan to make these into a journal," she said, waving the notebook around. "Mr. Jiang will write a sentence on each page, for example—" She turned to the page covered with embroidered school uniforms, "Here he can write, 'Your school uniform cuffs hold the heartbeat of my entire youth.'"

Jiang Cimu took the notebook, the pen scratching softly on the pages. Sang Shuwan leaned over to look and found that he had written about little things from their university days: "She always unbuttoned the second button of my white shirt, saying it made her look more casual; she liked to bite the cap of her pen when she was memorizing lines, so I secretly bought twenty strawberry-flavored ones; she held a concert in the dormitory, waking up the whole building, but I thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world."

As dusk deepened, the studio lights came on. Nancy suddenly pointed to the cafeteria in the distance: "Let's go get some oil-splashed noodles! Remember when the four of us skipped class to go out for a late-night snack and got caught by the headmaster—" She suddenly looked at Jiang Cimu, "I remember clearly the slap Cimu took for Wanwan." Farah suddenly pulled out lollipops from her bag and handed them to everyone: "Back then, I thought, this man is so reliable, he didn't even flinch when he got hit, just to protect Wanwan's audition opportunity for the female lead."

Under the incandescent lights of the cafeteria, Sang Shuwan watched Jiang Cimu pick the scallions out of her noodles—he remembered she didn't eat scallions, but always picked out the cilantro from his bowl for her, saying, "Complementarity is perfection." Alice and Nancy were bickering across from each other, arguing about "whose lines in the campus drama are more cheesy." Farah was filming a vlog with her phone, the camera panning across their intertwined wrists, where they wore matching couple bracelets, cast from their graduation school badges.

Back at the hotel after work that night, Jiang Cimu helped her remove her light makeup. As the warm towel wiped her cheeks, he suddenly chuckled, "Your eyelashes were fluttering like butterfly wings during the kissing scene today." Sang Shuwan snuggled into his arms, smelling the familiar scent of cedar perfume, "It's all because Nancy made a face off-camera and said your ear tips were as red as tomatoes." He lowered his head and kissed the top of her head, his fingertips tracing the small tattoo on the back of her neck—it was the one they got when they got married. He had a train around a star tattooed on it, saying, "That way you'll always be by my side."

At three in the morning, Sang Shuwan was awakened by her phone vibrating. A message from Farah popped up in the group chat, along with nine pictures: sketches of her newly designed wedding dresses, each one subtly thoughtful—their wedding date embroidered on the cuffs, the initials of her three best friends woven into the skirt, and the star pattern on the veil drawn by Nancy with a pen. Alice replied, "The train needs to be three meters long, so Cimu has to be strong enough to carry our Wanwan." Nancy added, "I'll film the wedding documentary; the title will be 'Orbits Under the Stars'."

Jiang Cimu rolled over, wrapping his arms around her waist, his warm breath brushing against her ear: "Don't stay up late, we have to film a kissing scene in the library tomorrow." She turned off her phone and laughed out loud in the darkness—so this is what happiness is: having a lover beside you, a best friend by your side, and a role you love ahead of you. The youth hidden in the embroidery of school uniforms, the warmth in the annotations of the script, the tenderness in the trivialities of daily life, all refracted like a prism, reflecting the most moving light, making every ordinary day shine.

That night, Sang Shuwan had a dream. In her dream, she returned to her university's welcome party. She was singing "A Little Happiness" on stage, Jiang Cimu was sitting in the audience recording with his phone, Alice was backstage helping her adjust her dress, Nancy was holding a camera to find the best angle, and Farah was screaming in the audience with a glow stick. When the lights dimmed, he walked onto the stage and handed her a bouquet of roses, saying, "From now on, I will be there for every stage you perform on."

As dawn broke, Jiang Cimu was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Sang Shuwan watched him wearing an apron with a moon pattern (a birthday gift from Alice), and the soft-boiled eggs in the frying pan were sizzling. On the table, the thermos cups for his girlfriends were neatly arranged, labeled "Nancy's Americano - Less Ice," "Alice's Latte - Double Sugar," and "Fara's Honey Water - Warm."

