“The crew of Gangland Legend—Li Yu—and you should be Miss Qiao Wan, the one we signed,” he said, his words dropping like a pebble into still water.

A chill of surprise rippled first, then thought caught up like dawn over a ridge—Gangland Legend was exactly the title Sister Zhou had lined up for today.

“But if there’s already a contract, why ask me to help you shoot a film?” Suspicion rose first like mist, then her voice cut like a clean blade.

“Planning to extend the contract?” the doubt perched like a sparrow on a branch, light but unyielding.

“Exactly, the earlier deal was just testing the waters, and actors who can breathe life into gangland are rare,” Li Yu said, eyes flicking like a match in the dark.

“After Miss Qiao’s performance at dinner, I saw ore under the stone, so I want long-term cooperation,” he added, each word placed like a chess piece.

“Talk.” Her interest stirred like a leaf in wind, but her face stayed lake-still.

“Simple—you bring us the films, we’ll lift you to Best Actress,” Li Yu said, blunt as a hammer, sure as a drumbeat.

Caution rose first like a hedgehog’s spines, then her tone cooled like night rain.

“Best Actress isn’t handed out like sweets, especially for villains, which are mountains within mountains—why should I trust you?”

“And even if I win it, that’s my own blade and blood—what’s it got to do with your crew?” Her words landed like stones across a creek.

“Miss Qiao, you’re a frontline actress at best; your buzz rose on ‘Sinking Jade, Like Frost,’ but fame is a paper lantern—bright, then ash,” he said, voice smooth as oiled wood.

“Work with us and the path flattens like snow pressed by a sled—profit and prestige, both hands full.”

“You seem to know this game like a fisherman knows tides, but why pick me?” Her doubt curled like smoke from incense.

“Isn’t it usually the heroine who gets courted after a ruckus?” The thought flashed like a kingfisher.

“Because you fit the character our boss imagines,” Li Yu said, setting his empty teacup down with a soft chime like a bell at dusk.

He drew a neat stack of papers from his inner pocket like drawing a fan from silk, and passed it over.

“Details live in the contract—if it sits right after you read, sign, and our pact stands like a stone bridge.”

“Fine, but I need to see your sincerity,” she said, smile bright as lacquer while her eyes stayed guarded as bamboo.

“It’s late as a sinking sun, so I’ll answer tomorrow; for now, please leave, Mr. Li.”

“Of course—this rests on your will, and a late answer is still rain on the field,” he said, turning with steps light as falling leaves.

He pushed open the private room’s door like parting a curtain of night and slipped out, then pulled a phone from his pocket like a knife from a sheath.

“Clean it up,” he said, three words cold as dew.

She had thought he’d catch her hint about “sincerity,” but morning broke like pale rice paper and her phone showed nothing.

No word on Liu Zhu’s death, no ripple about last night’s storm—news was a frozen river, smooth as if nothing had happened.

“This idiot,” she thought, exasperation flaring like a struck match, “still hasn’t learned the Way.”

Zhou Wen—Sister Zhou—woke near noon like a swimmer breaking the surface, and the first thing she saw was a strange ceiling, blank as unmarked snow.

“Qiao Wan…? Why are you here?” she sat up on Nana Toki’s bed, head pounding like a drum in fog.

She remembered a dinner, and then the memory frayed like old silk.

“Sister Zhou, you’re up? Anything uncomfortable?” Nana asked, tone airy as a passing breeze, eyes still on her book.

The room felt off-kilter, like a picture frame hung crooked, and Sister Zhou watched her artist for two long minutes, counting breaths like beads.

Her gaze dropped to the book—its cover white, wrapped like a book in a paper kimono.

“What are you reading, Qiao Wan?” she asked at last, words careful as stepping stones.

“Nothing special, just a common novel,” came the calm reply, level as a quiet pond yet hiding something like reeds.

“What novel?” Her voice didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed like the moon in its last quarter.

“A biology text on embryonic origins,” Nana said, her gaze skimming the lines like swallows over water.

“Speak human.” The demand landed like a fan snap.

“Mm… a dirty book.”

Nana closed the white book with a crisp breath of paper and lifted her head, solemn as a priest at dawn.

“…” Sister Zhou stared—how could someone read porn with such righteous posture, like holding a flag in a gale?

