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Though Jiang Huan had long been at odds with her previous producer, culminating in the latter’s resignation, the damage was mutual. The former producer’s constant belittling of her writing left her needing to take a deep breath every time she opened a document. Every two weeks, she churned out the required volume of content, only for it to be dismissed as lacking visual appeal. Using Hollywood standards and the “Save the Cat” methodology to critique her work, he didn’t even understand what “Save the Cat” or character arcs truly meant. Worst of all, he insisted he understood love, yet his writing ended up resembling outdated male-centric narratives, bordering on inappropriate descriptions of women—essentially an AV perspective.
To this day, shedding these forcibly ingrained bad habits felt like recovering from the aftereffects of a severe illness. There was no time to heal, no money for a vacation. Jiang Huan knew that her sole advantage lay in her determination to keep going—to create an open world where girls could live freely. It didn’t need to rival AAA productions or delve into gender equality debates. Her ultimate goal was for girls in Romance Continent to feel uplifted and cherished.
Bai Jingchuan telling her to surpass him? Did she hear that right? She was just a scriptwriter who had slogged through three or four years of grunt work, revised countless drafts without ever seeing them go live—not even worthy of being called a screenwriter, let alone a head writer. Surpass him?
Sure, there were plenty of people who boasted, but Jiang Huan never made empty promises. She wasn’t at the stage where anything she wrote would be celebrated. Though the idea was exhilarating, it felt more like a desperate last stand—a dying horse treated as if it might still gallop.
The meeting proceeded as scheduled. In the preceding days, Jiang Huan and her colleagues brainstormed together, filling and erasing whiteboards repeatedly. They holed up in a nearby hotel, alternating shifts to write, crying as they typed furiously. They completed the story outline and twenty chapters of plot. When disagreements arose, each person wrote their preferred version of contentious scenes. Confident they’d done enough, Jiang Huan watched Bai Jingchuan push his glasses up, his expression stern as he flipped from the first page to the last. He preferred reading physical manuscripts; the sound of turning pages was unnerving, almost torturous. Trapped in the office for so long, opportunities to relax or absorb new ideas were scarce. Jiang Huan kept telling herself to wait it out—to endure until the year-end bonus or project launch. Year after year passed, and her thinking grew rigid. She failed to notice grammatical errors in her typing. These issues she recognized, but those she didn’t were bound to surface. Bottlenecks weren’t so easily resolved…
After finishing the manuscript, Bai Jingchuan’s first move was to turn and look at Jiang Huan. “You’re only twenty-eight—are you already dead inside?”
“…”
“To be selected by Lori to write narrative scripts means you have the ability to grasp emotions. Is this really the best you can offer? To me, this story feels like garbage—a result of losing interest in the project, avoiding communication with colleagues, and forcing yourself to write something hurriedly because you’re afraid of me and want to keep your job.”
“…”
“Are you tailoring the text to fit the visuals and animations provided by other departments because communication is difficult? This male lead feels stiff, contrived, and inconsistent with his core persona. He’s unlikable and has no memorable name.”
“…”
One blow after another—Bai Jingchuan certainly knew how to crush someone. As he continued his onslaught, Jiang Huan’s head sank lower and lower, wishing she could disappear beneath sea level.
“I don’t care how you wrote this. The next draft needs genuine emotion. If you’ve experienced heartbreak, pour that loss into your words. If you’re afraid of being fired, channel that fear. Describe your heart shattering, fall in love with your characters if you must… Worry about private settings? Then seek resonant emotions. Shrinking back in fear will only produce mediocrity. Soulless work can be outsourced or synthesized by AI. I want to see your emotions, to judge whether you’re worth it.”
This was the first time Bai Jingchuan had spoken so bluntly and mercilessly. Jiang Huan, accustomed to his random bouts of cheesiness, now realized this was his true nature—rational, results-driven, unafraid to show his ruthless side. Yet, even Bai Jingchuan, who clearly favored her, berated her incompetence in front of everyone, leaving her face burning with shame.
Inwardly, Jiang Huan sighed. Even if she needed a push, this felt too painful.
Bai Jingchuan placed the manuscript on the table, his voice low but firm, deliberately piling on the pressure. “One weekend. Can you fix it?”