On the day filming wrapped up for the campus scenes, the crew held a small celebration on the playground. Nancy recorded everyone's remarks with her camera. When it was Jiang Cimu's turn, he looked at the starlight in Sang Shuwan's eyes and said, "Seven years ago, I found her fountain pen in the library, like finding the brightest star in the world. Later, I discovered that there were three little moons beside this star, making her world even warmer and brighter." Farah suddenly pulled out a small box containing four custom-made rings, with the initials of the four people's names engraved on the bands, spelling out "STAR".

Before filming began for their new drama "Rose Route," the four of them squeezed into Alice's studio to choose costumes. Farah spread out the design sketches, and each costume's lining was embroidered with a different little pattern: Sang Shuwan's was stars, Alice's was the moon, Nancy's was a camera, and Farah's was a test tube. "That way, it's like we're always by your side," Farah winked, "even if you're filming on the space station, you can still touch our 'signatures'."

At the opening banquet, Jiang Cimu quietly draped Sang Shuwan's costume jacket over her shoulders, while he himself wore only a thin shirt. Alice noticed this and secretly slipped her cashmere scarf into his hand: "Don't pretend to be a tough guy. Wanwan said you caught a cold for three days last winter while bringing her soup." Nancy raised her glass to clink glasses, a smile hidden in her eyes: "Cimu, stop staring at Wanwan's close-ups on the monitor all the time. The director said you're making the camera lens bulge."

During breaks in filming, Sang Shuwan often saw Jiang Cimu sitting in a corner reading the script, his fingertips scribbling on the pages. Once, she leaned closer and discovered that he had made notes next to every kissing scene's lines: "Here, a light kiss on the forehead," "Remember to support her waist here," "This is a camera trick, in case she's shy." Those densely packed handwritings moved her more than any lines of dialogue.

When Sang Shuwan returned to the villa at the end of the month, she discovered a new photo wall in the walk-in closet. Jiang Cimu stood on the ladder hanging up the last group photo—the four of them under the aurora borealis in Iceland, him holding Sang Shuwan, Alice and Nancy holding up signs that read "Happy Wedding," and Farah making a peace sign beside them. "From now on, we'll hang up a new photo every time we go somewhere," he jumped down from the ladder, ruffling her hair, "so that our home can slowly be filled with starlight."

One late weekend night, Sang Shuwan returned home after filming a night scene and found the living room light on with a warm yellow glow. Jiang Cimu was asleep on the sofa, her script on his lap, his fingertips still resting on the page with the highlighted notes. A warm glass of milk sat on the coffee table, with a note beside it: "There are canelés in the fridge if you're hungry. Alice said you can only have one, she's worried about getting pimples." Looking at the faint dark circles under his eyes, she suddenly remembered how he used to help her copy notes in college, also falling asleep on the table like this, sunlight falling on his eyelashes like a butterfly afraid of the light.

Jiang Cimu's best friends often say that he breaks down "I love you" into countless little things: he arranges the fried eggs in the shape of stars in the morning, his thermos is always kept at 55℃ when she's filming, and he even secretly collects the entire set of the childhood comics she casually mentioned. Sang Shuwan knows that hidden in these little things is a true heart that shines brighter than starlight.

Halfway through filming "Rose Route," the four of them held a small art exhibition in Farah's studio. The walls were covered with Farah's costume sketches for Sang Shuwan, Nancy had created a film wall of their photos, and Alice had compiled a stack of scripts filled with annotations, each page marked "Sang Shuwan's Highlight Moment." Jiang Cimu stood in a corner, recording their laughter with his phone. When the camera panned across Sang Shuwan, she was holding up a chibi-style portrait drawn by Farah, laughing like a child.

That night, the four of them lay on the studio carpet, gazing at the stars. Farah suddenly pointed to the night sky: "Look, those three stars together look like the moon, and the brightest one next to them looks just like Wanwan." Alice handed over hot cocoa, the water droplets on the cup sparkling under the light: "So we are her moon, and Twilight is her orbit, forever protecting her as she shines." Nancy suddenly sat up, her eyes shining: "That's a good line; I'm going to write it into the beginning of my new script."

