Chapter 20: Alluring Shadow

Late December, Xu Sheng, the actor playing the male lead, showed up at the film set for three token days of training.

Xu Sheng was twenty-five, tall and slender with refined features, sunny and outgoing. He could dance and sing with the best of them, but acting? Not so much. Still, none of that stopped him from captivating thousands of teenage girls as a top idol.

The moment he arrived on set, his entourage sprang into action, staging photo ops left and right.

Five minutes of training. Two hours of photos.

Once the photos were done, he dashed over to Jiang Qingmeng’s side for a chat.

The two went way back. Before either had hit the big time, they’d starred together in a drama as the third male lead and third female lead—a couple with real sparks. Fans still raved about their chemistry online, churning out video edits to this day.

Jiang Zhizhou was in the middle of fight training with the martial arts choreographers when her gaze drifted over. She caught sight of the pair chatting animatedly, all smiles, and a knot tightened in her chest. She lost control of her strength and sent one of the staffers sprawling to the ground.

The staffer let out a muffled grunt. Jiang Zhizhou snapped back to reality, rushed to help him up, and murmured an apology. Guilt flooded her as she asked if he was hurt.

He was a clean-cut young guy in his early twenties. Propped up by Jiang Zhizhou, he grimaced through a forced smile and turned the tables to reassure her. “It’s all good. I’m fine—no need to worry.”

Jiang Zhizhou let out a relieved breath. “As long as you’re okay. Let me help you sit out for a bit.”

Xu Sheng was deep in laughter with Jiang Qingmeng when she suddenly glanced toward the training area. Her smile chilled noticeably.

Xu Sheng went through the motions in the studio for three days.

His half-hearted effort was annoying enough, but what really grated on Jiang Zhizhou was something else entirely.

Every so often, he’d sidle up to Jiang Qingmeng for hushed conversations, drawing shared smiles from her.

Those radiant smiles stabbed at Jiang Zhizhou’s eyes. A sour, bloating ache swelled in her chest, threatening to overflow. She clenched her teeth, her dislike for Xu Sheng intensifying.

Why whisper so close?

What’s so hilarious? Spit it out for everyone to hear!

What’s he got that earns all those smiles from you?

I ignore you, and suddenly you won’t even glance my way…

Sourness roiled in her heart, laced with an inexplicable sense of grievance.

She was the one who’d pulled away first. What right did she have to feel hard done by?

Pretentious. Utterly pretentious.

Jiang Zhizhou fought to tamp down the sentiment, keeping her face a perfect mask.

On the final day, training wrapped. Her ordeal over, Jiang Zhizhou slipped on a mask and crammed onto the subway home.

The mask? She’d picked up a smidge of fame.

Fame that brought more hassle than glory.

One day, head down scrolling her phone on the subway, a guy standing in front of her jabbed a finger at her and yelled—

“You—you—you’re that hooker, Liu Yun! Aren’t you?!”

He was worked up, voice carrying. Heads whipped around the car, eyes bouncing between her and him.

The young crowd shot knowing looks; the older folks—uncles, aunts, grandparents—radiated head-to-toe disdain, no doubt scandalized by such indecency in public, tarnishing the city’s civilized rep.

Liu Yun was her character in Injustice Cleared: a fallen official courtesan, a pure lotus blooming unsullied from the muck.

Zhe Teng had called it right. With the Ancient Drama Ban and the Broadcasting Authority cracking down, ancient costume suspense shows struggled through censors. Web dramas faced lighter scrutiny, so Injustice Cleared slotted perfectly into the gap. At just twenty-four episodes and nearing its finale by month’s end, word of mouth was building, lifting Jiang Zhizhou’s profile with it.

That business of riding the movie’s premiere buzz? Ancient history.

Netizens’ attention spans lasted about three minutes.

Masked up, no one pegged Jiang Zhizhou.

Safely anonymous on the subway, she fired up her burner Weibo account to scroll Jiang Qingmeng updates.

She followed a video editor who dropped monthly compilations: heavy glam, no-makeup glow, ancient costumes, modern fits—the works. Paired with killer background tracks, the clips captured a woman with an ethereal grace, jade-smooth bones and eyes like autumn pools.

Fresh upload today. Jiang Zhizhou popped in her earbuds and hit play.

A shipping edit. Stars: Jiang Qingmeng and Xu Sheng.

Zero chemistry.

She watched a few seconds, thumb hovering to close, when a girl on her left scooted closer, eyes alight. “You a ‘Sunset’ CP fan too?” Pure kindred-spirit vibes.

‘Sunset’ was their ship name—half from “Qingmeng,” half from “Sheng.”

Sunset. Hah. Sounded like it was fading fast, on death’s door.

Jiang Zhizhou shot the girl a wry glance and said coolly, “Nah. Solo fan.” As a proud solo stan should.

