“Is this how you talk to me, Miss Chi? I got swindled—dragged into some twisted killing film, and my life’s in splinters like a smashed mirror!”

Jiang Shi’s voice frayed at the edges, a hoarse growl from a beast jammed against the cliff with no way out.

He was just like the role he played on screen—a drifter with hope burned out—only in real life; at his bleakest, a man found him like a shadow at dusk.

The man handed him a stack of money, not small, and asked him to join a strange film; for someone who’d lost everything, that felt like a dawn crack, so Jiang Shi agreed.

Survive seven days in a forest on a deserted island, that was all—simple on paper, like mist that hides thorns; he imagined it too pretty and paid in blood.

On that island set, he slipped and killed, not once but many times; he returned to reality, yes, but with police hounds now baying at his scent.

“This—all of this—you and that man made it happen!”

He planted the root of blame in Chi Mu and in Chen Ke like poison seeds: “If I’d killed you clean, it’d be over; why fight back and ruin me? You people should just die, die, die, die, die!”

His eyes were bloodshot and bulging, like overfilled blisters ready to pop; his clamp on Chi Mu’s wrist was iron, and her face went paper-white.

“Calm down,” she said, heart thudding like a sparrow against glass. “Say it straight; we can talk.”

Bare hands, no weapon, a woman against a man on the brink—she held her own fear like a bowl, and tried to steady his storm to save herself.

“Calm? I’m calmer than anyone!” Jiang Shi spat, a furnace breath from his chest; “You two wrecked my life, turned my future to ash!”

The grip on her wrist tightened; seeing the man teeter at the edge, Chi Mu snapped to action—she snatched the small knife by her desk and drove it forward.

“Aaaah—!!!”

The room was ink-black, shadows like a curtain; caught off guard, stabbed, Jiang Shi raged at her sudden bite-back, clutching the bleeding wound.

His eyes went scarlet, and a cave-deep roar crawled up his throat: “You dare lay a hand on me!”

His stare crawled over her skin like ants; without her actor’s training, that fruit knife would have rattled loose from her fingers.

Smack!

Before she could react, his palm crashed across her face—a hammer blow to the back of her skull—and her vision spun like leaves in a gust.

“Hand it over!”

The roar blasted her ear, hot and close; dizzy, Chi Mu flinched by instinct, and their bodies tangled—large and small—rolling like two stones down a slope.

The glass on the table skittered off and shattered, a shrill crack like ice breaking on a lake.

Shlick, shlick, shlick!

She couldn’t tell what wet warmth splashed her—his blood or spilled tea; she gripped the fruit knife in a death hold and struck again and again.

Shlick, shlick, shlick!

“Mm… urgh…”

The strength on her wrist ebbed, like air leaking from a punctured balloon; in seconds, the body beneath her went boneless and slack.

Clang—

The fruit knife slid from her fingers and kissed the floor with a clean, ringing note; delayed shock flooded back, and Chi Mu stared, blank, at the world around her.

Floor, wall, couch, glass—scarlet streaks like needles stabbing her eyes; the apartment’s air filled with a metallic reek that turned her stomach.

She was astride Jiang Shi, locked on his dying, resentful gaze; her heart raced like hoofbeats in a narrow alley.

“Urk—”

Something inside her hit a threshold and flipped; her face blanched, and her gut heaved with a rough, dry retch.

Creeeak—

Behind her, the apartment door had opened, at some unknown moment, into a thin, watching slit.

……

Nana Toki stayed on the Long Companions crew for a month and a half; two reasons, clear as rain on a window.

The shoot itself was short, and she wrapped her scenes, then left; and the leading lady broke contract and walked off early, like a fire going out midshow.

It puzzled Nana; with that kind of plot-armor, the leading lady should’ve seen how hot Long Companions would run, yet she quit—an odd turn she hadn’t foreseen.

