Then the thing nobody saw coming hit like a thunderclap—Nana Toki, Sister Zhou, everyone, all caught flat‑footed.

Nana Toki blew up—no, to be precise, He Yuhuan blew up, the character she played catching like wildfire off a single sideways glance and a razor‑sharp silhouette on screen.

By nightfall, her He Yuhuan nearly smashed the premiere numbers of Chen Yu Ru Shuang, the graph spiking like a comet over dark seas.

“Who played He Yuhuan? She’s insanely badass!”

“No joke, she’s perfect. I read the novel—this is the He Yuhuan in my head, walking out of the page like smoke and steel.”

“If the villain’s pretty, morals trail behind the cheekbones—forget those so‑called righteous sects, I’m team Demonic Sect all the way!”

“Ten‑year He Yuhuan fan reporting in, flags flying.”

“Above, you call yourself a fan? Come on, you just want her body—you’re shameless.”

“Pah, that’s true love, like a candle burning low.”

“...”

“Uh...” Sister Zhou stared at the comment section, her eyes round like bronze bells catching torchlight.

This was nowhere near what she’d pictured; the script in her head said a vicious antagonist should get pelted like a stray dog in a market, not carried on shoulders like a festival idol.

“Qiao Wan, did you already hire a water army to mop for yourself?” Sister Zhou, phone in hand, blinked foggily at Nana Toki, who was also scrolling, thumbs moving like minnows.

Annoyance rose first like heat off a griddle; am I crazy? Why would I burn cash to buy myself fake praise when I don’t even have change for bus fare?

“Sis Zhou, we’re playing the evil second female lead, sure, but she’s a well‑built antagonist. People liking her is normal.” Nana Toki killed the comments on her screen, lifted her eyes like shutters sliding open. “Not everyone hates villains.”

“But isn’t He Yuhuan a female demon who butchers the living and treats human life like straw? People like that too?” Sister Zhou hadn’t read the script, only knew Nana took something “unlikable,” like a thorny rose.

Nana thought a beat, feelings settling like silt, then she laid it out, calm as mist. “He Yuhuan does plunge the world into misery, that’s in the text. But she’s not a lunatic who kills for the breeze. In the story, her rise to Demonic Sect leader is tangled with those ‘righteous’ clans. Plus, an extra in the original says that before she took the helm, she was a wandering swordswoman, wind on her boots.”

“You even read the original?” Sister Zhou squinted, like sunlight off water. “Since when did you get this diligent?”

“No choice—times are harsh. If I don’t make money, how am I supposed to keep my little sweetheart fed?” Nana sighed, a touch of mock‑ancient weariness, like autumn wind through thin curtains.

Sister Zhou: “...” Harsh times, my foot—only Qiao Wan could say that with a straight face, like tossing pebbles into a pond.

“But you haven’t acted the later arcs yet. How do they know so much?” Sister Zhou’s doubt hung like a low cloud.

“Probably spoiler folks from the novel, spreading gospel like dandelion fluff,” Nana said, voice light, eyes dry.

Sister Zhou was speechless, like a kite with its string snapped.

“Welp, looks like I’ll be busy for a stretch,” Nana said, rising with a spring breeze in her knees, heading to pour water as if drawing from a cool well.

Sister Zhou trailed after, curiosity tugging like a sleeve. “Qiao Wan, what do you mean, busy for a while?”

“Busy shooting, of course.” Nana lifted the cup, steam like white silk. “What else? Hole up at home and mash buttons?”

“...”

“But we don’t have any good scripts left. What’s on the table is all trash—how are we getting busy?” Sister Zhou’s mind lagged like a rusty hinge. “Did you take a job behind my back?”

Nana Toki: “...” Has my agent not worked for a few days and dropped her IQ in the sink? She looks a bit dazed, like a goose in fog.

Bzzz—bzzz—

Before Nana could explain, Sister Zhou’s phone buzzed first, a wasp in a glass.

“See? The show’s knocking already.” Nana’s smile curled like a fox’s tail.

“Since when do good offers show up this fast?” Sister Zhou muttered, wary as a cat, but she still stepped aside to pick up, voice snapping to bright like a switch.

While the call flowed like a quick stream, Nana used the gap to text Shuyao Qin, inviting her out for dinner tonight, heart tapping like rain on bamboo.

She’d been nesting at home for too long; the romance grind couldn’t be allowed to lag like a loading bar.

She and Shuyao picked a restaurant, messages scrolling like lanterns in a night lane. Sister Zhou came back mid‑chat, excitement sizzling off her like oil in a hot pan. She grabbed Nana’s hand. “Qiao Wan, we’ve got a role!”

