The start date sat three days ahead, like a red knot tied on the calendar.

But Nana Toki didn’t ride with the crew; she slipped into Shuyao Qin’s company car, like a cat curling into a sunbeam.

It was a coincidence traced like fate’s ink; Nana had told Shuyao that if she got bored at home, she could use the card and go seek sponsorship, and the road pulled her right to the same shooting base, like a river bending to an old bridge.

This time, Shuyao was heading to that set for business, hunting sponsors, like a falcon circling for prey.

Nana knew her little fool’s thoughts, like reading wind in bamboo; she didn’t call it out, just went along, like a willow yielding to rain.

On the way to the film base, Nana made a call and had the hotel change her standard single to a single king, like replacing a reed mat with a red brocade.

The meaning shimmered like lantern light—no need to spell it out—and the flush on President Qin’s face bloomed like pomegranate juice.

By the time Nana and Shuyao reached the crew’s hotel, the sun was pinned at noon, like a coin on silk.

Sister Zhou, who’d come with the crew, had already eaten and stood by the doors like a standing pine; she spotted Nana hauling a suitcase and rushed over, tugging her ear and roaring like summer thunder: “Qiao Wan! Do you know how late you are? And why didn’t you come with the crew today?”

“Hey, hey… Sister Zhou, easy,” Nana soothed, her tone like warm tea. “I didn’t want to trouble you along the road. I caught a ride with my little lover, like a fish following a boat.”

She tried to swing Zhou’s attention toward Shuyao, like turning a mirror to catch light.

As expected, at the word “kept lover,” Sister Zhou’s gaze snapped to Shuyao, sharp as a hawk: “So you’re the one Qiao Wan’s keeping?”

She squinted, like searching a foggy harbor; this woman felt familiar, like a face glimpsed in passing. “Not bad,” she said, like tasting a ripe pear. “Prettier than the girls in our agency.”

It was Shuyao’s first time being introduced as someone’s kept lover, and her blush rose like a peach at dawn; her mature charm flowed like incense smoke.

“You’ve got an eye,” Zhou circled Shuyao like a curator around a jade bowl. “What’s your name? How about working at our agency?”

She truly felt the woman’s aura steady like mountain shade; with training, she could blaze like a comet on the night road.

But Nana had no plans to put Shuyao to work; her heart wanted to spoil her like guarding spring blossoms. Her dream was simple: she’d earn, and Shuyao would be beautiful at home, like a lotus in a courtyard pond.

She had plenty of ways to make money, like nets on every tide; however Shuyao could live soft and easy, she’d make it so, like smoothing silk.

“Sister Zhou, she runs her own company, a boss in heels,” Nana said, voice light as a reed. “Does she need to be a star to make money?”

She didn’t mention the Qin Group by name, like hiding a seal under sleeves; she simply made it clear Shuyao wasn’t a pretty vase.

“Fine,” Zhou sighed, the sound like a wind through chimes. “If your company ever folds, come audition at my agency. I’ll be waiting.”

She said it with a trace of regret, like rain on old tiles; she hadn’t expected her artist’s lover to be a company president.

Nana blinked, her mood like a cat with ruffled fur: Sister Zhou, are you jinxing my baby or what? Who curses a company to collapse face-to-face, like throwing salt in a well?

Shuyao didn’t mind; she smiled like moonlight, accepted the business card, and nodded, saying that if that day ever came, she’d visit, like a traveler keeping a promise at an inn.

They chatted a while under the awning, words drifting like dragonflies; then Zhou, afraid of delaying the afternoon’s start, shooed them upstairs, like a teacher with a bell.

“Here, your king-bed keycard,” she said, handing it over like passing a fan. “I wondered why you switched rooms—turns out your lover’s here on a trip. You never miss a chance to show affection at work, Qiao Wan; I’ll dock twenty percent off your bonus this time, like trimming a hedge.”

Her expression curdled with melodramatic grievance, like drama masks: “Also, a reminder. The hotel’s soundproofing’s decent, but don’t stay ‘busy’ too long at night. Overindulgence hurts tomorrow’s efficiency, like fog dulling blades.”

“……” Nana’s silence sat like a stone in a brook.

Sister Zhou’s words hit the mark like an arrow, right at the bed’s red signal.

But right now, Nana wasn’t planning that step; her feeling rose first like dusk—hesitation, warmth, and a hush—then thought followed like slow bells. She’d lived across many planes, her wife reborn each time with a new body, so that gap felt smaller, like bridges built over streams; still, the last step of intimacy stood like a ford she couldn’t cross.

