After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 204 Guarding
"Look at the camera." Sang Shuwan grabbed the clapperboard and smashed it against the security camera. In the instant the shards flew, the global live broadcast switched to their childhood home video. In the video, the mother held up an 8mm camera, and the two-year-old twins chased the rolling film in the darkroom, their laughter mingling with the "shh" of the film advancing. At that moment, the audience at the screening suddenly realized that the images they had captured on their phones were no longer high-definition digital, but rather a grainy 4:3 aspect ratio, as if forcibly formatted by some ancient magic.

“We are not AI’s puppets.” Sang Jiyue crushed the approaching security robot, gear parts splattering on her ankles, reflecting the silhouette of Madame de Winter from Rebecca. “Neither are we SY-01 and SY-02 in the corporation’s code.” She kicked away the digital trophy, and a miniature camera that popped out of its base was pointed directly at Sang Shuwan’s pupils, but it only captured real fear and madness—human emotional fluctuations that no algorithm could simulate.

As sirens wailed from the banks of the Seine, the Sang sisters, wrapped in film reels torn from the projector, fled backstage. Sang Shuwan, feeling the USB drive in her pocket, suddenly remembered Sang Jiyue's unfinished words. Taking advantage of the chaos, she inserted the USB drive into the spare projector. Instead of data, the screen displayed her mother's wedding photo—the woman in the photo wore the same diamond earrings as Sang Jiyue, and half a reel of film was faintly visible beneath her skirt; the number was their genetic code.

“So she knew all along.” Sang Jiyue threw the burning film into the dome, the firelight illuminating her reddened eyes. “All the deleted truths are hidden in places we can see but cannot understand.” Among the plaster fragments falling from the ceiling, the two of them simultaneously reached out and caught the same piece of debris, which was printed with the address of their grandmother’s darkroom—reconstructed from their birthdates.

On the street, fans surged forward, phones in hand, their lenses no longer displaying the preset celebrity filters. Sang Shuwan, watching the images with their silver halide grains, suddenly recalled the hacker girl's words about "silver halide filters"—not a program implanted in the cloud, but the human retina's instinctive capture of reality. Sang Jiyue ripped off the digital necklace from her neck and crushed it into dust: "Next stop, time to retrieve the film reels my mother hid at the Venice Film Festival."

"What will we use as a pass?" Sang Shuwan shook the clapperboard in her hand, and half a line of dialogue appeared on the charred edge. Sang Jiyue took out half of an emerald brooch from her hair and fitted it perfectly with the other half of Sang Shuwan's collar: "We'll use this—the token of love from 'The Twelve Beauties of Jinling' back then, which is actually the key to unlocking all the film archives."

As they rushed side-by-side into the night, behind them, in the ruins of the screening venue, the wreckage of digital equipment was seeping developing fluid. A spectator picked up a fallen reel of film, which showed the Sang sisters' backs at that moment—unretouched shoulders, uncalculated strides, even the disheveled strands of hair carried a real sense of wind. And further away, in the clouds, the hacker girl was connecting this unedited footage to global signals, ensuring that every screen remembered: true starlight never comes from digital polishing.

Sang Shuwan's fingertips traced the patterns on the emerald brooch, where tiny fragments of film were embedded in the textures. At the Lido Island pier of the Venice Film Festival, the salty sea breeze swirled festival posters across their faces. Sang Jiyue gazed at the digital lighthouse floating in the distance and suddenly chuckled softly: "I remember my mother saying that Venetian gondoliers hide secrets in the wood grain of their oars—our key, perhaps, should be developed by immersing it in the Adriatic Sea."

As they slipped aboard the film festival's VIP ship, Sang Shuwan noticed a crew member's tattoo on the back of his neck—identical to the binary embroidery on the suit of a conglomerate executive. Sang Jiyue dipped a brooch into a champagne glass; the refraction of the seawater and bubbles revealed Morse code at the bottom: "St. Mark's Basilica Citadel, 13th Column." As the ship rocked, Sang Shuwan's hand brushed against Sang Jiyue's waist, touching a hard, rectangular object—a modified film bomb, its fuse being their infancy's genetic chips.

