“Hello, is this Director Shang…?”

“Yes. Come in.”

With no office to her name, Shang Jingyan had no choice but to use the living room of her rented apartment as a makeshift meeting space. The new place was practically bare, and even the “interview table” was just the dining table repurposed for the occasion.

“Have a seat.”

She glanced at the woman in the red dress with flowing black hair in front of her, then looked down to compare her with the resume.

Wu Rui, a local actress from the Exiled Star System. A “Z-list” celebrity, barely a blip on the industry radar.

Ordinary family background. Orphaned young. Raised in a welfare home. Debuted at sixteen. Talented, but not exceptionally so—always just one step short of true success, her career stagnating in mediocrity.

In recent years, her workload had dwindled. Rumors suggested she was suffering from Psychic Void Syndrome.

To put it bluntly, in the vast interstellar entertainment industry, resumes like this were a dime a dozen.

But in an era where AI simulations and Dreamweavers could fabricate performances themselves, the competition among actors was cutthroat. Good looks alone were nowhere near enough. Nearly every actor who managed to stay in the industry had some degree of skill worth mentioning.

The moment Shang Jingyan saw Wu Rui in person, she knew it wasn’t just a rumor—Wu Rui definitely had Psychic Void Syndrome.

She was gaunt, her skin deathly pale, dark circles heavy under her eyes. Compared to the beauty stored in the database, she was almost unrecognizable.

This was precisely why Shang Jingyan insisted on an in-person interview instead of a virtual one. She needed to confirm this for herself. Still, while Wu Rui’s physical condition was poor, her mental state seemed stable enough—Shang Jingyan could feel the faint fluctuations of her mental energy.

While Shang Jingyan was sizing up Wu Rui, Wu Rui was also quietly observing her.

Her first impression? She’s so young.

And clearly still in the early stages of her career. The apartment was newly rented, in a mediocre neighborhood, with unremarkable conditions. She wondered if the previous place had been even more modest.

But despite her youth, Shang Jingyan carried an undeniable sense of authority—far beyond many veteran Dreamweavers Wu Rui had encountered. When those emerald-green eyes locked onto her, she felt an almost cutting sharpness, like she might be sliced open just from the gaze alone.

Even in this sparse, unimpressive room, it was as if she could command a thousand-person film set at a moment’s notice.

Shang Jingyan had a straightforward work style. After skimming the resume, she got straight to the point: “Let’s see a performance. No props. Try the seashell-picking scene from Eldritch God.“

Wu Rui had studied Eldritch God extensively before coming here. Without hesitation, she slipped into character.

She thought she’d done exceptionally well. But when she opened her eyes and met Shang Jingyan’s calm, unreadable expression, her confidence wavered.

Shang Jingyan simply said, “Much better than the original.”

It was an objective statement. After all, the original scene had been generated using preset parameters—it lacked the depth and nuance of a human performance. More importantly, Wu Rui’s take added her touch, giving the Eldritch God a subtle, brooding intensity.

“You’re hoping to secure a role in my next film?” Shang Jingyan asked. “Why me?”

After all, she had only one film to her name. Among all the Dreamweavers Wu Rui had worked with, Shang Jingyan was by far the least established.

Wu Rui smiled bitterly. “To be honest, Director Shang… I don’t have many choices left.”

Plagued by Psychic Void Syndrome, she had gone nearly two years without any work. Her agency was already considering terminating her contract. She desperately needed a new project to prove herself, but no Dreamweaver wanted to work with someone suffering from advanced-stage Psychic Void Syndrome.

Yes—Wu Rui’s condition had officially progressed to Stage Three since the beginning of the year. At this severity, even a minor shock could completely shatter her mental state, reducing her to a living corpse.

“But more importantly…” Wu Rui clenched the strap of her bag, her voice tinged with nervousness. “Your Eldritch God… it actually helped my condition.”

She took a deep breath. “I haven’t truly slept in years. But for the past few days, whenever I immerse myself in your mental field… I can sleep.”

No one else could possibly understand what a miracle this was. Her neural metrics had improved by ten points, bringing her condition back to Stage Two.

“I’m incredibly grateful. When I saw you were still casting, I had to take the chance and reach out. I don’t even need a salary—I just want to help however I can.”

She clearly wasn’t great at selling herself, but her sincerity was evident.

Shang Jingyan knew this feeling all too well—that sense of helplessness and desperation after life had beaten you down. She was silent for a moment, then said, “Your aura fits the tone of my next film. But I don’t think you’re right for the lead.”

This was a two-way decision.

Shang Jingyan was still a nobody in the industry. She couldn’t afford big-name actors, nor did she have connections to easily scout talent.

Two years ago, Wu Rui would’ve been out of her budget.

Wu Rui blinked, confused. “Why not?”

“Because of your mental state.”

Rouge Comb was a deeply oppressive story. The female lead would endure immense psychological stress—far more than any other character.

Shang Jingyan had seen too many actors take on roles like this, only to never recover. Some developed mental illnesses. Some were forever changed.

Wu Rui, in her current condition, was too fragile to take that risk.

Besides, her looks were too striking—perfect for the Eldritch God, but not quite right for Gao Xiaoyun.

Wu Rui’s expression dimmed. She thought this was a polite rejection.

“However…” Shang Jingyan continued, her tone shifting. “There is another role you might be perfect for. The character’s appearance matches your type exactly.”