After a pause, she added, “Qingmeng’s.”

I’m a solo fan. Qingmeng’s.

I am… Qingmeng’s.

Silently savoring the words in her heart, Jiang Zhizhou felt an inexplicable surge of joy. The corners of her lips curved upward, her eyes gleaming with delight. But in the next instant, she reined in her smile. Restraint surfaced in her mind, a stern reminder not to let her thoughts wander into forbidden territory.

Her sudden shifts from joy to melancholy left the young woman beside her staring in bewilderment.

This girl’s got to be totally obsessed with her idol.

By late December, preparations for Nine Songs had wrapped up, and filming was set to begin.

As was customary before shooting started, the cast and crew gathered for a meal to make introductions, get acquainted, and smooth the way for the work ahead.

The first day of shooting fell on New Year’s Day, a special choice. The production crew got creative and organized a New Year’s Eve party, hoping everyone would ring in the occasion together for some festive luck.

The party took place at the hotel the crew had booked, with guests arriving at six in the evening.

Top executives from Star Source Entertainment and Huamei were attending as special guests. Beforehand, a staff member had asked Jiang Zhizhou if she’d like to perform, stressing that it was a prime chance to get some exposure.

Jiang Zhizhou politely declined.

She remembered how, in her previous life, Star Source’s boss Zhou Caimao had chatted her up at a banquet. He’d asked her to squeeze one of his artists into the cast, and she’d shot him down on the spot—the artist had a track record of scheduling conflicts, and the director had made it clear he wanted no one with overlapping shoots.

Back then, Star Source’s higher-ups had shown her deference. There was no reason to cozy up to them now.

Of course, the real issue was that Star Source lacked solid film resources and carried no weight in the industry. Jiang Zhizhou had no need to seek visibility in front of them.

Once everyone had settled in, the host gave a brief speech, and the party officially kicked off.

Jiang Qingmeng, Star Source’s leading lady and the female lead of Nine Songs, naturally took the stage for a performance.

Piano was her forte—she’d won international awards for it. It was one of the reasons she’d shot to fame so quickly. Fans loved to joke that she was the best piano-playing idol or the finest actress-pianist around.

Jiang Zhizhou had never heard her play live, only seen videos of her award-winning performances.

Eager to hear that piano in person, she waited patiently for Qingmeng’s grand finale.

“Next up, let’s give a warm welcome to Qingmeng for a stunning auditory feast!”

The host’s announcement rang out, plunging the room into silence. Then came the tight, pulsing drumbeat of the prelude, and the performance began.

Phantom of the Opera.

Jiang Zhizhou guessed the piece the moment those drums kicked in.

A timeless musical, later adapted into a film of the same name.

Eight years earlier, on the first day twelve-year-old Jiang Qingmeng was admitted to the hospital, Jiang Zhizhou had watched that very movie with her.

Back then, she’d asked, “Want to watch a movie together?”

Young Jiang Qingmeng hadn’t been much of a talker. She never voiced her wants outright, just looked at you with those eyes.

The memory brought a smile to Jiang Zhizhou’s lips. She gazed at the figure on stage, her expression growing even softer.

“The Phantom of the Opera” was the musical’s theme song, originally a classic duet for male and female voices. Tonight, Jiang Qingmeng had adapted it for solo piano.

Dressed in an elegant black evening gown, she sat at the piano. Her neck was slender and graceful, her head slightly bowed, her posture ramrod straight. The spotlight bathed her in light, illuminating her exquisite profile as her fingers danced across the keys. A powerful melody poured forth from her fingertips.

The introduction soared high before easing into a gentler flow. The notes flowed like a painter’s brushstrokes, laying down vivid colors to unfold a canvas of eerie romance.

The story of Phantom of the Opera was set in the Paris Opera House in the nineteenth century. Lurking in the theater’s basement was a musical genius who appeared and vanished like a ghost—the Phantom.

Disfigured from childhood, shunned by his parents, and subjected to endless torment, he had grown up steeped in pain and hatred.

As an adult, he fell in love with a beautiful, lonely ballet dancer. From the shadows, he guided her with his voice, taught her, stayed by her side, redeeming her—and himself in the process. She rose to replace the arrogant prima donna, her heavenly voice finally gracing the world.

Then her childhood playmate, the Viscount, recognized her and invited her to dinner. Hidden in the dark, the Phantom burned with jealousy.

The music shifted, surging like a raging torrent, crashing waves of sound. In that moment, the crowd around seemed to vanish. There was only that pair of slender hands on stage, dancing over the black and white keys.

