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Chapter 8 - Chapter 8 – First Take

The studio floor smelled like wood polish and the faint powdery trace of fabric cleaner. Not freshly cleaned, but recently. Enough that the scent hung in the air, settled into the grain of the floorboards, a quiet reminder of all the feet that had passed through here before hers.

The space was hushed, not silent, but caught somewhere between the low, persistent hum of overhead lights and the occasional shuffle of a grip repositioning the dolly track. Outside, the sky was barely thinking about turning blue. But in here, the day had already been lit, with overhead rigs blooming into shape, silk diffusers strung like soft laundry across a wire sky.

 

Jiang Yue stood just beyond the mark. The set wall behind her had been painted to resemble brick, but up close, she could see the texture of flat, foam-backed, a little too clean. Her robe was a long, slate-grey costume in layered silk that no longer felt alien against her skin. Earlier that week, she'd kept smoothing the fabric with her palm, trying to feel less like an imposter. Today, she barely noticed it. It creased where it wanted to. It moved when she did. The fit was imperfect in the right places.

Her hair was twisted up, pinned with a smooth piece of green jade. She could feel the weight of it, not heavy, but definite.

 

She held her script in her left hand. Not reading it. Just holding.

She already knew the lines. Had whispered them into her coffee steam that morning. Had mouthed them silently in the car while her driver pretended not to notice.

 

This was her first full scene. Not stand-in. Not rehearsal. Not action from the back of a moving horse where her face didn't matter.

This time, she was in the frame.

This time, the voice was hers.

 

A line producer passed by without stopping, shouting into a headset, "Camera two gets foreground. Light soft from left. Don't wash her out, Director wants her skin tone clean."

Jiang Yue shifted her weight, tried to feel her feet. She was calm on the outside, had trained for that. Inside, her pulse was loud. Not racing, just… there. Like water in the walls.

Across the set, on the other side of the courtyard build, Xu Liwen stood waiting. She looked almost too tall for the space, slim, poised, hands clasped neatly in front of her robe. Her expression was unreadable. Jiang Yue had only met her once, briefly. It had been civil. Not warm.

 

Today, something sharper hung in the space between them.

Xu Liwen didn't look directly at her. Just tilted her head slightly and said, "Don't overreact on the second line. Director prefers Zhao Lin played with restraint."

It wasn't criticism. More like a gate being marked.

 

Jiang Yue didn't answer. Just nodded.

She stepped onto the mark. Her feet landed square. It surprised her a little of how natural it felt.

The clapboard dropped. "Scene 14-B, take one."

 

The silence that followed didn't feel staged. It felt real.

Jiang Yue stepped forward into the courtyard. Her robe stirred faintly with the breeze from the rigged fans, the hem whispering against the concrete floor. She stopped. Looked at Xu Liwen's character.

A pause. A stare. Something hard to name passed between them.

 

"You look the same," Jiang Yue said. Her voice didn't tremble. "But you carry your grief like it belongs to someone else."

Xu Liwen answered, clean, clipped, just slightly fast. Maybe nerves. Maybe nothing.

Jiang Yue didn't flinch. Just stepped right into the pause and said, "Is that how you sleep at night? Telling yourself it wasn't your hand that let go?"

 

The boom mic dipped. The cameras didn't shift. No one called for a pan.

Stillness held.

It wasn't rage. It wasn't performance. It was something quieter, and heavier.

When the director finally called cut, the quiet held on for a moment longer than it should have.

Lin Qichen stepped forward from the shadows near monitor village. He didn't look at her right away. Just nodded to his assistant.

"Take one is usable," he said.

The assistant hesitated. "We're keeping it?"

"No." He paused, then repeated, "We're airing it."

 

He turned to Jiang Yue at last. His face was unreadable, but not cold.

"One more," he said. "Don't chase it. Just stay where you were."

She nodded once.

 

They ran it again. Then again.

The second take felt cooler. The third a little more frayed. Both good. Each honest in a slightly different way.

 

Lin Qichen kept the third. Said nothing else.

But the crew, in the silence that followed, looked at her differently. Not with surprise. Something closer to recognition. A silent agreement.

 

She belonged here.

Lunch came late. The bigger names disappeared to their holding rooms or trailers. Jiang Yue sat on an overturned apple crate, eating from a plastic bento box with a pair of junior crew members. One of them offered her a packet of pickled radish without a word. She took it with a nod, added it to the corner of her rice.

 

A PA walked up, awkward, holding a bottle of water.

"For you, if you want."

She thanked him. Her voice softer now, like she'd left something back on set.

When she checked her phone for the time, a notification was already waiting.

TopPost Weekly: "Rising Face — Who Is Dust and Rain's Second Lead?"

The thumbnail was a photo of her from the gala two weeks ago. Navy silk. Hair swept back. Looking somewhere between cautious and composed.

 

The article was short. Curious in tone. Not mean.

"Reportedly a stuntwoman-turned-actress, Jiang Yue has no formal agency affiliation and no known past roles of note. A rare breakout? Or something else?"

She read it once. Then closed it.

 

The questions were starting.

But the judgment hadn't come yet.

She still had a little time.

 

Filming wrapped just past six. She stepped outside into warm light, her robe exchanged for jeans and a loose cotton shirt. The ache in her legs was dull and steady, honest, somehow. A black sedan waited at the curb.

Xu Min leaned against it, sipping something cold.

 

"Press buzz is up," he said casually, handing her the iced coffee. "Someone's sniffing around your stunt history."

She sipped.

"Do you want to say anything?" he asked.

"No."

"Want me to say something?"

"No."

 

He looked at her for a moment. Not pushing. Just reading her mood.

"Alright," he said finally. "Then we wait."

The drive home was quiet. The city rolled by in slow blinks—streetlights, neon signs, pedestrians with tired shoulders. She leaned her head against the glass, watching the world blur by. Her thoughts were still.

 

At the penthouse, the lights were low. She took off her shoes, dropped her bag by the kitchen counter. There, in the centre of the counter, was a small box. Wrapped in black paper, with no note.

She didn't open it.

Just stood there for a moment.

Not moving.

Not trying to.

 

Something settled low in her chest. Not fear. Not even curiosity. Just… recognition. The kind that didn't ask for proof.

Somewhere in the apartment, a soft buzz came from a tablet screen.

Shen Rui glanced at the alert.

 

Engagement spike: +7,000.

Scene 14-B flagged by internal staff as "breakout clip."

Recommendation: minor press prep.

 

He closed the notification with a flick of his finger.

No action needed yet.

She was already doing the work.

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