Jiang Cimu reached out and took Sang Shuwan's hand, his fingertips tracing the wedding ring on her ring finger. The city lights shone brightly in the distance, while laughter nearby was as warm as spring. He suddenly understood that eternity wasn't about vows of eternal love, but about countless moments like these: she shone on stage, and they protected her from below; she shed tears for her role, and they handed her tissues; she struggled in the entertainment industry, and they built the strongest harbor behind her.

A night breeze carried a faint floral scent. Looking at the people around her, Sang Shuwan suddenly felt incredibly lucky. She had a lover who understood her vulnerability, a best friend who understood her dreams, and a career she loved that allowed her to blossom. Those embroidered details hidden in her sleeves, the annotations in her scripts, the mundane details of daily life—all would eventually settle in time, becoming the most touching story—not a grand, epic legend, but a gentle yet steadfast tale of starlight and prism, belonging to them.

That night, the studio lights stayed on. Nancy was writing a new script, Farah was revising design drafts, Alice was organizing the schedule, and Jiang Cimu was massaging Sang Shuwan's shoulders. The stars outside the window flickered, but a few always lingered around the brightest one, just like them, forever together, forever warm as ever.

The awards ceremony, held in late autumn at the National Centre for the Performing Arts, featured Sang Shuwan in a dark green velvet gown designed by Alice. The skirt was embroidered with three-dimensional laurel leaves, each leaf's veins inlaid with tiny pearls—Fara said it was "weaving Mr. Jiang's gentleness into the fabric." Backstage in the dressing room, Nancy was recording on her phone, the camera panning to the silver bracelet on her wrist: "The engagement bracelet Ci Mu gave me perfectly matches the gown's color scheme. I declare that tonight's Best Accessory Award belongs to Mr. Jiang."

Jiang Cimu stood in the corner, holding a velvet gift box. When it was Sang Shuwan's turn to go on stage, he gently opened the box, inside was a moon brooch inlaid with small diamonds: "It was designed by Alice, who said to pin it to the second button on the left breast." His fingertips brushed across the skin below her collarbone, where there was a small moon he had tattooed on his birthday last year, "That way when you receive the award, it will feel like the three of us are all by your side."

The moment Sang Shuwan stepped onto the red carpet, she heard familiar laughter mixed with the cheers of her fans. In the VIP section, Alice held up the clapperboard, pretending to be serious, the moon-shaped cufflinks on her sleeves glittering under the lights; Nancy held up a camera and made a heart shape with her hands, half of the draft of her acceptance speech peeking out of her shirt pocket; Farah, wearing a custom-made starry sky dress and a laurel leaf hair clip matching hers, was giving the camera a "victory" sign.

When the host announced "Best Actress," Sang Shuwan saw Jiang Cimu secretly make a "1" gesture from the audience—their secret code, meaning "You are my number one." The moment she received the trophy, she suddenly remembered the rose Jiang Cimu had given her backstage at the school's arts festival seven years ago, when she won her first award. Now, it felt as if she held it in her hand again, carrying the same warmth.

During a backstage interview, when asked about her wedding ring on her ring finger, Sang Shuwan smiled and held up her trophy: "The trophy is an affirmation of my profession, the wedding ring is an anchor of love, and they—" She looked at her close friends not far away, Alice was adjusting Farah's skirt, and Nancy was negotiating with the staff, "They are the moon that keeps me from getting lost in the starlight."

The celebration banquet ended in the early hours of the morning, and the four of them squeezed into the van to return to the villa. Sang Shuwan leaned on Jiang Cimu's shoulder, listening to Alice and Nancy arguing about whether to take on a period drama or a modern drama for their next project. Farah suddenly pulled out a small bottle: "The aurora notebook I brought back from Iceland. Put it on the bay window in your bedroom, so that even if you can't see the aurora, you can still remember our promise."

Back home, Jiang Cimu helped her remove her dress and discovered three tiny letters embroidered on the lining: N, A, and F, along with a crooked "J"—secretly embroidered by Farah, who said, "Mr. Jiang is also one of our moons." In the bathroom, he had already prepared a rose petal bath, adjusting the water temperature to her favorite 38°C. On the dressing table were her usual lavender essential oils, with a note next to them: "There's a surprise after your bath in the dressing room."