In the shadows of St. Mark's Basilica, Sang Jiyue tapped the 13th column with her brooch. What seeped from the cracks in the stone wasn't dust, but developing solution carrying the scent of the sea. The moment the hidden door opened, Sang Shuwan was choked by a wave of musty smell—the stench of thousands of rolls of film piled up over half a century. Each roll had a number starting with "SY" written in red pen on its outer label; the latest roll was marked "SY-02-2025," and the seal still bore the lipstick mark of Sang Jiyue from that morning.

“They’ve been documenting us all along.” Sang Jiyue tore open the film reel; the footage showed their argument at the dock that morning, even the frequency of Sang Shuwan’s eyelashes trembling was precisely captured. “Every expression, every heartbeat, was converted into data to train the AI.” She suddenly threw the film to the ground, the silver halide particles shattering into starlight under the moonlight. “But they didn’t expect—”

Before the words were even finished, the digital surveillance system on the ceiling of the underground palace suddenly went blue. A hacker girl's electronic voice popped into Sang Shuwan's earpiece: "The conglomerate has initiated the 'erasure program.' You have seven minutes." Sang Jiyue kicked aside the film display case blocking her way, revealing a twin star pattern painted with silver gelatin on the wall. At the center of the pattern was her mother's wedding ring, with their birthdates engraved inside the band. As Sang Shuwan pressed the brooch into the pattern's groove, the ground suddenly cracked open, revealing a secret passage leading directly to the main venue of the film festival.

The red carpet show was underway at the main venue. Digitally projected gondolas floated in mid-air, and the sequins on the celebrities' gowns played a loop of AI-generated "perfect smiles." Sang Shuwan, mingling among the photographers, raised her telephoto lens. Through the viewfinder, Sang Jiyue was climbing the venue's dome, embedding a gene chip into the core of a crystal chandelier. When the lights suddenly turned red, all the celebrities' virtual images simultaneously froze—the chips hidden behind their ears were resonating with the Sang sisters' chips.

"Now, let's see the real Venice." Sang Jiyue's voice boomed through the hall's speakers. The moment the chandelier plummeted, she ripped the data cable connecting the chip, and a string of film reels poured down from the lamp—the original footage of her mother's banned film, *Water Shadows*, twenty years ago. Each frame recorded real waves, real torrential rain, and the terrified expressions of actors choking on water. Sang Shuwan simultaneously pressed the remote control, and the film bombs hidden in the VIP section exploded one after another, spraying not flames, but developing fluid with a fishy smell, drawing huge twin starbursts on the ground.

When the conglomerate's security forces broke through the window, the Sang sisters had already hidden behind the gondola's curtains. Sang Jiyue threw her wedding ring into the canal, and in the ripples created as the ring sank, a holographic projection of her mother appeared on the water: "Every film festival has a 'secret screening section,' hiding the truth that shouldn't be swallowed up by digital technology." She pointed to a misty island in the distance, where an abandoned cinema was emitting a warm yellow light. "In 1951, your grandmother fooled the first data censors here with real film."

As the gondola glided across the Bridge of Sighs, Sang Shuwan pulled out the film her mother had hidden in her brooch—only three frames, yet they caused her pupils to shrink: the first frame was of herself as an infant, the second of Sang Jiyue, and the third… was a third entity that should have existed but had never been recorded. Sang Jiyue followed her gaze and suddenly grasped her hand: “Remember what the hacker girl said about ‘silver halide filters reminding digital of its origins’? Perhaps we’ve missed the most important origin—”

The conversation was interrupted by a burst of gunfire, and Sang Shuwan felt a warmth on her shoulder. Sang Jiyue pulled open her collar, and as she tried to stop the bleeding, she noticed an eerie blue glow around the wound—the bullet contained a digital tracking chip. Suddenly, lights came on in the abandoned cinema in the distance, the projector beam piercing the fog and casting flickering spots of light on their faces. Sang Jiyue shoved a blood-stained film reel into Sang Shuwan's palm: "Go to the cinema and start the projector. I'll distract the pursuers. This time… don't look back."

“What if I find the third roll of film first?” Sang Shuwan grabbed her wrist and noticed that the chip on the back of her neck had been removed at some point, leaving a scar from which silver halide particles were oozing. “What Mother hid wasn’t the story of twins, but triplets.” Sang Jiyue raised an eyebrow, and suddenly three overlapping reflections appeared on the surface of the canal—besides them, there was a girl with a blurred face, holding a 1968 projector crank.

