Zhu Liyue had always believed that dreams were earned the hard way—through scraped knees, sleepless nights, and the quiet humiliation of being told not yet over and over again. She believed that if she worked hard enough, stayed sincere enough, and loved acting deeply enough, the world would eventually meet her halfway.
That belief cracked on a gray afternoon that smelled faintly of dust, perfume, and old money.
The audition hall was vast but hollow, its polished marble floors reflecting chandeliers that glowed without warmth. Rows of velvet chairs sat like silent judges, and behind a long table were people who barely looked human anymore—casting directors with tired eyes, assistants whispering brand names instead of notes, and producers who scanned faces the way investors scanned stock charts. Zhu Liyue stood at the marked line on the floor, script clutched tightly in her hands, heart racing in her ears.
She never crossed that line.
A quick glance. A murmured exchange. A polite, rehearsed smile.
"Thank you for coming. We've already found someone who fits the role."
Fits the role.
They didn't say she lacked talent. They didn't say she was bad. They didn't even let her speak.
What they wanted was clear enough without words—beauty sculpted to trend, elegance trained since childhood, connections woven into silk gowns and champagne parties.
They wanted actresses who already belonged to their world, not girls who arrived with hope instead of a surname.
Zhu Liyue bowed, because that was what you did when dignity was all you had left. When she turned away, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall—eyes too bright, smile too stiff, shoulders held high as if pride could replace opportunity. The reflection didn't look like a future star. It looked like a girl pretending she hadn't just lost something precious.
The acting world called itself merit-based.
Zhu Liyue learned early that merit came second to favor, and favor was reserved for those already chosen.
And then there was Yin Meixiu.
If Zhu Liyue burned quietly, Yin Meixiu was ice—smooth, composed, and sharp enough to draw blood without moving. She was always there. At auditions. At workshops. In casting rumors that slithered through backstage corridors. She never confronted Zhu Liyue outright, never gloated, never challenged her openly.
She didn't need to.
Yin Meixiu competed the way shadows competed with light—by simply existing in the same space and making everything else seem unnecessary. Where Zhu Liyue was raw and earnest, Yin Meixiu was refined. Where Zhu Liyue acted from the chest, Yin Meixiu calculated from the mind. And worst of all, Zhu Liyue had never truly tried to outdo her.
She hadn't wanted a rivalry.
But Yin Meixiu treated her existence as provocation enough.
Every role Zhu Liyue failed to get seemed to drift effortlessly into Yin Meixiu's hands.
Every compliment Zhu Liyue overheard felt like a comparison she was losing without having agreed to play. Yin Meixiu never acknowledged it, yet her silence screamed competition—an unspoken insistence on winning against an opponent who hadn't even stepped onto the field.
Defeat piled quietly, like dust settling on unused props.
Night came early after days like that.
The city transformed under neon lights—brilliant, noisy, indifferent. Zhu Liyue walked without direction, heels tapping against damp pavement, coat pulled tight against a wind that felt personal. Billboards loomed overhead, faces smiling with manufactured perfection, eyes following her like accusations.
That was when she found the convenience store.
Or perhaps, when it found her.
It sat between two shuttered shops at the edge of a narrow street that never seemed to belong to any map. Its sign flickered inconsistently, letters half-lit, as if undecided about its own existence. The windows were crowded with everything and nothing—snacks beside incense, batteries next to talismans, instant noodles sharing space with antique-looking trinkets no one ever bought.
The door chimed when she entered.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly metallic, carrying the smell of old paper and rain.
Shelves stretched too far back for a store so small outside. The fluorescent lights hummed softly, casting long shadows that didn't quite obey the angles they should have.
Behind the counter stood Yan Ze.
He looked ordinary at first glance—black hair, pale skin, clothes too plain to remember. But something about him resisted definition, as if he were slightly out of focus no matter how closely you looked. His presence was calm in a way that didn't comfort so much as observe.
"You're open late," Zhu Liyue said, her voice sounding smaller in the quiet.
Yan Ze nodded. "We're always open."
It was the way he said always that made her pause.
He didn't ask what she needed. He didn't look at her like a failed actress or a disappointed dreamer. His eyes held no recognition, no judgment—only a steady attentiveness, as though she were exactly where she was supposed to be.
Zhu Liyue wandered the aisles, fingertips brushing items she didn't need. For the first time that day, her chest loosened. The world outside—with its auditions, hierarchies, and unspoken rules—felt distant, muffled by humming lights and quiet shelves.
This place was strange. Yan Ze was strange.
And yet, in a city that had rejected her before she could speak, this odd little store made space for her silence.
Zhu Liyue didn't know it yet, but some failures didn't end stories.
Some led you somewhere else entirely.