The floor lamp in the walk-in closet was on as Jiang Cimu stood before the newly arranged photo wall. A new photo from today's red carpet event had been added; Alice had captured him smiling in the corner, and next to it was an old photo from their university days: Sang Shuwan wearing his white shirt, holding her first Best Newcomer trophy, with three close friends behind her making exaggerated peace signs. "From now on, every wall will be filled with our stories," he said, his arm around her waist, looking at the photo of himself gazing at her, "like the laurel leaves on your skirt, each one holding a ray of light."

At four in the morning, Sang Shuwan was gently shaken awake. Jiang Cimu, wearing pajamas, held a tablet in his hands: "Fara sent a message saying there will be a Geminid meteor shower tonight." He took a blanket and led her to the rooftop terrace, where her favorite plush cushions were already placed on the recliner, and a thermos of hot jujube tea was placed next to it.

Under the starry sky, Farah's video call suddenly came in. The background was her studio, where Alice and Nancy were holding up binoculars: "Wanwan, look! The spot where the third shooting star streaked across the sky looks like the star snowman we built in Iceland!" Nancy twirled around with her phone, the camera panning across the canelés on the table—the ones Jiang Cimu had just sent that afternoon. "Cimu, you're biased! You gave us the original flavor, but you gave Wanwan the coconut flavor!"

As the shooting star streaked across the sky, Sang Shuwan heard Jiang Cimu chuckle softly in her ear: "Do you know what you wished for?" His fingertips traced the back of her hand. "I don't need to guess, I just wish we could always be like this, bickering and loving each other." The city lights in the distance gradually dimmed, and the laughter of her best friends came through the screen. The terrace under the starry sky seemed to become the center of the world.

As dawn broke, the four shared photos from the previous night in the group chat. Sang Shuwan looked at the starry sky picture Farah had taken and noticed she'd added four small silhouettes in the corner: two holding trophies, one hugging a camera, one holding a design draft, and next to them, a perpetually shining star. Alice replied, "Next year's meteor shower, let's go to Iceland for our wedding photos!" Nancy added, "I've already thought of the script; it'll be called 'The Orbit Under the Meteor.'"

Jiang Cimu held her and gently rocked her, the morning dew dampening his sleeves. "Are you cold?" She shook her head, looking at the faint dark circles under his eyes, and suddenly remembered the first time she met his parents. He was so nervous that he wrote down her preferences in a memo, even noting whether she wanted pearls in her milk tea. It turned out that the deepest love was never grand or dramatic, but rather remembering every little habit of hers as an essential lesson in life.

While catching up on sleep that morning, Sang Shuwan dreamt that she had returned to the year she first debuted. In her cramped rented room, she practiced her lines in front of the mirror, Jiang Cimu squatted on the floor to revise her resume, Alice pushed open the door carrying a project proposal, Nancy held up an audition opportunity she had just secured, and Farah carried a pile of fabric saying, "I'll make you costumes." Back then, their eyes all shone with light, and now, that light has converged into a river, making her world forever warm and spring-like.

At lunchtime, Jiang Cimu brought her favorite cream of mushroom soup, with a moon-shaped toast sent by Alice beside it: "She said she can't eat too much while filming, so breakfast has to be exquisite." He suddenly pulled a small box from his pocket, inside was a new cufflink, engraved with the letters "STAR"—forged from their rings by Farah. "From now on, I'm also part of your star map." Sunlight filtered through the gauze curtains, casting dappled shadows on the table. Sang Shuwan looked at the person before her and suddenly understood that true happiness is like this: having a loved one by your side, best friends sharing joy from afar, and a passionate career that makes life shine. The sentiments hidden in the embroidery of dresses, the encouragement in script annotations, the promises under the starry sky—all will eventually brew into the sweetest wine in time, making every ordinary day a starlight worth treasuring.

On this day, the wind was gentle, the sun was warm, and love, like a prism, reflected the most moving brilliance in their lives.