When Sang Shuwan rushed into the abandoned cinema, the old-fashioned projector was running automatically. The screen wasn't displaying a movie, but rather a live surveillance video: Sang Jiyue, surrounded by conglomerates on the Bridge of Sighs, was giving the camera an "OK" sign—the "fake defeat signal" they had agreed upon when they were eight years old. A note fell out of the film canister; her mother's handwriting was blurred by the seawater: "When you see the third light, remember to develop the moonlight with silver halide."

Sang Shuwan looked out the window; the Venetian moon was peeking out from behind the clouds. She took out the USB drive Sang Jiyue had given her and plugged it into the projector. The instant the data stream collided with the moonlight, digital devices throughout the city simultaneously displayed strange images: the gondola's navigation screen displayed a 1951 film map, film festival trophies oozed with developing fluid that spelled out "the truth," and even the seawater was filled with countless unedited real-life clips—an actress crying backstage with her bare face, a director smashing an AI storyboard in a fit of rage, and the third sister, who had never appeared before, giving the camera a mysterious smile in the darkroom.

A blinding flash of light erupted from the direction of the Bridge of Sighs. When Sang Shuwan rushed out, she only saw an emerald brooch floating on the water. Trembling, she picked up the brooch and found half a photograph tucked inside—a mother holding three babies. The girl in the middle had no chip scar on the back of her neck, but instead a complete silver halide tattoo. From afar came the voice of the hacker girl: "They've come, with the true origin."

Under the moonlight, the chip on the back of Sang Shuwan's neck suddenly emitted a soft light, no longer a burning pain, but a resonance of long-awaited reunion. She looked towards the dissipating mist on the sea and saw two gondolas approaching from different directions: one carried the blood-stained Sang Jiyue, and the other carried a girl holding a 1968 film can, engraved with the words "SY-03". The reflections of the three sisters finally overlapped on the water, forming a complete starburst pattern, while the abandoned cinema behind them was projecting the real "secret screening" into the night sky—not a digital projection, but starlight that would never fade, burned from real film.

(The camera zooms in on Sang Shuwan's pupils, and the film scraps on her fingertips suddenly transform into glitter from a powder compact. The studio lights blaze on, and the director's "Cut!" cuts through the recording equipment, interrupting the data stream in the holographic projection.)
"That take is good." The director waved the script and walked towards the monitor. Sang Jiyue immediately switched from being a "crazy actress controlled by a chip" to a sweet smile, took out a diamond-encrusted makeup mirror, and made a heart shape with her hands in front of the camera. The trending topics were already waiting on her assistant's phone: #SangJiyue'sEyeActingStunning# #TwinSistersPraisingEachOtherOnSet#, accompanied by a candid photo of Sang Shuwan adjusting her skirt during the scene rehearsal—no one knew that this scene was added by the director on the spot to suppress the negative press this morning about #SangShuwanStealingScenesAndSplashingCoffee#.

“Wanwan’s gaze is spot on,” Sang Jiyue said in a voice only the two of them could hear, her fingertips digging into the old wound on Sang Shuwan’s waist. “She’s improved a lot since she was playing the victim on the set of ‘Family Feud’ three years ago.” As she turned around, the hem of her custom-made haute couture skirt swept across Sang Shuwan’s feet, revealing the logo of a certain brand of safety shorts lining the skirt—this was a product placement that had just been negotiated that afternoon, but Sang Shuwan’s team had leaked it to a competitor before filming even started.

In the dressing room, Sang Shuwan ripped off the false eyelashes she'd rubbed against while pulling them off. Her reflection in the mirror overlapped and then separated from the mechanical pupils of "SY-02" in the holographic projection. Her phone vibrated at that moment; a screenshot from her agent showed Sang Jiyue's fans editing clips of her "wooden acting," accompanied by the same soundtrack from three years ago when she was criticized as a "digital actress." Meanwhile, her own controversial hashtag, #SangShuwanStuntwomanLiterature#, was climbing at a rate of 20 views per second, and the trending topics were filled with sarcastic comments about "relying on capital to grab resources"—no one remembered the security camera footage of her exhausted workout at the gym last night, which was pushed to her by Sang Jiyue's team.