She’d wanted to pester Chi Mu daily, make her taste a cocktail of villain’s torment; but Chi Mu bailed, and Nana’s one source of fun dried up like a pond in summer.

Of course, beyond Chi Mu’s exit, something else—unexpected—arrived at her door.

The rich hand behind the Jidao Legends crew paid a visit.

That fool Trollop dared show up in person, like a peacock strutting into a tiger’s yard—she hadn’t expected that.

“Miss Qiao, we meet again.”

Same slick “gentleman” air, perfume over something sour; Trollop sipped his store-bought coffee with fake grace, and Nana, after some time apart, found his punchable aura even thicker.

“Who the hell wanted to see you? Say your piece or scram. I’m in a good mood and might let you limp away; keep bouncing in front of me and I’ll chop you to dust.”

She sprawled on her own sofa like a little lord, eyes peeling him top to toe: “Don’t think I missed your cheap tricks—stealing my four car tires, shoving me into that weird film; the only reason you got past my front door today is blind luck.”

Trollop: “……”

He didn’t bite back; he kept that thin smile like lacquer, held, and finally said, calm as lukewarm tea: “No need to be tense, Miss Qiao. I came by on my own, just to say hello. Nothing else.”

“Nothing else, and you keep eyeing another man’s wife? Where’s that face of yours?” Nana’s laugh was cold rain; she caught his glances sliding toward Shuyao Qin and sliced them with words.

Trollop: “……” How long had he been away? This one had become… involved with the test subject?

He took another sip, then studied Nana a heartbeat longer before cooling his gaze and shifting lanes: “Here’s the deal, Miss Qiao. Seeing your winning streak, I came to tell you a thing about the next plane.”

“The next plane?” A thin gleam flashed in Nana’s eyes, like a fish flick under dark water. “Why would you know my next plane?”

“Some truths aren’t for spilling,” the gentleman preened, pride rising like steam.

Nana: “……”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t, necessarily. It’s your call, Miss Qiao. I’m just delivering a message. Whether you buy it or not—none of it sticks to me.”

“Oh, and before I came, I set a little directive; that tiny thing in your head won’t hear our chat.” Trollop tapped his temple with a finger, smiling faintly. “A game’s no fun with a third wheel wedged in.”

“……”

“Talk.”

Nana weighed it for a beat, then let a rare sliver of interest show, like a blade’s edge catching light.

“You’re a clear-minded player, so I won’t dither; here’s a headline for your next plane.”

His smile made Nana’s skin crawl, a deep, instinctive dislike rising like cold fog from the bones.

“In the next plane—Nesting Phoenix—must die.”

He carved it word by word, the sound loud in Nana’s quiet apartment; listen close and you could hear frost in the sentence.

Swish—

“Who told you that?”

In a blink, Nana’s hand closed on his throat; her eyes narrowed, no mercy in them, and her voice blew out like black-ice wind from a midnight cavern.

Shuyao Qin, pouring tea on the side, jumped at the sudden change; she’d never seen Nana wear a face like that—winter hard, no smile.

“Even if I said, you wouldn’t know who,” Trollop answered, composure like glass untouched by fire; a gentleman’s mask, steady under pressure.

“I asked—who told you Nesting Phoenix will die?”

Ignoring his dodge, Nana’s fingers tightened; a pulse flickered in Trollop’s eyes, a flicker of panic like a moth, then snuffed, leaving calm again.

“That’s the game’s pleasure,” he said, a thin grin with shadows along the edges. “You have to hunt for answers yourself, or what’s the point?”

“……”

They locked there, tension sizzling in the air like wires about to spark.

Nana stared into the face inches from hers; after a long beat, she let go and wiped her hand as if shedding frost. “Fine. Tell your backer this—keep their hands clean.”

“If Nesting Phoenix loses a single hair, I’ll collect the debt a thousandfold, ten thousandfold.”

While she spoke, a shard of cold light slid through her eyes, enough to make the brave feel small.