The dressing room at five in the morning was filled with the bitter aroma of cold brew coffee. Sang Shuwan adjusted the angle of her false eyelashes in front of a three-sided mirror. Her assistant, Xiao Zhou, carefully served her with a hairdryer behind her. As the warm air brushed past her ear, she touched the three-centimeter-long old scar—a scratch from a horse stirrup she'd been caught on while filming a circus scene last year—now being covered layer by layer with concealer. In the mirror, the dark circles under her eyes looked like smudged ink. Makeup artist Xiao Chen stood by, holding a concealer brush, the tips of the bristles still smudged with light beige concealer.

"Sister Wan, Sister Jiyue's van has arrived." Xiao Zhou's voice carried a hint of nervousness, and her hand, clenched tightly around a cotton pad, was reflected in the mirror. Sang Shuwan looked at the faint dark circles under her eyes and recalled what her agent had said on WeChat last night: "The new generation of actresses are all about the 'ambition written on their faces' persona. Don't take it to heart." The message was sent at 1 a.m., and the attached screenshot showed that Sang Jiyue had just posted a photo on Weibo of herself making a heart shape with her hands while looking at a script, with the location showing an executive suite in a five-star hotel.

The moment the carved wooden door was pushed open, the scent of Chanel No. 5 wafted in. Sang Jiyue wore a new Gucci embroidered sweatshirt, her hair styled in freshly done curls, and her Cartier bracelet clinked crisply with each movement. Her assistant, Xiao Tao, followed behind carrying a pile of designer bags, one of which, a Birkin bag, had its clasp gleaming coldly under the lights. From an obscure web drama actress to a top-tier production supporting actress, she had achieved this in less than six months, all thanks to her agent, Sister Wang, who had shielded the investors from seven cups of Moutai at a drinking party—an incident that had become the talk of the industry, known even to the aunties in the break room as the newcomer "a heavy drinker and a smooth operator."

"Good morning, Sister Shuwan." Sang Jiyue smiled like a freshly picked lychee, her fingertips tracing the cover of Sang Shuwan's script, the rose-pink nail polish leaving a faint mark on the page. "Last night, seeing your suggestions for revising the fight scene at the reading session was truly enlightening." Her finger paused on the page about "wolfsbane," her fingertip lightly touching the words Sang Shuwan had marked in red: "Grows in the Gobi Desert at altitudes above 2000 meters." "However, I have a little idea..."

Sang Shuwan put down her eyelash curler, and the reflections of the two people in the mirror created a subtle contrast: she was wearing the crew's matching gray sweatshirt, the cuffs frayed and the collar still bearing traces of gold dust from last year's period drama shoot; the other woman, however, had turned her casual clothes into a fashion week runway, the embroidery on her sweatshirt shimmering with pearly luster under the lights, clearly a haute couture piece. Seven years ago, when she first entered the industry, she had also gone to knock on the door of a senior actor with a revised script, only to be met with the words, "Read your lines clearly first." The veteran actor who said those words has now retired from the industry, and whenever she occasionally sees her playing a mother-in-law on television, she always thinks of the age spots on the back of the actor's hands.

"Tell me about it?" As she turned around, she carried the base notes of Chanel Chance Eau de Toilette—the fragrance chosen by the sponsor, even the scent was ranked. Sang Jiyue's assistant, Xiao Tao, was hiding in a corner texting, the cold light from her phone screen reflecting her rapidly tapping fingers, most likely tipping off marketing accounts.

Sang Jiyue's fingers paused on the line "Young Master, please wait," her nails tapping out a rhythmic pattern on the paper. "Look," she said, "when Princess Yunshuang first meets the general, besides handing over the transfer order, could we add a gesture of adjusting her cufflinks?" She suddenly leaned closer, her warm breath brushing against Sang Shuwan's earlobe, the scent of her Chanel No. 5 almost overpowering the coffee. "That would show the princess's delicacy while also highlighting the physical contact between the two, making the scene more engaging for the audience."