"Next scene is a kissing scene," Sang Jiyue suddenly whispered in her ear as the clapperboard clapper sounded, "Remember to open your mouth, don't make the director yell 'NG' seven times like last time." On camera, their noses were about to touch, but in the instant her eyelashes fluttered, Sang Shuwan saw—under the concealer on the back of Sang Jiyue's neck, a sticker identical to the "chip scar" in the drama was faintly visible. This was their unspoken secret: all the "digital elements" were just concepts hyped up for the new sci-fi film, but their rivals had bought marketing accounts to write it as a medical analysis of "the Sang sisters' schizophrenia."

During her lunch break, Sang Shuwan saw a video of #SangJiyue'sNewDramaScenes# in her van. In the video, she was running in the rain in a custom-made costume that should have been hers, the curve of her skirt hitting the G-spot of fans' "broken feelings" perfectly. The original script on her phone showed that the character should be kneeling in the mud at this moment—a scene Sang Jiyue had changed the previous night while having dinner with investors. The driver handed her a thermos through the rearview mirror; under the bird's nest porridge inside was a note: "Tonight's celebration dinner; the investors want to discuss casting for 'The Uncrowned'." The handwriting was that of Sang Jiyue's assistant.

At the celebratory champagne tower, Sang Shuwan clinked glasses with Sang Jiyue across the crowd. The enormous diamond ring on the latter's ring finger gleamed dazzlingly—a gift from a jewelry brand to the "world's first AI ambassador," but the press release described it as a "mysterious boyfriend's proposal." They both received a message from their agent: at 10 AM tomorrow, the trending topic #SangSistersFallInTrouble# would go live, accompanied by a photoshopped CCTV screenshot showing "Sang Shuwan tearing up Sang Jiyue's trophy and certificate." The real certificate, however, lay in Sang Shuwan's safe, a corner chipped off the gold-embossed signature—a mistake Sang Jiyue had "accidentally" made with a pen that morning.

As the movie ended, Sang Jiyue's high heels got stuck in a gap in the carpet. Sang Shuwan reached out to steady her, but the moment she grabbed Sang Jiyue's arm, she felt something hard—a miniature recording pen hidden in her sleeve. The two stared at each other in silence in the elevator until the mirror advertisement switched to a trailer for a new movie. Sang Jiyue, playing a "digital girl," grabbed Sang Shuwan, playing a "film artist," by the neck, and the dialogue was the exact same voice Sang Shuwan had used three days earlier in the dressing room to call her a "data monster." As the elevator dinged to the basement, Sang Shuwan heard herself say, "How about I top the trending topics tomorrow?" Sang Jiyue raised an eyebrow and smiled, revealing dimples, the red light of the recording pen flashing in the darkness: "As you wish, my dear sister."

(The camera zooms out, revealing a parking lot security camera recording them walking side-by-side towards their van. Sang Shuwan's fingertips hover lightly over Sang Jiyue's waist, while the latter's hand rests on her phone in her pocket, the chat window displaying "Send the three-year-old behind-the-scenes video to the marketing account." Suddenly, a pop-up appears in the upper right corner of the screen: #SangShuwanSangJiyueElevatorWhisper# Explosive, accompanied by a blurry silhouette, yet enough to evoke countless interpretations of past grievances and grudges among fans.)
At 3 a.m. after the celebration banquet, Sang Shuwan's agent burst into her room and threw in a stack of printed papers: "Sang Jiyue's team preemptively cut out a three-year-old behind-the-scenes video of 'The Rich Family Feud' and turned it into a distorted version." In the video, Sang Shuwan, who was a stunt double, is scolded by the director for being "like a block of wood," while the accompanying audio is replaced with Sang Jiyue's acceptance speech. The trending topic #SangShuwanActingBlackHistory# has reached number one, and the comments section is filled with "a pretty face who makes a living off her looks" and "resource-backed actress, get out of the entertainment industry."

She stared at her trembling fingertips in the video, suddenly remembering the hand warmer Sang Jiyue had handed her that day—it had "Go for it!" printed on the surface, but inside was a powder that could cause skin allergies. The scar on her right shoulder glowed faintly red under the desk lamp; it was a real burn she had sustained while filming a fire scene for Sang Jiyue, but in the press releases it had been presented as evidence of "the dedicated leading lady personally instructing her stunt double." Her phone vibrated; Sang Jiyue had sent a message: "Need me to help you hire online trolls to clear your name, sister~" It included a tear-wiping emoji.