Hope flickered back in Wu Rui’s eyes. “What role?”

Shang Jingyan thought for a moment. “Well… based on screen time, he’s technically the male lead.”

Wu Rui: “?”

Shang Jingyan chuckled and extended her hand. “If you’re interested, then let’s make it official.”

—

Meanwhile, over at V061.

“Shang Jingyan… She’s beyond what I can teach.”

When Xiao Zhang enthusiastically recommended her, Chai Yuanlin responded with a simple statement.

Xiao Zhang was taken aback. “Is it because of her style? But…”

But she was still a newcomer. Horror might be an effective niche for now, but was she supposed to stick with it for life? Could she really sustain enough innovation to keep going?

Xiao Zhang couldn’t imagine it.

Chai Yuanlin shook her head, unwilling to elaborate. “Her style is already very mature.”

Shang Jingyan was so polished she didn’t seem like a rookie at all. Every frame of her work exuded directorial control and an undeniable sense of authority.

A Dreamweaver like her had long since outgrown the need for a mentor.

Sure, Chai Yuanlin could leverage her experience to take on students, but forcing herself into the role of “early mentor” would only strain their relationship.

It was better to just be a senior figure, offering guidance where needed, exchanging sincerity for sincerity. Even from a pragmatic standpoint, the potential future returns would be far greater.

“If I had to guess, what she needs most right now is…” Chai Yuanlin tapped her fingers against the table. “Actors. Xiao Zhang, got any recommendations from your classmates?”

–

With actors involved, it was no longer something that could be shot in just a few days.

Shang Jingyan had Wu Rui focus on getting familiar with the script while she cast a wider net for the remaining roles. Two days in, she still hadn’t found the right actress for the female lead, but she had nearly locked in all the male roles.

Half a month flew by. It was almost time for her follow-up appointment, and You Yao was already hitting her up again.

You Yao: [Pan, I just saw a Dreamweaver named “Jingyan'” That’s you, isn’t it?]

You Yao: [?]

[And did you actually act in one of the roles? You used a fake face, but I still recognized you, hahaha.]

[But why did you age yourself up? Not gonna lie, your acting was solid. Playing a cop in her 30s didn’t feel out of place at all—you could steal my job at this rate.]

[A screenshot of you leaning against the squad car, frowning and lighting a cigarette, is all over the place. A bunch of people changed their avatars to it. Even my coworker’s using it.]

Shang Jingyan opened her messages to find 99+ unread texts. She chuckled.

To her, people like Wu Rui and You Yao felt like younger kids.

She replied with a single word: [Yeah.]

[Legendary.]

[Can I be in your next project?]

As messages kept pouring in, she heard knocking at her door.

“Open up! I’m freezing out here! Did you move without a word? Didn’t even report it to the higher-ups.”

Shang Jingyan frowned slightly, feeling a reflexive resistance.

She hadn’t informed the so-called organization, true, but clearly… they had still been keeping tabs on her movements. You Yao had come straight to her doorstep.

Just what kind of organization was this? And were the strange debts the original owner owed somehow tied to them?

She opened the door to see a young man with blond hair and bright green eyes stamping his feet, shaking off snowflakes.

V059’s northern hemisphere was entering winter, and the first snow had already begun to fall. For the sake of fashion, he was only wearing a hoodie, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

The guy was just as talkative in person as he was online. Before she could ask anything, he was already rambling: “The organization noticed what you’ve been up to. Guess what?”

Shang Jingyan remained expressionless. “What?”

You Yao burst out laughing. “The higher-ups had a big argument, then decided you did a great job!”

Shang Jingyan: “?”

You Yao clapped her on the shoulder. “I swear, you’re a genius. How did you even come up with that style? Was it all part of your plan?”

Between his nonstop chatter, she finally pieced things together.

Turns out, the organization wasn’t against all artistic works—they were just opposed to the overly idealistic aesthetic that dominated the interstellar entertainment scene.

The higher-ups had debated over her work and, in the end, approved of what she was doing.

Shang Jingyan: “…”

So she had accidentally stumbled onto the right path?

“Why are you here?” she asked, cutting to the point.

“Oh, right! Almost forgot.” You Yao grinned. “First, to confirm that you actually live here. Second, to let you know there’s a general meeting in two days. Be ready—they’ll probably ask you to talk about your work as a Dreamweaver.”

He bared his teeth in a grin. “Bad timing, though—it clashes with your doctor’s appointment. You can skip that.”

A general meeting.

That meant that, after all this time, she was finally about to step into the world the original owner had been part of.

Shang Jingyan’s pupils contracted slightly, but she kept her expression casual. “Got it. I’ll be ready.”

–

She had imagined something straight out of a spy movie—some random person slipping her a piece of paper in a quiet alley with an address, and then two days of hushed observation.

Instead, on the appointed day, she was abruptly yanked into a psychic meeting room mid-afternoon nap.

Shang Jingyan: “…”

Right. Psychic era. That was on her for being narrow-minded.

Everyone else appeared as translucent white humanoid figures, all dressed in formal wear.

She was the only one standing there in a dinosaur-print pajama robe.

Her brand-new sleepwear. She had just put it on today.

Shang Jingyan: “…………”

Thirty-something years old in spirit, and yet her tiny indulgence had just been exposed in public. Embarrassing.

The person seated at the head of the table stared at her tail for a full thirty seconds before finally speaking:

“Pan, this is what you meant by ‘ready’?”