Phantom finally met the girl while wearing his mask. With his song, he lured her into the mirror, took her hand, and led her to the dark, damp dungeon. The girl was utterly entranced by his voice, placing her full trust in her “Music Angel” and bordering on love—yet curiosity drove her to tear away his mask. Beneath it lay a hideous, grotesque face. Deprived of his mask’s protection, Phantom flew into a panic and cursed the girl at the top of his lungs.

With that, the fantasy shattered.

The music swelled with solemn tragedy, weaving gloomy, pathological possessiveness together with restrained yet scorching love—extreme and twisted, yet inseparable from its shadowing romance.

The Music Angel transformed into a devil. He strangled a stagehand, exacting mad revenge on those who blocked the girl’s path to stardom, then slew the opera’s male lead and donned his mask to perform Don Juan alongside her. Uneasy and afraid, the girl confided her ordeal to the Viscount and exchanged vows of love with him—all of it witnessed by Phantom lurking in the shadows.

Phantom seized the girl and locked her away in the dungeon. The Viscount arrived to rescue her, only to be captured by Phantom and held hostage to force her choice: hang the Viscount or marry Phantom.

She chose the latter. She told Phantom just how powerful the force of love could be, then bestowed upon him a kiss laden with deep meaning.

Onstage, fingertips struck the final notes, a lament echoing from the depths of despair.

After that kiss, Phantom made the girl’s and Viscount’s union possible. In utter despair, he waved them away, bidding them never return.

The aria concluded. Jiang Qingmeng rose, bowed, and offered her thanks to the audience. Thunderous applause roared from the seats below.

The afterglow of the music lingered in her ears, winding endlessly around her. Jiang Zhizhou sat lost in it for a long while.

Music was not like film. Film was a comprehensive art form saturated with capital, but music was pure art. And the essence of art was pain—painful emotions that cut to the depths of the soul.

The piano sang her heart’s voice. Inside her, just like Phantom, lay chasms upon chasms of suffering.

Phantom’s pain stemmed from loving without ever truly possessing—briefly tasting light and warmth, only to lose it all over again.

But what of her? For whose sake did she suffer?

That Xu Sheng?

It was baseless, absurd even—Jiang Zhizhou knew that full well—yet she couldn’t stifle the suspicion.

She knew this feeling was jealousy, something utterly contemptible, and still she couldn’t rein it in.

She envied the glance and smile Jiang Qingmeng shared with him, envied how he could joke and frolic with her without a care.

She envied him—and despised herself for it. Her every emotion dangled on Qingmeng’s whims, eroding her sense of self bit by bit.

Jiang Zhizhou loathed this erosion of self. She refused to become that sort of person. To her, love ought to have principles and boundaries, tempered with restraint—that was her ideal.

Tangled thoughts, mounting irritation, a stifling pressure.

She was nearly suffocating under it when the host’s announcement cut through.

The final performer: Xu Sheng. Jiang Zhizhou had no desire to watch. She slipped from her seat and headed out to the corridor for some cold air.

She recalled a balcony tucked away at the far end, around the corner—quiet, secluded.

That was where she’d go to steady her nerves.

The night breeze drifted through, carrying snippets of conversation from the corridor’s end, like hushed murmurs in the dark.

As she drew nearer, the voices resolved into those of a young man and woman.

Familiar, somehow, but still too distant and muddled to make out.

Jiang Zhizhou chuckled to herself. A man and woman alone—had they picked the empty spot for a secret rendezvous?

The entertainment world was a restless place, brimming with handsome men and beautiful women, hormones running high. Folks in the industry played fast and loose; catch someone’s eye at a party, and it was off to bed—no rarity there.

The desires of the flesh were human nature, nothing to fault.

Jiang Zhizhou wasn’t one to eavesdrop. She halted, ready to turn back the way she’d come—until the wind bore a name to her ears, rooting her in place.

“Qingmeng…”

A young man’s voice, laced with cloying tenderness that turned her stomach.

Jiang Zhizhou went rigid, unable to move.

She waited ages, but no reply from Jiang Qingmeng came. A chill seeped into her heart, one creeping degree at a time.

“Qingmeng, you look incredible in that gown. Though it does seem a little chilly. Cold? Want me to warm you up with my body…”

The nauseating flirtation made Jiang Zhizhou’s skin crawl. She edged closer.

“Qingmeng, cat got your tongue? Forgotten already? Back then, you pulled out all the stops to cling to me, dying for a scandal…”

In the darkness, Jiang Zhizhou finally heard Jiang Qingmeng speak.

“Lin Mo, you’re drunk. Go home.”

The young man bristled at that, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Go home? You trying to ditch me? Now that I’m washed up, you’re burning bridges? Climbed into some big shot’s bed and loving it, huh? That Xu Sheng? Good in the sack, is he? Serves you well? I can do better—want to give it a shot? Right here?”

Her pupils snapped tight. Jiang Zhizhou’s fists clenched hard.