“Why are you reading porn?” The thought slipped out like a fish, then snagged—again?

“Pressure lately, so I wanted to relax,” Nana lied smoothly, voice soft as velvet.

“?” The disbelief hung like a lantern in daylight.

“Who relaxes with porn? And what pressure?” Her mind rifled the calendar like wind in files.

Aside from the new film, there was little else heavy as stone.

Nana tucked away the white book like sliding a blade into scabbard, then told her about last night, words spare as winter branches.

“You hit Liu Zhu?!” Sister Zhou’s eyelid jumped like a startled sparrow, and her voice climbed like steam from a kettle.

“Qiao Wan, Liu Zhu’s a name in this circle—a big shadow on the wall—what if he comes for you?”

Nana just stared, silence lying flat as a calm sea—shouldn’t your focus be that he nearly tried to force me?

“So I signed another contract and had someone smooth it out,” she said, pointing at the papers nearby like pointing to a shield.

“I haven’t read it yet, but I already signed; Sister Zhou, check it, and if it’s clean, send it back.”

Sister Zhou went speechless, mouth opening like a door on a windy hinge—who’s the artist here, and who’s the manager?

She flipped through the white contract, pages whispering like reeds.

“It’s that same Gangland Legend crew,” she said after a scan, relief pooling like warm tea.

“Benefits beat the last one by a stretch; at this rate we’ll be busy all year, like ants in summer.”

“Yeah,” Nana sighed, a small breeze of content, “so letting me relax with a dirty book isn’t a mortal sin, right?”

Sister Zhou just blinked, silence piling like fresh snow.

Once the contract proved clean as bleached linen, Nana left her apartment like a swallow leaving the eaves.

There were errands to run, and she trusted Sister Zhou to handle the afterwork like a careful gardener.

She swung by Shuyao Qin’s company, the holiday breathing a little space like a clear sky.

She wanted to top up her Nesting Phoenix energy, like refilling an incense burner before night prayers.

Shuyao Qin had a meeting with an investor that afternoon, and Nana, idle as a cat in sun, tagged along to watch.

Qin agreed with a smile like spring light and briefed her on the investor, notes crisp as bamboo slips.

Nana studied in the car, eyes tracking lines like a sparrow following seeds, but before a pattern formed, they arrived like an arrow to the mark.

She wanted to shoulder some of Qin’s work, but time was short as a candle stub, so she served as the bag-holder, steady as a post.

“President Qin, over here.” The investor waved, his grin glossy as fresh lacquer.

He ran a women’s skincare brand, hoping Qin would lend wind to his sails with promotion.

Qin’s company would push the product like beating drums, but the actual face of the brand came from his side, chosen like a flower from a garden.

Nana knew the face well—the heroine, Chi Mu—whose looks had bloomed since their last meeting like a peony after rain.

In her head, Nana rated Chi Mu’s face—ten as a full moon, she now sat at eight and a half—maybe a touch of makeup, a little national sorcery.

A boy trailed Chi Mu, a stranger to Nana, neat as fresh snow and bright as a new coin.

Sixteen, maybe seventeen, with that puppy-soft aura like warm milk, a pretty shota she hadn’t seen before.

Curiosity pricked first like a thorn, then her gaze lingered like dew on grass.

And that, of course, caught Shuyao Qin’s eye like a hawk sighting a glint.

“Heh… does Qiao Wan fancy that boy?” Shuyao’s smile tilted, thin as a knife, and jealousy colored her cheeks like ripe cherries.

Nana watched her simmer, her anger adorable as a puffed-up sparrow, and impulse leapt like a spark.

“Mua~” She scooped Shuyao’s face and stole a kiss, quick as a dragonfly skimming the pond.

Her own heart fluttered first like a banner in wind—home is cutest, even when it pouts.

“You—you—what are you doing, Qiao Wan!” Shuyao’s face flushed crimson, heat rising like sunset.

She pointed at Nana, hand trembling like a willow leaf, words tangling like threads.

This was foul play—who does that, here of all places!

“I couldn’t help it, President Qin, you’re too cute,” Nana murmured, pulling her close like gathering a shawl.

She looped an arm around Shuyao’s neck and nuzzled her cheek, soft as cat fur against silk.

“Since I confessed so honestly, how about a kiss on the lips as a reward?” Her tease floated like a peach blossom on water.