At the gym at five o'clock, Sang Shuwan received a call from the casting director while on the treadmill: "The investors for 'The Uncrowned' specifically want Jiyue, but..." the other person lowered their voice, "...if you're willing to take tonight's private event, I can help you get an audition." She turned off the treadmill, her reflection blurred by sweat, overlapping with herself three years ago, working odd jobs at Sang Jiyue's studio. Back then, she helped the former organize high heels every day, discovering that every pair of custom-made shoes contained hidden platform shoes—now those photos were lying on her encrypted hard drive.

At 10 a.m., Sang Shuwan walked onto the set right on time, riding the wave of a trending topic. Sang Jiyue was touching up her makeup when the makeup artist deliberately flicked a concealer brush onto her skirt: "Wow, this is haute couture, can Sister Wanwan afford to pay for it?" She smiled and pulled out a wet wipe: "How about letting Sister Jiyue teach me how to take care of my skin? After all, she managed to maintain the 'AI boyfriend' persona for three years." The surroundings suddenly fell silent, and Sang Jiyue's powder compact fell to the ground with a "thud," shattering into diamond shapes identical to the trending topic—the "broken feeling" marketing keyword her team had just purchased.

During lunch break, Sang Shuwan's assistant rushed over, phone in hand: "Look! Sang Jiyue posted a photo with an investor!" The nine-grid photo showed the investor wearing the Chanel suit Sang Shuwan had tried on the day before, his arm around a real estate tycoon's shoulder, captioned "Grateful to have met a reliable senior." The top two comments were "Sister has finally met the right person," and "Sang Shuwan would want to punch someone after seeing this"—this inflammatory comment came from Sang Jiyue's biggest fan, with an IP address indicating the film set was nearby.

The afternoon's scene was a dramatic breakup, and the director required Sang Jiyue to slap Sang Shuwan. After the "slap," Sang Shuwan's face turned to one side, but when the camera cut to a wide shot, it was revealed that Sang Jiyue had a pain-relieving patch on the inside of her wrist. Three years ago, during a real fight scene, her opponent used all his strength, causing her to suffer from tinnitus for three months. Now, however, she was rubbing her hand in front of the camera, pretending to be serious. The trending topic #SangJiyue'sActionSceneExplosiveness# went live on time, accompanied by a picture of her half-profile with tears in her eyes, while Sang Shuwan's real-time comments were all "Her face didn't even turn, it must be fake."

After finishing work, Sang Shuwan received a message from her hacker friend in the van: "I found what you wanted." In the video that was sent, Sang Jiyue pleaded with the camera, "Don't worry, Mr. Wang, I can expose Sang Shuwan's dirty secrets anytime." On the background wall hung their mother's portrait, the glass of the frame reflecting the date—the anniversary of her mother's death. She gripped her phone tightly, her nails digging into her palms, and suddenly remembered the anonymous package she had received that morning: inside was her mother's diary, one page of which read "Jiyue's asthma medication needs to be changed," but someone had used correction fluid to alter it to "Wanwan stole Jiyue's life."

At a late-night business dinner, Sang Jiyue, dressed in a deep V-neck gown, sat next to an investor. The pearl earrings on her earlobes dazzled the eye—they were a birthday gift Sang Shuwan had prepared for her mother, but the investor had "borrowed" them when she turned eighteen and never returned them. The investor picked up a piece of foie gras and held it to her lips: "Wanwan is so thin, she needs to eat more to nourish herself." She smiled and opened her mouth, but as she bit down, she pressed the sharp edge of the earring against her tongue—she had secretly sharpened it that morning, just for this moment.

"Excuse me, I'm going to the restroom." As Sang Shuwan stood up, she "accidentally" knocked over a glass of red wine. The dark red liquid dripped down Sang Jiyue's dress. Amidst gasps from the crowd, she leaned close to Sang Jiyue's ear: "Do you know why your asthma medication always fails?" Looking at her suddenly widened eyes, she gently pulled off her earring. "Because I added an ingredient that causes pearl powder allergies—just like you drugged my hand warmer back then." Returning to her seat, she opened her phone. The trending topic #SangSistersDrinkingPartyFight# was already trending. The accompanying picture showed Sang Jiyue looking disheveled, but no one saw her hand hidden under the table typing: "Send the altered medical records of your mother to the entertainment reporters, saying that Sang Jiyue cursed her family to grab resources." As she pressed send, Sang Jiyue's message popped up: "Tomorrow's headlines will be the video of you being yelled at by the director on set and crying~"