Too afraid to nod or shake her head, Jiang Huan clenched her teeth as she stared at Bai Jingchuan. Any interaction with him made her refuse to admit defeat.
「Jiang Huan’s Favorability +50.」
That weekend, Jiang Huan hid in the library’s reference room, flipping through screenwriting books one by one, searching for techniques to patch her flaws. The boss adored Hollywood storytelling methods and favored protagonists akin to civil servants. Childhood friends and rivals both had to appear, true love turned into enmity, villains redeemed by love—she’d written everything. Art direction was set, technology finalized, motion capture completed, lip-syncing matched. What else could she add?
It seemed someone was watching her through the bookshelves. Jiang Huan squinted—it was… Sandimon. She was surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for materials and meeting someone to discuss business.” Sandimon adjusted his glasses. “You rejected my invitation and ignored my messages, so running into you here is purely coincidental. But if something’s troubling you, shouldn’t you tell the ‘god’ of Renwu Road?”
Jiang Huan couldn’t bring herself to admit she’d been publicly criticized by her boss during a meeting. Seeing Sandimon felt like finding solace in a gentle embrace, making her want to cry. Unable to verbalize her feelings, she joked, “Well, here we are.”
“You seem troubled.”
“It’s nothing. You’ve seen me at my most awkward moments. Telling you this would just add to my embarrassment.”
“Oh? Why not? I’m happy to share your burdens.”
“You’re my creditor. Even though the debt’s paid, I can’t rely on you too much. What if I can’t stand on my own?”
“But the debt’s settled, and you haven’t relied on me much. You gave me a set of enamel mugs, saying you’d use them to entertain guests, but you broke them all, never giving anyone a chance to use them. The remaining two I took home—one with a little brown bear for me, one with a black kitten for you. You always mix them up, and now you say you can’t rely on me. Hmm, seems like you really don’t need me anymore…”
Sandimon feigned sadness, though his acting was poor. After a few sentences, Jiang Huan caved. Sandimon placed a finger to his lips. “Let’s keep our voices down. Only I will hear this—I won’t tell anyone.”
Sandimon pulled Jiang Huan to sit on the bay window between the bookshelves. It was a bit cramped, but she enjoyed the shoulder-to-shoulder feeling. Lowering their voices, they leaned close. Sandimon’s earlobes, reddened by the sun, were visible, even the fine hairs. A faint scent wafted from him. Listening patiently, Sandimon refrained from immediate judgment. “You seem to like small spaces.”
“Yeah, they oddly make me feel secure. Growing up poor, our house was tiny, and I often squeezed into small spots. Maybe it was because Mom would lock me in the washing machine drum while she did chores. Back then, I’d help her pick bugs from damp rice, peel rotten peaches for jam, knit scarves, and watch dust dance in the air. I imagined all sorts of strange stories.”
Rarely hearing Jiang Huan open up, Sandimon found it fascinating. He reached out to brush away a stray hair at the corner of her mouth. Someone passing by glanced at them, so Sandimon spread open a picture book, blocking their faces. The image was from the movie Before Sunset .
“Are we being loud?”
Just then, a boy screamed, dragged out of the library by his mother. The two exchanged a soft laugh, barely audible, like warm breath against ears. No wonder they were mistaken for a couple.
Rarely seen without sunglasses, cooking noodles or gaming, Sandimon appeared far wiser today, especially appearing in a library—an unexpected sight. Sunlight fell on glossy paper; the books were heavy, but Sandimon didn’t close them, shutting others out as their whispers grew softer. The warmth of his shoulder touched hers, sparking a flicker of attraction. Remembering how Sandimon’s meticulously collected evidence helped her oust her previous producer, Jiang Huan scratched her head. “I owe you for helping me get rid of my former producer.”
“Paving the way for those pursuing their dreams isn’t much.”
