Chapter 3: The Audition and the Annoying Producer

The audition was held in a warehouse that smelled of mildew, desperation, and cheap coffee. Shi Xi arrived early, baseball cap pulled low, a fake resume in hand. She’d listed her experience as “community theater, three years” and “mime, briefly.”

The waiting room was filled with the usual types: the weepy ingenue, the intense method actor practicing a death scene by the water cooler, and a girl so thin she looked like a strong wind would file a restraining order.

Shi Xi sat in the corner and scrolled through the script pages she’d printed at an internet cafe. Crimson Moon was a supernatural thriller: a pop star (the lead) is hunted by a masked killer while shooting a music video in an abandoned castle. It was ridiculous. It was tropey. It was exactly the kind of trash she loved.

“Number 47?” A bored assistant called out.

Shi Xi stood. “That’s me.”

The audition room was a cavernous space with a single folding chair. Behind a table sat three people: a tired director with a coffee stain on his shirt, a bored casting director scrolling on her phone, and—

Her breath caught.

A man. Late twenties. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He wore a black turtleneck and looked like he’d just stepped out of a noir film where he definitely killed someone and got away with it. He was reading a script, but his gaze flicked up the moment she entered.

And he stared.

Not in a “nice to meet you” way. In a “I know exactly who you are and I’m deciding how to use it” way.

[DING! WARNING: THIS IS GU YAN. THE PRODUCER. NOT IN ORIGINAL NOVEL. CLASSIFICATION: ???]

Thanks, system. Very helpful.

“Name?” the bored casting director asked.

“Xi… Nian,” she said, using her old stage name. “Xi Nian.”

The producer—Gu Yan—smiled. It was a small, private thing. “Xi Nian,” he repeated, like he was tasting the syllables. “Interesting name.”

“My parents were poets,” she lied. “Very sad poets. They’re dead now.”

The director perked up. “Oh, sad backstory! Can you cry on command?”

“Can I cry on command?” Shi Xi stepped forward, blinked once, and let a single tear roll down her cheek. Then she smiled. “That was my dog. He’s fine. I just have allergies.”

The casting director laughed. The director nodded. Gu Yan simply tilted his head.

“Read the scene,” he said. “The pop star is alone in the castle. She knows the killer is watching. She’s scared, but she’s also angry. She’s tired of being a victim.”

Shi Xi took a breath. She wasn’t Shi Xi, the fake heiress. She wasn’t Shi Nian, the retired legend. She was a pop star in a terrible web drama, and she was done being prey.

She turned her back to the table. When she faced them again, her expression had changed. Her eyes were wide, her breath shallow. She hugged herself, trembling. “I know you’re there,” she whispered. “I’ve known since the first light.”

Then her voice hardened. Her chin lifted. “But you picked the wrong girl. I’ve survived managers, stalkers, and a Grammy snub. You? You’re just a man in a mask.”

She took a step forward, fearless. “Come on, then. Let’s see who breaks first.”

Silence.

The director’s mouth was open. The casting director had dropped her phone. And Gu Yan—Gu Yan was applauding. Slow. Deliberate. His dark eyes glittered.

“She’s terrible,” he said, still looking at her. “Her resume is a lie, her name is fake, and she clearly has no formal training.”

Shi Xi’s heart sank.

“But she’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen in months,” he finished. “You’re hired. Supporting role. The manager.”

The director sputtered. “But we already cast the manager!”

“Un-cast him.” Gu Yan stood, towering over the table. He walked toward Shi Xi, close enough that she could smell his cologne—woodsmoke and something dangerous. “Welcome to Crimson Moon, Miss Xi Nian. Try not to disappoint me.”

He walked out.

Shi Xi stood there, heart pounding. She had the job. She was one step closer to fame, fortune, and not being fish food.

[DING! MISSION UPDATE: Gu Yan’s interest level = 15%. This is not a romance. Probably.]

Probably? she thought. What do you mean PROBABLY?

The system didn’t answer. It just played a tiny, infuriating sound effect of a cash register.