The rain started before sunrise, soft and steady, pulling a silver haze over the city. The streets were wet, and the neon lights reflected in the puddles. The bus roofs reflected the crowds rushing through the city. Umbrellas opened up one by one along the sidewalk, each one a little shelter from the grey.
Outside a quiet building squeezed between a noodle shop and a karaoke bar, a line had started to form. Not a big crowd, but just enough to show how things worked. The women at the front stood tall in heels, talking in soft, practiced voices. Checking their lipstick in pocket mirrors. Holding themselves like they'd already made it.
Further back, near the end, a woman stood alone under a plain black umbrella. She didn't speak, didn't move much, just held the umbrella low enough that you couldn't quite see her face. Her clothes were neat but nothing fancy. No rings, no bracelets. Just one hand gripping a plastic folder like it mattered more than anything else. Inside it, the only script she'd managed to print in months.
The only chance she hadn't begged for.
The building doors opened with a creak. The woman didn't go in first, and she wasn't the last either. She walked in after the line thinned out.
The lobby carried a hint of mildew, barely hidden beneath a layer of pine-scented cleaner. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A water dispenser made noises by itself in the corner. A laminated poster near the elevator read: Dust and Rain – Casting Call, Round 1 Auditions – Room 204.
Plastic chairs lined the hallway in the distance. Most of them were occupied by women in their twenties, some flipping through scripts, others muttering lines under their breath. A few scrolled their phones with a kind of practiced indifference, pretending not to glance sideways at the competition.
The woman found the last empty seat by the far wall. Her name was printed in black ink on the folded sheet in her lap: Jiang Yue.
She didn't fidget. She didn't rehearse out loud. She simply waited, spine straight, eyes steady.
Time moved like honey, thick, slow, and clinging to every second.
A door opened, and a voice called out without looking up from the clipboard: "Jiang Yue."
Heads turned.
She stood.
The casting room was square and bare, one glass wall concealed behind heavy blackout curtains. A row of clipboards rested on the table in front of three individuals: a casting director in a beige blazer, a woman with short hair and red nails flipping pages without reading, and a young assistant typing notes as if being paid by the word.
They didn't speak. The air did. Cool. Controlled. Unforgiving.
A taped X marked the centre of the room.
Jiang Yue stepped onto it.
The script she was handed was already creased at the edges. A brief scene. Tension between sisters. One betrayal. One truth.
No costumes. No music. Just dialogue and a blank white wall.
The assistant gave the cue. "Scene 7. Begin when ready."
Nothing moved for two full seconds.
Then her voice emerged, soft and precise:
"You let him die. And then you wore the grief like silk."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. She wasn't loud. She didn't have to be. Her strength showed in how still she stood, her shoulders steady, her jaw relaxed even when her breathing got tight.
"You said it was for me. That lie doesn't taste better with time."
The woman at the table lowered her pen.
"You called it love. But I was the one holding his hand when the light went out."
A pause stretched through the room like a thread drawn tight.
She didn't cry. She didn't crack.
She simply stopped.
Silence followed.
Then the casting director cleared his throat. "Thank you. We'll be in touch."
Jiang Yue gave a slight nod. Not gratitude. Not submission. Just closure.
She left the room without looking back.
The hallway was nearly empty now, only a few waiting. One of the chairs had buckled under a broken leg, now propped against the wall quietly. Outside, the rain had eased, but the mist hung on the streets.
The confirmation would not come that day.
Or the next.
She returned to work. Small sets. Forgettable choreography. One scene involved falling backward into fake glass. Another required running across a steel beam barefoot in the rain.
No lines.
No credits.
But for the first time, she no longer felt invisible. Not entirely.
Days later, the call came while she was pressing ice to her shoulder.
A quiet vibration. A message preview.
"Thank you for your performance. You've been shortlisted for the callback round. Further details to follow."
— Dust and Rain Casting Team
She didn't smile.
But she didn't delete it either.
That evening, the penthouse smelled faintly of beefy aroma and steam. A pot of soup bubbled on the stove, as it was prepared for dinner.
She placed her shoes neatly at the entrance.
Shen Rui sat by the window again, as he often did, half in the shadow, a file open on his lap, and untouched whiskey beside his hand. The city stretched behind him like a silent canvas, lights blinking in softly under the fog.
He didn't look at her.
She didn't expect him to.
But as she passed behind his chair, something paused in her.
Not a thought. Just a feeling. Brief. Unspoken.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
"Thank you."
No explanation. No context.
He didn't nod.
But later, long after she had disappeared down the hall, his hand moved.
The tablet on the table glowed faintly.
System Log: Audition Influence, Soft Push Only
BP Spent: 1,200.00
New Mission Option Available: "Callback Leverage" , Awaiting User Approval
The screen dimmed again.
Jiang Yue sat in her room, with a towel around her neck, the damp ends of her hair curling at her shoulders. The audition script rested beside her pillow. Her phone remained unlocked in her hand, the message still glowing softly.
She didn't know if she had done well enough. She only knew the door had opened a little. Just enough to slip a name inside.