“Unfortunately, I’m out of imagination these days. I was much better as a teenager.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. But too much imagination isn’t always good.” Jiang Huan tapped her temple. “In middle school, our Chinese teacher assigned an essay titled ‘My Journey with My Talent.’ Classmates wrote about painting, playing piano, ballet… but I hadn’t learned anything. I’d only peeked into art classes and seen a neighbor’s sister’s woodcuts. So I fabricated a story, My Journey with Painting, adding vivid details—how hard I worked, how obsessed I was, even cutting my hand with a knife and dripping blood onto the paper… The essay was so lifelike that the teacher photocopied 156 copies for all her students to read. She praised it as exemplary, dedicating a class to dissecting it. I sat there, mortified. When the teacher asked if it was true, I could only nod and show the scar on my hand. Inside, I thought, ‘Teacher, you know nothing. I got mocked by my grandmother for tracing Sailor Moon drawings with a pencil. That scar? I stabbed myself with a stick out of boredom during winter break. All that inspiration was fabricated…’” Jiang Huan covered her face, laughing awkwardly. “I’ve been faking things to convince others my whole life. Oh god, so embarrassing.”
“But isn’t that your talent?”
“What talent…”
“Crafting believable stories. Bai Jingchuan criticizing you doesn’t mean outright rejection. Sometimes, when gears misalign, you just need to shift their position to make them work again. You simply need to find the right angle.”
Jiang Huan paused. “Sandimon, too much praise will blind me.”
Sandimon pulled the screenwriting book from her hands. “If I recall correctly, you’ve read this book three times. You’re already agile enough. You’re too close to see clearly—you need to step back, regain that initial spark.”
“Do you think falling in love with someone helps in writing characters?”
“Absolutely. Abundant emotions are essential for any artist.”
“I’m no artist…”
“But mastering emotions is crucial. I believe in you. Human emotions are universal, whether friendship or love. Shining elements can always be distilled and placed where they belong. As long as it’s sincere, audiences will resonate and be moved. Do you understand what I’m saying? Most importantly, the person writing these stories is you.”
Being with Sandimon felt like swinging on a swing—endlessly playful, never wanting to stop, yet never finding a place to rest. But he kept pushing her back, letting her soar higher and see distant views. Jiang Huan attributed this to his charming, cunning nature. For a fleeting moment, she felt like she’d found a place to land. “How do you stay so relaxed all the time…”
“I have my struggles too, but seeing you calms me. Having important people nearby makes me feel at ease.”
“Does every person you’ve helped on Renwu Road make you feel this way?”
Sandimon pursed his lips, his smile tinged with mild reproach but no anger. Knowing better than to ask further, Jiang Huan slipped away quickly. “I’ll go browse some more. You focus on your work.”
Wandering among the shelves, Jiang Huan’s steps grew lighter, as if infected by the tranquil yet ambiguous atmosphere of Before Sunset, or perhaps genuinely comforted by Sandimon. She wanted to ask Sandimon who he was meeting or what kind of materials the boss of Renwu Road had come to the library for, but she couldn’t pry too much—it would overstep. After all, Sandimon was the “god” of Renwu Road, and her probing might cross a line. But on second thought, Sandimon’s secrets rivaled Bai Jingchuan’s, both men shrouded in mystery, speaking in riddles as if hiding stories behind their enigmatic facades made them even more alluring.
After flipping through countless books and reading various romantic plots, Jiang Huan wandered back to Sandimon like a dancer spinning gracefully. He had found a spot to lean against and doze off. His glasses were slightly askew, pressing into his face and leaving a small indentation on his nose bridge. Jiang Huan reached out slowly, carefully removing his glasses to avoid waking him. Sandimon didn’t stir. Finally freeing the glasses, she accidentally dropped them with a soft clap onto the floor. A passerby glanced over, and Jiang Huan scrambled to pick them up, offering an apologetic gesture.
Sandimon remained undisturbed. Jiang Huan studied the creases around his eyelids and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Dust particles danced lazily in the sunlight, their movements almost choreographed. Memories of her childhood joy surfaced again. It was so quiet here—Sandimon, if miniaturized, would be a lovely ornament for a pale, cozy study, perhaps something soft and plush. She picked up his glasses and tried them on briefly, only to feel dizzy instantly. So young and already farsighted? That must mean he had eagle eyes, able to grasp distant details effortlessly…
The person before her stirred slightly, waking up. Seeing Jiang Huan holding his glasses, he looked surprised, reaching out quickly to take them back. “Sorry, did you wait long?”