The cool light in the dressing room cast shadows under Sang Shuwan's eyes. She noticed that the other person's notes on the script were written with a Tiffany blue fountain pen, with rhinestone stickers on the important parts, and even a small heart drawn next to the word "General." In the original novel, Princess Yunshuang was a female general who crawled out of piles of corpses, her cuffs always smelling of horse feed, and a worn leather quiver at her waist. How could she notice a man's cufflinks at their first meeting? She also remembered that during the reading session, Director Zhang specifically emphasized: "Yunshuang's restraint is reflected in the tension in every fingertip. She is not a sheltered young lady."

“Jiyue’s understanding of the character is very unique.” She pressed down on the other’s hand as she was about to turn the pages of the script, her palm touching the hypoallergenic tape on the other’s wrist—a lingering effect from last week’s filming of the rain scene, when Sang Jiyue had requested to use distilled water due to “skin sensitivity,” costing the crew an extra 20,000 yuan in water fees. “However, every action in the script was discussed in three reading sessions, and Director Zhang specifically emphasized the princess’s restraint. Look here…” She opened her own script, the yellowed pages covered with dense annotations. “I marked three breathing points, and the wrist should tremble slightly when handing over the command, to show her outward composure but inner turmoil. These are details that I discussed with the director.”

Sang Jiyue's smile froze for a fraction of a second, then she said in an even sweeter voice, "Sister Shuwan is so professional. I'm just a newbie, always thinking about how to perform..." As she turned around, the hem of her hoodie swept across Sang Shuwan's script, and the script of "The Cloud Record" clattered to the ground, revealing a hospital CT report tucked inside—a slight dislocation of the fourth lumbar vertebra, left over from filming a scene of jumping off a building last year. Next to the date on the report, it was written in red pen, "Painkillers need to be controlled in dosage."

As Sang Shuwan bent down to pick up the script, she heard Xiao Tao whisper in the corner, "Sister Wang said this scene is key to Sister Jiyue's rise to the top. The audience must remember her eye acting. The second female lead in the neighboring group's 'Phoenix Seeking Phoenix' became the female lead by adding scenes..." The voice suddenly stopped because Sang Shuwan had already raised her head. Her gaze was calm but had a certain penetrating power, like the female spy she played in "The Lonely Smoke in the Desert," who could see through the enemy's codebook.

The butterfly lights in the studio cast starlight patterns on Sang Shuwan's light blue costume. Her hand, clutching the props dispatch order, suddenly tightened—the script supervisor had just delivered a new script, in which Sang Jiyue's screenwriter friend had added three lines of dialogue in elegant handwriting, the ink still fresh and rough. "The peony pattern on the general's armor is quite similar to the floral pattern on the screen in my boudoir," the last stroke of the word "similar" was drawn out, the ink spreading like tears dripping onto rice paper.

“Director Zhang, this line…” She had barely begun to speak when she saw Sang Jiyue touching up her makeup in front of the camera. The powder shimmered with a pearly sheen under the lights. Sister Wang stood behind her, her phone screen lit up with a real-time update of Weibo's trending topics—#SangJiyueActingSpirit# had already climbed to number 23, accompanied by a photo of her making a heart shape with her hands in the dressing room, captioned “Let’s cheer on Sister Shuwan together.” On the director’s side, the investor representative, Mr. Li, was talking to the assistant director, his finger occasionally pointing at Sang Jiyue, a meaningful smile on his face.

“Let’s give it a try first.” Director Zhang pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose. This renowned director, who had directed “The Secret History of Chang’an,” was currently staring at the fruit basket sent by the investors, which contained a cantaloupe the size of a basketball. “It’s good that the newcomers have ideas. Let’s work on it together more.” His gaze swept over Sang Shuwan, a hint of helplessness flashing in his eyes—late last night, he had just received a call from the investors, hinting that they wanted to add more scenes for Sang Jiyue, on the grounds that “young actresses bring their own audience and can attract young viewers.”

The clapperboard clicked, and Sang Shuwan immediately got into character. The "general" at the stone table, played by the veteran actor Chen Daoming, sat upright, his gaze piercing. Sang Jiyue approached in embroidered shoes, and as her flowing sleeves billowed, Sang Shuwan noticed a pearl bracelet on her wrist—not a prop from the film crew—marking the beginning of something more.