Mm…

The System chimed like a temple bell: The revolution hasn’t yet succeeded; the host must keep striving!

They tidied the room together, folding clothes like cranes; then Shuyao left for sponsorship talks, heels clicking like rain on stone.

Before she went, Nana handed her a thick stack of yellow Talismans, gold as autumn leaves, and told her to stuff every pocket, like a soldier lining his coat.

This was a mundane urban plane without superpowers, like a city under clear skies, but it was better to prepare, like carrying an umbrella in spring.

Her wife was too stunning, like a fox in frost; she couldn’t let anyone take advantage, like thieves near a shrine.

After sending Shuyao off, Nana busied herself alone, hands moving like sparrows; near call time, she left the room and drifted to set, like a cloud over tiles.

The set was already rolling, cameras blinking like fireflies; Nana edged forward and saw, in the crowd’s center, the leading lady in white ancient robes sparring in a scene with a white-robed handsome man, like snow meeting snow.

The man was Chen Ke—his acting not top tier, like tea a shade weak—but that handsome face gave him heat in the circle, like coals under ash. His flaw was simple: too flirtatious, like bees at a peony.

Chen Ke’s character was a roguish playboy, a smile with grit, like a street-lamp at midnight; rumor swirled around him with starlets until he met the leading lady, then he slowly reined in, joining her grand reverse harem of pretty boys, like swans thronging a lake.

Nana wasn’t into that type, her interest flat as calm water; still, she rarely saw the leading lady, so curiosity pricked like a thorn, and she looked twice.

This plane’s female lead wasn’t as striking as those Nana had met before; more ordinary, like a leaf among many. If beauty were ten points, she’d be a six-point-five, with that half-point owed to makeup, like lacquer polishing wood.

Nana watched a bit and started yawning, a sleepy cat in shade; she didn’t care for steamy friction, like damp air clinging to linen.

Thankfully, it didn’t drag on; aside from the leading lady’s initial fangirl slip and one NG, the scene wrapped smoothly, like tying off a ribbon.

After Chi Mu and Chen Ke finished their scene, Director Zhang found Nana and outlined her next setup, his words neat as chalk lines, asking her to brew the emotion first, like steeping tea before the pour.

Nana’s role was He Yuhuan, a world-wrecking demoness, domineering and violent, eyes above all like knives, swaggering like thunder—your classic vicious support role, but in a cultivation tale.

Nana played it like breathing, a wolf wearing silk; one take, done, clean as a blade. The onlookers froze, even Sister Zhou, who’d arrived late, stunned like birds before a hawk.

“Did Qiao Wan step out of Chen Yu Ru Shuang?” someone whispered, awe rising like mist. She’d always seemed cute and well-behaved, like a lamb in spring; today, when her aura burst, she felt like a different person, a storm behind a fan.

The set fell silent, like a winter pond; Nana walked off the mark and stared at the wide-eyed crowd, her expression mildly puzzled, like a fox tipping its head. “What’re you staring at? Do I have flowers on my face?”

“……” The showboating landed like a coin tossed and caught.

Most actors here were first- or second-tier, so the flow ran quick like a clear stream; aside from occasional NGs, they wrapped a decent chunk in one afternoon, like stacking bricks into a low wall.

“Good work, Qiao Wan,” Director Zhang said, joy warm as sunlight. “We’ll lean on you again tomorrow.”

He looked at the day’s take and felt his heart open like a peony; with this one-line star switching roles so cleanly, if the next few days stayed smooth, they might even finish early, like fishermen pulling in nets ahead of storm.

Reality proved him too hopeful, like kites when the wind drops.

Nana flew in solo scenes, swift as a swallow; but when she faced Chi Mu or Chen Ke, small setups kept breaking, NGs piling like fallen leaves.

And those NGs weren’t Nana’s; they were Chi Mu’s and Chen Ke’s, stumbling like foals before a tiger.

Nana’s presence hit too hard, like a drum in a temple; they felt they weren’t facing an actor but a true demoness who looked on all beings as ants, like a falcon surveying fields.

“Chi Mu!” Director Zhang barked through the speaker, his voice a cracked bell. “I’ve said it how many times? He Yuhuan is your sworn enemy. Show disgust, hatred, rage—don’t act like a chick caught by an eagle!”

At last, after another slip from the leading lady, his patience thinned like paper in rain; this ten-second bit had nearly twenty retakes, and while Nana enjoyed the craft, the crew suffered, shoulders drooping like wet robes.

The whole afternoon rang with Director Zhang’s megaphone, roaring like summer storms across the set.