“Yeah, yeah, stop ringing the temple bell. The neighborhood can hear.” Nana wanted to finish her text, so she shook free, her tone cool as iced tea. “Sis Zhou, you’re a first‑tier agent—show some spine.”

She’d known people would come knocking. Her acting and today’s numbers sat on the table like a bright blade—anyone with eyes could see. Even Director Zhang, from their last project, had messaged her to audition for another film.

Nana turned them all down, the refusals neat as folded paper. Not because they weren’t leads, but because they weren’t her kind of lead; her throat refused the words. Sister Zhou almost passed out from the sheer audacity.

“Qiao Wan, Miss Qiao, Master Qiao, Ancestor Qiao—what pill did you swallow wrong? A basket of hits and you tossed every peach—these are the year’s hot shows!”

“I know. I just can’t play them.” Nana cracked sunflower seeds with idle teeth, thumb flicking her phone, mind drifting like a leaf. “Sis Zhou, look at me. Do I look like I can do those campus idol dramas? Or the palace harem ‘cute airhead’ who giggles and trips?”

Just picturing herself acting coy made her skin crawl like ants; she’d rather die clean under a cold moon.

“What do you want to play then? There isn’t a second He Yuhuan lying around in this whole industry.” Sister Zhou snatched the half‑handful of seeds and started cracking them herself, like a squirrel in winter. “You can’t write a show and shoot it yourself.”

“Actually, I could.” Nana calmly fished another pocketful of seeds, the shells clicking like tiny bones. “I’ve never written one, but I could try. Beats rotting.”

“...” Please, boss, I was joking—don’t carve it into stone.

In the end, Sister Zhou moved heaven and earth and landed a film script. The production name didn’t ring a bell, but she swore it was a heavy hitter, shadow big as a mountain.

Nana read it early. It pulled like a riptide. A gangster story, rare as winter plum—a single female lead.

The arc: a woman fresh out of prison steps back into daylight, tries to pick up the old trade. From local protection fees to arms smuggling, to murder—each step a darker rung on a ladder to the abyss—until the underworld road eats itself and ends in ruin.

“How about this one?” Sister Zhou walked her through front to back, twice, like circling a bonfire, then asked, eyes bright. “If you’re in, I’ll contact them now—so we can lock an audition and roll cameras.”

“Um... I don’t know.” Nana closed the script, doubt pooling like cool water in her gaze. “These people are too bad. I’m afraid I can’t pull it off.” She’d never been that rotten, not even in daydreams.

“Bad, my ass. Dial it back a notch and you’ll still scorch.” Sister Zhou rolled her eyes, as white as a gull’s wings. “In Chen Yu Ru Shuang, when you wiped a sect off the map, did you feel ‘not bad’ then? Did you ever see that psychologist I recommended?”

She spooked herself sometimes; her artist had that faint off‑beat hum, like a wire singing in the wind—maybe a touch of antisocial, still quiet, still sleeping.

She’d better bring the doctor to the office one day, like incense in a warded room.

In the end, Nana signed with the film crew—well, Sister Zhou practically put pen in her hand and guided it like a kite in steady wind.

They set the shoot for half a month out. With time to spare, Sister Zhou gave Nana no other tasks—just told her to rest, let the body lie like a bow unstrung, so it could snap true when the cameras rolled.

With a vacation spread like sunlight, Nana had no complaints. On the way home she swung by the library, checked out a few books, calling it “cultivating the spirit” like watering a potted pine.

She opened the door, set the books down, and walked into a splash of color—Shuyao Qin, dressed like a jeweled swan, was trying on outfits before the mirror, while the sofa and coffee table were strewn with discarded clothes like fallen petals.

“...” What on earth is she doing, tossing silks everywhere like a breeze riffling laundry lines?

“Q—Qiao Wan! You’re back?” Shuyao, holding a pale‑blue dress she’d just lifted from the floor, caught Nana’s reflection in the mirror as if a star appeared in a still pond. “Didn’t you say you’d be home later? Why so early?”

Maybe it was the light makeup, but her cheeks held a soft blush, like peach skin, and the burgundy dress sculpted her figure—hips high and round as a crescent, chest lifted like twin hills—stealing the eyes like a sunrise.

“Sis Zhou handled my stuff, so I wrapped early.” Nana tucked the books into a reasonably neat corner, then took in the living room’s little battlefield and its general. She blinked for several beats, like a shutter catching light. “So... what’s going on? Weren’t we eating out? Why’s the floor a wardrobe?”

Shuyao Qin: “Uh...”