“No, I just sat down. But… you’re farsighted? How do you cook noodles without mixing up seasonings?”
“Nothing special, just practice.” In a few short sentences, Sandimon smoothly deflected the topic of his vision. “I still have things to do. If you need inspiration from art books, feel free to visit me. I have original prints from Hong Kong and Taiwan.”
Jiang Huan was taken aback. “Is there anything Sandimon doesn’t collect?”
“You,” he replied simply.
His words earned him an eye roll from Jiang Huan, who reached out to tousle his bangs—teasing him, though she didn’t fully believe his flattery. Still, it was enough to soothe her.
At noon, Jiang Huan arrived at Renwu Road with coffee in hand. She knocked on the door, which wasn’t locked. The bosses here were neighbors, their doors rarely secured. Calling out a few times, she realized Sandimon wasn’t home—he must’ve left to attend to something. Jiang Huan slipped off her shoes and entered. Bookshelves lined the floors, filled with art albums and setting collections. For two hours, she meticulously flipped through them, taking notes while sprawled on the carpet, feeling satisfied. As she stood up, she noticed the furniture had been slightly rearranged. Sandimon had moved the table, leaving a gap big enough for someone—or something—to squeeze into. Did he drop something and forget to push it back? The floor was spotless, save for a cotton cushion that had fallen sideways into the gap. Jiang Huan stared at this sunlit corner for a long time, placed her cup on the edge of the table, and backed into the space. She fit perfectly, basking in the warm sunlight. Reaching for the copy of The Nightingale and the Rose on the table, she quietly flipped through its pages. One line struck her: “What brings me joy is his suffering.” The nightingale sacrificed its life for the blooming rose. Jiang Huan thought of Sandimon—did he ever miss the 2D characters he once loved while drawing illustrations? Would the longing and sadness for those characters fade with time?
Strange visions invaded her dreams—a hybrid of an arena and an unfamiliar cyberpunk city. Familiarity outweighed strangeness. She walked back and forth on endless staircases, gripping her fists in anxiety. It felt like both her school and a bustling street. Amid the crowd, someone gazed at her from afar—not a stranger, yet she couldn’t recall who it was.
「Dream Track Activated. Awaiting Launch.」
She awoke with a jolt, finding Sandimon kneeling before her. The afternoon sunlight bathed him in warmth—he wore a V-neck sweater, revealing his collarbone and neck. His gaze met hers as he leaned closer. Jiang Huan felt uneasy. “Can you see me clearly?”
“Other things are blurry, but when it comes to you, yes.”
Jiang Huan didn’t understand. What made her so special? Weren’t they all human?
“This gap—I deliberately moved the table to create it.”
“Huh?”
“The best way to handle mischievous kids or kittens is to leave a crack they can crawl into. They’ll find the space and play by themselves. It’s a secret weapon for capturing curiosity and innocence. But from another perspective, those who like squeezing into cracks often lack confidence. When they’re hurt, they instinctively hide, yet part of them still wants to be found.”
“You really know psychology…”
“Not at all. I just understand you well and have enough patience. You let your guard down around me, so you fell into my trap.”
“A trap…” Jiang Huan squirmed awkwardly in the confined space. “You’re my safest support. Even if you’re not a ‘gentle haven,’ how could you possibly be a trap?”
“Then why are you stuck here? Isn’t that unconvincing?”
He lightly tapped her nose. Wherever Sandimon was, everything seemed softened by a gentle filter. He never exuded intimidation or superiority. Here he knelt on the floor, gazing at her warmly. Jiang Huan clutched The Nightingale and the Rose, seated snugly in the corner. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek. She saw herself reflected in his slightly nervous eyes—no winks, no bitten lips, no intention of kissing. Just pure, clean gentleness. The mole at the corner of his smile hinted at some hidden agenda, but his stubble suggested he’d squeezed in this time for her. Unable to retreat or push past him, she tried to avoid his gaze but noticed the lipstick-stained cup on the table—a bear pattern. She’d used the wrong cup again.
He always forgot to hide his own cups.
PS: Xiao Zhang is here! Gulped down two cups of coffee and finished writing cheerfully. Welcome to add this story to your bookshelf and vote for recommendations. Waiting for everyone in the comments today!
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