Chapter 10

Directors changing scripts is commonplace. Novels and scripts are different—stories unfolded in text form sometimes can’t be perfectly recreated through filming.

Wen Zhixu’s first work was one she personally adapted. That year on set, adding scenes for actors while under pressure from investors was her most exhausting time.

The subplot of Fog Condensing on the Window follows a yuri line—the role played by Tang Qin. Actually, Ke Yixuan had proactively requested to play this role at the start, but her agent rejected it later.

From afar, the Eight-Dimensional City looked like it had stepped into a futuristic world, but up close it was full of everyday hustle and bustle. After dinner, Wen Zhixu made a trip to the bookstore.

It was just past seven, and summer nights stayed light late. The bookstore’s warm yellow lights projected upward from the bottom of the shelves, as if vying for dominance with the white ceiling lights.

Little did they know, from the moment those white lights flickered on, they had already lost. Wen Zhixu’s books would still sit right next to these authors’.

Of course, the book Ru Shi she wrote in university would only be shelved deeper inside.

She stood by the entrance rack, an audiobook playing in her earphones—suspense stories were her favorite.

Before setting foot in Chongqing, Fog City had seemed perfect for an urban fantasy tale.

Later, she realized this city had stories of its own: endless mountains and rivers, smoky flavors, spicy nine-grid feasts, light rail threading through buildings—that was the ideal, that was life.

The bestsellers on the shelves were all from new authors in recent years. Wen Zhixu flipped through a few casually. She’d devoured novels in junior high, then started submitting short stories to magazines.

She wasn’t one of those naturally gifted authors. Her smoothest run was probably with the ‘Jiuqu’ magazine, which accepted quite a few of her pieces.

In high school, she started a Weibo account and gained a bunch of younger fans, sharing bits of daily life and listing her dream university in her bio. Later on, it started affecting her grades, and under her mom’s pressure, she ditched those empty dreams.

At this thought, Wen Zhixu pulled her attention from the book. She shelved it—the one next to it was hers.

Across the aisle, two girls had been watching her for a while. Now, one approached hesitantly. “Excuse me, are you Teacher Wen Zhixu?”

The girl meant no harm and didn’t look too old. Wen Zhixu relaxed her guard, her gaze shifting to the book in the girl’s hand.

She nodded, curving her lips into a smile.

“Teacher Wen, I’ve been reading your books since junior high. I love them—could you sign one for me?” The girl’s face lit up with delight.

Wen Zhixu wasn’t some celebrity. Her writing had brought her some fame, but not enough to be recognized out and about.

Wen Zhixu grabbed a demo pen from the shelf. “Sure.”

The girl hadn’t unwrapped the packaging. “Then wait just a sec, Teacher—I’ll go pay first.”

Wen Zhixu waited right there, not wandering off. Being recognized felt strangely irrational.

The bookstore wasn’t busy. In under five minutes, the girl hurried back, clutching the clear wrapper in her left hand. She flipped open the book and handed it over.

Wen Zhixu propped it on her left forearm, careful not to crease the pages.

The black signing pen rasped across the paper, the sound sharp in the quiet space.

The girl grinned. “Teacher, you’re so pretty. Could we take a photo together after?”

Wen Zhixu’s wrist slowed at the girl’s words. She finished signing and returned the pen to its spot. Wen Zhixu didn’t have an author Weibo anymore—after shutting it down in high school, she’d had no plans to restart.

After posing for the photo, she didn’t linger. She bought two books and left the store.

The audiobook hit its final chapter. Wen Zhixu shifted the bag to her wrist, tilted her head to slip off her earphones, pulled her phone from her pocket, and paused it.

On impulse, she checked the script from Wang Yun.

Wang Yun [Xiao Xu, take a look. The screenwriter revised it per your suggestions. For the first scene, you said it changed the female lead’s character—they’ve restored it as much as possible.]

Wen Zhixu replied first, then opened the doc. She stepped to the street edge, under the eaves, scanned it quickly, and typed back.

[Director Wang, thanks for the hard work. I saw it. The whole novel’s theme is female autonomy and independence. If the main plot has the female lead relying on the male second lead’s funding to turn things around, the theme gets ruined.]

This was Wen Zhixu’s second reminder. Hot web dramas all centered powerful male leads with females in support. That wasn’t Fog Condensing on the Window‘s intent.

As long as the core theme she promoted for the book stayed intact, she didn’t mind other tweaks.

Wang Yun messaged back. Wen Zhixu let out a shallow breath of relief. She still hadn’t checked the revisions for Tang Qin’s role.

Tang Qin’s character sat in an awkward spot. Unwilling to drop the script, diving into this mess gave Wen Zhixu a headache.

Night brought a thin drizzle. By the time Wen Zhixu got home, it had turned into a downpour, finally easing the muggy heat.

Just inside the door, WeChat pinged. She opened it to see her chief editor forwarding a post. Before even clicking, her name in the title set her on edge.

Below was a thirty-second voice note. Wen Zhixu hit play…

“Xiao Xu, seen this post? Best steer clear of crew drama. When’d you piss off Tang Qin? We checked the online post—looks like it’s from her studio.”

Wen Zhixu remembered the recognition earlier. In the morning, Tang Qin had dragged her into a photo op. By the evening, the article had dropped. It was lightning fast, leaving her no room to breathe.

She checked the post first. Title: Tang Qin Takes Female Second Role for Her Bestie.

She sucked in a cold breath. The pic was today’s off-site shot of her and Tang Qin, followed by a full breakdown of the “incident.”

Comments gushed over Tang Qin—controlled narrative, zero negativity. From “Tang Qin lands female second due to shaky acting” to “loyal friend with a heart of gold.”

Wen Zhixu read the whole thing calmly, then held down the voice key back in WeChat. “I didn’t offend her. She brought the screenwriter onto set.”

Message sent—another came right away.

“Got it. So she wants more scenes. Contract says you’re on-site with script review rights—no adds without you.”

Listening, it clicked for Wen Zhixu. Tang Qin wouldn’t ditch the script but wanted to whitewash the role too—wanting it all, fish and bear paw. Playing the yuri line meant a “selling rot” label sticking forever, no matter what she did next.

Tweaking that line meant cutting segments, but the original made it crystal clear: pure yuri. Scrub it clean, and the airing gets flak. Hint at it in details, and clip-happy netizens drag the pair out anyway.

Post-production promo too. Truth was, this role wasn’t a smart play for Tang Qin. Young as she was, taking it could’ve broadened her path…

Wen Zhixu hadn’t replied yet when another voice note from the editor dropped. She tapped play.

“This post is pressuring you. Change the script or not—your call. But I say, less trouble’s better. You’ve got more posts about you online now. Media wants an online voice interview—think it over?”

Wen Zhixu tapped out: Not yet. I’ll mull it tomorrow.