(The camera pans across the overlapping WeChat chat windows of the two, with the background sound of trending topics notifications. Sang Shuwan touches up her lipstick in front of the mirror, and her reflection overlaps with a leaked photo of Sang Jiyue. The two lip movements are synchronized as they say their lines: "This scene has only just begun.")
Sang Shuwan stared at the constantly flashing message notifications on her phone screen, a cold smile playing on her lips. She elegantly sipped her red wine, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she packaged and sent a meticulously prepared document to the media outlets she had contacted beforehand. Inside were pieces of evidence detailing Sang Jiyue's tax evasion over the years, every single detail meticulously recorded.

Meanwhile, Sang Jiyue wasn't idle either. She hid in the bathroom, touching up her makeup in front of the mirror, her eyes filled with a sinister glint. She dialed a mysterious number: "Release the false news that Sang Shuwan was sexually harassed when she was eighteen. Remember to find a few influential marketing accounts and hire some online trolls to stir up trouble." Hanging up, she gave a smug smile to herself in the mirror, as if she could already see Sang Shuwan's disgrace.

The next morning, the entire entertainment industry was in an uproar. The hashtags #SangShuwanTaxEvasion# and #SangShuwanUnspokenRulesScandal# simultaneously topped the trending searches, with the comments section filled with condemnation. Meanwhile, Sang Jiyue opportunely posted a cryptic message on social media: "Some mistakes will ultimately come at a price." The accompanying photo was of her praying in church, her expression one of profound compassion, successfully garnering a large number of comforting and supportive fans.

Sang Shuwan remained unusually calm despite the overwhelming negative news. She knew this was Sang Jiyue's retaliation, but she was prepared. She had her assistant contact staff members who had been bullied by Sang Jiyue years ago, urging them to come forward and expose Sang Jiyue's various misdeeds on set. Soon, the hashtag #SangJiyueSetBullying# began to gain traction online.

Fans of both sides engaged in a fierce online war of words, with various scandals and accusations constantly being exposed, drawing increasing attention to this dramatic feud between the two women. Just as the public opinion battle reached its climax, Sang Shuwan received an anonymous package. Inside was a paternity test report, revealing that she and Sang Jiyue were not related by blood!
Sang Shuwan's hand trembled slightly as she held the report, her mind flashing back to all the memories she had shared with Sang Jiyue over the years. She suddenly realized that she had been living a colossal lie. She decided it was time to uncover the truth.

She held a press conference, where she presented a paternity test report, her mother's original diary, and all the evidence that Sang Jiyue had used to frame her over the years to the media and fans. The moment the truth was revealed, public opinion reversed, and netizens began to condemn Sang Jiyue.

Faced with this sudden turn of events, Sang Jiyue was completely panicked. She tried to refute the claims, but couldn't produce any solid evidence. Her image plummeted, her endorsements were canceled, and she lost a large number of fans; her former glory vanished in an instant.

In this thrilling contest, Sang Shuwan finally triumphed over Sang Jiyue. But when everything settled down, she felt no joy as she had imagined. Standing before her mother's grave, she whispered, "Mom, I finally know the truth, and I've gotten justice for myself. But why does my heart feel so empty..."

A gentle breeze carried a slight chill. Sang Shuwan turned and left, knowing that her life had only just begun. And the stories of the entertainment industry continued to unfold…

Five days after the press conference, Sang Shuwan received psychological counseling arranged by her agent. On the sand tray in front of the therapist, she silently arranged broken dolls in a confrontational pose when she suddenly received a call from an unknown number. A hoarse male voice came from the other end: "Want evidence that Sang Jiyue forged the will? Tomorrow night at 10 PM, abandoned factory in the western suburbs."

That evening, Sang Shuwan drove there alone. Moonlight streamed through the rusty iron windows, illuminating a figure huddled in the corner—it was Sang Jiyue's former assistant. Covered in wounds, the man trembled as he handed over a USB drive: "She told me to destroy these, but I can't bear the torment of my conscience..." Before he could finish speaking, a screeching sound of brakes suddenly rang out outside the factory.

