The rain began before sunrise, draping the city in a curtain of silver mist. Narrow roads glistened like glass, neon signs blurred against puddles, and bus roofs carried reflections of lives rushing nowhere in particular. Umbrellas bloomed along sidewalks, each one a silent fortress against the grey.
In front of an unmarked studio building nestled between a noodle shop and a karaoke bar, a modest queue had formed. Not long, but long enough to reflect the social order: heels at the front, worn sneakers at the back. The actresses near the entrance checked their lipstick with handheld mirrors. They spoke in soft rehearsed tones, all nerves coated in confidence.
A woman near the end of the line stood quietly, her black umbrella tilted just enough to hide her face from view. Her clothes were neat but plain, hands unadorned, fingers tight around a plastic folder. The only script she had printed in months.
The only chance she hadn't begged for.
The building doors opened with a creak. The woman didn't move first, or last. Just with measured steps, steady and silent.
The lobby carried a hint of mildew, barely hidden beneath a layer of pine-scented cleaner. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A water dispenser gurgled to 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 beyond. 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 center 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, precise, carved from stone smoothed by fire:
"You let him die. And then you wore the grief like silk."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The strength came from stillness, from how her shoulders refused to tremble, how her jaw didn't clench even when the breath beneath the words grew thin.
"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 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, propped against the wall like a quiet casualty. Outside, the rain had eased, but the mist clung to the streets. In the reflection of her phone screen, her eyes looked darker than she remembered.
The confirmation didn't 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 incense and steam. A pot of soup bubbled on the stove, though neither of them had spoken about dinner.
She placed her shoes neatly at the entrance.
Shen Rui sat by the window again, as he often did—half in shadow, a file open on his lap, untouched whiskey beside his hand. The city stretched behind him like a silent canvas, lights blinking in soft surrender to 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, 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.