“General, please wait.” Sang Jiyue’s voice was three times sweeter than when she was reading aloud. The word “General”, which should have been cold and hard, rose at the end, as if she were calling out to her beloved. “This Empress…” She suddenly raised her hand, her fingertips brushing against Chen Daoming’s cufflinks. “This peony pattern is similar to the pattern on the screen in my boudoir.”

Chen Daoming raised an eyebrow slightly, his professionalism keeping him in the right posture, but a hint of surprise flashed in his eyes. Sang Shuwan felt her palms getting damp, the edge of the prop transfer order digging painfully into her thumb. According to the original script, Princess Yunshuang should have strode forward and slammed the transfer order onto the stone table, causing the water in the teacup to splash out of the rim.

"Oh?" She heard her own voice echo in the studio, with the husky tone characteristic of a general. "Your Highness has a good memory; you even remember the patterns on my armor." She suddenly looked down at the pearl bracelet on the other's wrist. "However, compared to peonies, I prefer the wolfsbane flowers in the army—though not flamboyant, they can live for ten years in the Gobi Desert, their roots firmly gripping the sand, ensuring that not an inch of land is lost even in the face of fierce winds and torrential rains."

The set fell silent. Sang Shuwan noticed Sang Jiyue's fingertips pausing on her cufflinks, the pearl bracelet jingling softly with her trembling. Chen Daoming's gaze shifted between the two, as if watching a silent battle of wits. Director Zhang tapped his fingers on the monitor, not calling "cut," clearly waiting for the next scene.

“Wolfsbane…” Sang Jiyue suddenly chuckled, her eyes glancing at the leather quiver at Sang Shuwan’s waist. “I’ve seen it in the Imperial Garden before. It’s just a delicate herbaceous plant. How can it compare to the peony’s elegance and nobility?” There was a hint of provocation in her voice, as if she were testing the other party’s bottom line.

Sang Shuwan felt a dull ache in her old waist wound, a result of being trampled by a horse three years ago while filming "The Beauty in the Flames of War." She suddenly took a half-step forward, closing in on Sang Jiyue, the silver thread embroidery on her costume gleaming coldly under the lamplight: "If the princess had ever seen a real wolfsbane flower, she would know that they grow in the Gobi Desert at altitudes above two thousand meters, their roots penetrating three feet into the ground, and when they bloom, the entire mountainside is ablaze with crimson, like the blood of a warrior who has bled dry." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the other's exquisite makeup, "Unlike some flowers, which can only bloom in greenhouses, their branches breaking at the slightest wind or rain."

"Cut!" Director Zhang finally called for a stop, his voice filled with undisguised surprise. Sang Jiyue's face was a little pale, and her pearl bracelet slipped down to her elbow, revealing a red mark on her wrist bone—when Sang Shuwan approached, she subconsciously stepped back and bumped into the edge of the stone table.

"This part is good, it has tension." Director Zhang stroked his chin. "But Jiyue, you need to be more reserved with your lines. Princess Yunshuang is a general, not a concubine." He turned to look at Sang Shuwan, his eyes filled with both praise and concern. "Shuwan's improvisation was very good, but next time we should stick to the script and try to get it in one take."

During a break, Sang Shuwan sat on a folding chair rubbing her lower back, and Xiao Zhou handed her a warm back support patch. She saw Sang Jiyue hiding in a corner making a phone call, her voice trembling with tears: "Sister Wang, she's deliberately targeting me... Yes, that line from the film 'Wolfsbane Flower,' it's clearly a sarcastic remark about me getting ahead through connections..." Sunlight streamed in through the studio's skylight, gilding the tips of her hair, making her look just like that newcomer crying backstage seven years ago—back then, Sang Shuwan had just won her first Best Supporting Actress award, and the newcomer was crying in the restroom about being scolded by the director for "lacking talent." She kindly comforted her, only to see the other woman say in front of the media half a month later, "Seniors don't mentor newcomers."