Sang Shuwan dragged her assistant into the pipe and saw Sang Jiyue burst in with several burly men in black through the gap. "Where's the stuff?" Sang Jiyue's voice was as cold as ice, her high heels slamming heavily on the ground. "The orphanage director was just that disobedient back then, and he ended up in a car accident..." Her words were swallowed by an explosion—the gasoline drums next to the pipe had caught fire at some point.

Amidst the thick smoke, Sang Shuwan felt the pearl earring in her pocket. The earring, which had once served as a "weapon," now reflected an eerie light in the firelight. She recalled the unedited second half of her mother's diary: "Jiyue's asthma was feigned, but her allergy to pearl powder was real."

The fire raged fiercely, and Sang Jiyue suddenly coughed violently, her face flushed as she tore open her collar. Almost instinctively, Sang Shuwan rushed out and splashed mineral water on her face. Amidst the astonished gazes of the crowd, Sang Jiyue collapsed to the ground, looking at her rescuer, a vulnerable expression appearing on her face for the first time: "Why…"

“Because this is what Mom wants.” Sang Shuwan held up the USB drive. “We’ve been trapped by lies for too long.” The sound of sirens grew louder as she reached out and pulled Sang Jiyue up. “This time, it’s time to face the truth together.”

Three months later, Sang Shuwan won Best Actress for her role in the art film "Cocoon." On the awards stage, her gaze passed over the flashing lights and landed on Sang Jiyue, who was wearing a mask in the audience. The other woman nodded slightly, turned, and disappeared into the crowd. Backstage, Sang Shuwan received an anonymous text message: "I found real orphanage records in Switzerland. Perhaps we should meet—Mom."

Outside the window, a light drizzle blurred the view. Sang Shuwan gazed at the traffic weaving through the rain and gently pressed the delete button. On her phone screen, her chat history with Sang Jiyue crumbled into fragments, like the noisy trending topics in the entertainment industry, destined to be replaced by new stories. Their life's script, however, had only just begun to unfold.

Sang Shuwan clutched her scalding phone, her nails digging crescent-shaped marks into her palm. The news from Switzerland was like a bombshell, disrupting her life, which she thought had finally settled. Her agent poked her into the dressing room holding a new script: "The director of 'Double Life' specifically wants you. It's about the love-hate relationship between twin sisters..." Before she could finish, she shook her head and refused.

Late at night, Sang Shuwan opened her encrypted email account. Attached to the anonymous email were several yellowed photos. Two infants lay side-by-side in a small bed in the orphanage, with the words "March 15, 1998, Wanwan and Jiji" written in pen on the back. An attached audio file contained an aged voice: "After the orphanage director adopted you, he died in an accident. His will was altered. The Sang family took Jiji, and Wanwan..."

Meanwhile, Sang Jiyue was undergoing a psychological evaluation in the detention center. When the psychologist showed her childhood photos, she suddenly lost control and smashed a water glass on the table. The sharp shards of glass cut her wrist, but they reminded her of Sang Shuwan's outstretched hand in the fire—that hand with old burn scars, which now felt warmer than ever before in her memory.

Seven days later, Sang Shuwan appeared at a private clinic in Switzerland. A middle-aged woman wearing sunglasses removed her mask, revealing a beauty mark at the corner of her eye that was identical to Sang Shuwan's. "I am Lin Qiu, the nurse you were forced to send away back then." The woman trembled as she unfolded the medical record. "Jiji was born with severe asthma. The Sang family, in order to cultivate a perfect heir, controlled her condition with medication and even forged her health certificates..."

The truth came flooding back, and Sang Shuwan's thoughts drifted back to the night of the awards ceremony. It turned out that when Sang Jiyue turned away, what lay beneath her mask wasn't just embarrassment, but also relief. She took out her phone, compiled the evidence from Switzerland into a document, but stopped before pressing send—this time, she didn't want to use harm as a weapon.

The entertainment industry remains bustling, with new trending topics constantly being updated. Sang Shuwan took on a public service documentary, focusing on young people struggling in the stunt work industry. During a break in filming, she received a letter from Sang Jiyue, the edge of which bore the hospital's logo: "I'm studying pediatric asthma care, and the children here always remind me of my childhood."

One late autumn evening, Sang Shuwan bumped into her former casting director at a charity gala. He awkwardly avoided her gaze, but she smiled and handed him her business card: "I'm currently preparing a new talent training program; perhaps we can collaborate." As she turned away, she saw her own reflection in the glass wall, finally no longer overlapping with anyone else's.

Her phone vibrated; a message from a Swiss number read, "There's a girl at the children's asthma charity gala next week who wants to meet you." The accompanying picture showed a little girl with a ponytail holding an asthma inhaler, her features vaguely resembling Sang Jiyue's. Sang Shuwan looked out at the neon lights and typed in the reply box, "I brought hand warmers; this time it's for real."

On the day of the charity gala, Sang Shuwan arrived at the venue two hours early. Backstage, in front of the makeup mirror, she carefully adjusted the position of her brooch—a small pearl butterfly, its sharp edges specially polished. She heard soft footsteps at the end of the corridor, turned around, and was met with Sang Jiyue pushing a wheelchair.

The little girl in the wheelchair had eyes as bright as stars, and a handmade medal hung on her chest with the words "Brave Little Warrior" written crookedly. "Sister Wanwan!" The girl opened her arms, and Sang Shuwan squatted down to hug her. She smelled the faint scent of disinfectant in her hair, which overlapped with the scent of her mother in her memory.

Sang Jiyue lowered her eyes and wiped her glasses, her gaze darting away behind the lenses: "She listens to the bedtime stories you record for children with asthma every day." Before she finished speaking, the little girl suddenly pointed to Sang Shuwan's brooch: "It looks just like Sister Jiji's necklace!" Only then did everyone realize that Sang Jiyue was wearing the same style of silver chain around her neck, except that the butterfly wings were inlaid with ordinary glass.

During the donation segment of the gala, the big screen suddenly switched to a special image. Countless smiling young faces appeared in front of the camera, holding cards filled with blessings: "Thank you, Sister Sang, for teaching us breathing exercises," "When I grow up, I want to be an actress too." Sang Shuwan's vision gradually blurred, and Sang Jiyue beside her quietly pressed her phone to share the video to her long-dormant social media account.

As the event ended, Sang Shuwan stopped Sang Jiyue, who was about to leave in a hurry. The night wind rustled their clothes, and she took a velvet box out of her bag: "The restorer said that pearls can be reshaped." Opening the box, two earrings lay quietly inside, the originally sharp pearls polished into rounded curves, gleaming softly in the moonlight.

Sang Jiyue's fingertips trembled slightly, but she finally reached out and took it: "Actually, that day at the fire scene, I had it in my pocket." She paused for a moment, then pulled out a yellowed slip of paper from the lining of her wallet. It was a birthday card that Sang Shuwan had written to her when she was a child, the edges of which had been repeatedly rubbed until they were frayed.

In the distance, a little girl wheeled herself happily towards them, interrupting their conversation. Sang Shuwan naturally took Sang Jiyue's hand and walked towards the child; the three shadows intertwined under the streetlights, forming a warm shape. In the direction of the parking lot, paparazzi with telephoto lenses were about to take photos, but after seeing the scene clearly, they silently lowered their cameras—this peaceful scene, far less sensational than their past grievances, unexpectedly made one reluctant to disturb it.

Three months later, entertainment headlines were flooded with news of the stunning debut of a new actor. Attentive netizens noticed that the end credits of a niche art film featured both "Sang Shuwan" and "Sang Jiyue" in the "Special Thanks" section. Meanwhile, on a parenting forum, a pinned post remained consistently popular, with the poster, "Twin Guardians," sharing daily knowledge about caring for children with asthma, occasionally posting pictures of two coffee cups side-by-side, their rims marked with different shades of lipstick.

On an ordinary afternoon, Sang Shuwan was demonstrating emotional transitions in a training class for new actors when her phone suddenly vibrated. It was a video sent by Sang Jiyue: in the activity room of a children's rehabilitation center, a dozen children surrounded her, performing a skit while wearing homemade butterfly masks. The camera panned to a corner where a row of handmade breathing exercise cards hung, the most eye-catching one depicting two little figures holding hands, with the words "Sister Wanwan and Sister Jiji" written crookedly.

That evening, Sang Shuwan arrived at the rehabilitation center with her newly developed portable asthma monitor. Pushing open the door to the activity room, she saw Sang Jiyue squatting on the floor, patiently helping a crying little boy put on a cartoon asthma mask. Under the warm yellow light, her loose hair was studded with confetti, and her tone was gentler than she remembered: "Just like a superhero wearing a suit of armor, once you put it on, you can defeat the coughing monster!"