During the afternoon's filming of their scene together, Sang Jiyue changed her demeanor. She strictly followed the script, but when handing over the transfer order, she deliberately let her hand tremble, causing it to slip and fall to the ground. Sang Shuwan bent down to pick it up and heard her say in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Sister Shuwan, with your back injury, can you still manage to film action scenes? I heard that last year on the set of 'The Order of Mountains and Rivers,' you had to rely on painkillers to finish filming the wire work scenes."

The moment her fingertips touched the ground, Sang Shuwan suddenly looked up and smiled gently: "Thank you for your concern, Jiyue, but more than my back injury, I'm worried about some young actresses who are willing to abandon their character settings in order to add more scenes—if Princess Yunshuang were really like the one you portrayed, she would probably have been beheaded by the emperor long ago, how could she possibly be a general?"

These words pierced Sang Jiyue's defenses like a fine needle. Her smile froze on her face, and the false eyelashes at the corners of her eyes trembled slightly. In the distance, Sister Wang was waving in their direction, holding a phone with a new trending topic on the screen: #SangShuwanSuppressesNewcomers#. The accompanying picture was of Sang Shuwan approaching her during filming that morning, the angle cleverly chosen to make it look like Sang Shuwan was bullying a junior.

Filming didn't wrap up until 10 PM that day. After removing her makeup, Sang Shuwan massaged her eyes in front of the mirror and noticed her right eyelid was twitching badly. The dressing room door was gently pushed open, and Sang Jiyue entered wearing a bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet. Her makeup was gone, making her look exceptionally innocent: "Sister Shuwan, I'm sorry about today. I just really wanted to play the role well..."

Sang Shuwan looked at the hypoallergenic tape on her wrist and recalled that during the rain scene filmed that afternoon, the other person insisted on using 38-degree warm water, causing the entire crew to wait half an hour for the water to boil. "It's okay, she's a newcomer, she needs to grow." She peeled off her face mask, revealing the faint fine lines underneath. "But next time you revise the script, remember to communicate with the director and screenwriter first. Our production emphasizes 'respecting the original work'."

Sang Jiyue twisted the belt of her bathrobe with her fingertips, then suddenly looked up and asked, "Sister Shuwan, do you think I can become a movie queen like you?" Her tone was filled with innocent admiration, just like a fan meeting her idol.

Sang Shuwan looked at their reflections in the mirror. One had fine lines around her eyes, while the other had skin as smooth as porcelain. She suddenly remembered when she won her first Best Actress award, and asked herself in the mirror backstage, "Do you still remember yourself when you first entered the industry, eating instant noodles and memorizing lines in the basement?" At this moment, looking at the calculation hidden in Sang Jiyue's eyes, she suddenly understood: some paths can never be walked by adding more scenes.

“A Best Actress…” she chuckled, her fingertips tracing the old scar behind her ear. “What’s needed isn’t just charisma in front of the camera, but also backbone behind the scenes.” As she turned, the sash of her bathrobe brushed against Sang Jiyue’s knee. “By the way, I’ve changed that line about the peony you added today— ‘The peony pattern on the general’s armor is just like the beacon fires on the Northwest battlefield.’ This fits the character perfectly and also foreshadows something more.”

Sang Jiyue's pupils contracted slightly as she looked at the script Sang Shuwan handed her. New lines were written in red ink on it, with a note next to it: "Peony symbolizes war in the Northwest, echoing the 'burning of the city' plot later in the story—from the annotation of Chapter 47 of the original work." She suddenly realized that this seemingly gentle senior had already laid a trap in the script, and every overstepping move would be rejected without her noticing.

The dressing room lights suddenly went out, and as the emergency lights came on, Sang Shuwan saw Sang Jiyue's expression shift between the light and shadow. In the distance, the sounds of stagehands finishing work drifted over, and someone hummed a song: "On stage, they act; off stage, they scheme. Who truly gives their heart to the passing years..."

After removing her makeup, Sang Shuwan sat in the van when her phone vibrated. Her agent had sent her a message: "The trending topic has been removed. I'll talk to the investors. Your action scene tomorrow..." She looked at the neon lights flashing past the window and remembered the pearl bracelet on Sang Jiyue's wrist during the day—it was a high-end piece from a jewelry brand. Last week, she had turned down an endorsement deal with the brand because they wanted her to "mentor more newcomers."