The scent of sandalwood lingered thick in the air.
Yichen opened his eyes slowly, not to the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room or the cold glare of a spotlight, but to the gilded canopy of an ornate bed, its silk curtains trembling with the faint draft of summer wind.
The sheets beneath him were rougher than he was used to. The weight of the blanket—quilted, embroidered with auspicious clouds and flying cranes—pressed down on his chest as if to remind him: this is no set.
He blinked once. Then twice.
And the silence of this unfamiliar world settled in.
No hum of electricity. No distant honking. No assistant muttering lines outside a trailer.
Just the soft rustle of wind through carved lattice windows. A cicada's lazy drone. And somewhere, the faintest echo of footsteps—measured and deliberate—against stone tiles.
A servant?
He turned his head slowly. A sharp pain bloomed at his temple, sudden and white-hot, as if someone had driven a nail through his skull. He inhaled through clenched teeth, fingers trembling as they reached up to probe the source. Cloth. Rough and slightly damp, wound tightly around his forehead.
An injury.
His mind reeled, scrambling to catch hold of the last threads of memory.
The awards ceremony. The cheers. The spotlight dazzling his vision. Then the headlines the next morning, vicious and precise:
"Director Lin Yichen Accused of Falsifying Military History — Embezzlement Allegations Surface."
His hands curled into fists.
He had trusted the wrong people.
And they had repaid him by dragging his life's work through the mud. His career, his name, shattered overnight.
But none of that explained this.
Yichen sat up cautiously. The robe slipped from his shoulder, and he caught a glimpse of slim wrists and unfamiliar skin—paler, younger. Frailer.
This wasn't his body.
A chill crawled up his spine, slow and relentless.
Before he could process it, the wooden screen across the room creaked open. A boy stepped inside, clad in a plain green robe, his features youthful and anxious.
He froze upon seeing Yichen upright.
"Y-You're awake!" the boy gasped, eyes wide. He stumbled forward, then dropped to his knees in a bow so swift it was almost comical. "Thank the heavens! This lowly one thought you wouldn't make it through the night, Gonggong!"
Yichen's gaze sharpened.
"Gonggong?" he echoed, voice hoarse.
The title was unmistakable.
Eunuch.
His chest tightened. This had to be a dream. A strange, elaborate delusion born from stress and betrayal. But the sensations—the pain in his head, the cool touch of silk, the tang of herbs in the air—were too vivid to ignore.
"Where is this?" he asked, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.
The servant blinked. "The Inner Court, Gonggong. You collapsed by the Lotus Pavilion yesterday. The head physician said it was sunstroke and exhaustion." He paused, eyes darting nervously over Yichen's pale face. "You've been unconscious for a day and a half."
Inner Court. Lotus Pavilion.
The words felt like tiny hammers against his skull.
He'd written them before.
Late nights. Ink-stained fingers. The manuscript he never let anyone read—a palace drama, written more out of catharsis than ambition. A story set in the crumbling aftermath of an Emperor's death, where the boy-heir, Han Zhen, waged silent war against the regency council.
No one had seen that script. He had locked it away, unfinished.
So how…?
"What's my name here?" he asked slowly.
The servant seemed taken aback by the question, but answered promptly, "You are Liang gonggong. Personal attendant in the Third Prince's quarters."
Liang?
Not a name he remembered writing.
A side character, then. One of the minor court eunuchs, probably meant to deliver gossip or hold a lantern off-screen. Not a lead.
Not even a footnote.
Yichen exhaled shakily.
He was in his own story—but not as a hero.
As an observer.
How fitting.
The servant wrung his hands. "Gonggong, the palace steward came earlier. He said that once you're awake, you must prepare to meet His Highness."
"His Highness?" Yichen repeated.
"The Third Prince," the boy clarified. "Prince Han Zhen."
Yichen stilled.
The name struck like a blade to the chest.
Han Zhen.
The prodigy prince he had created—ruthless, brilliant, unflinching in his rise to power. He had been only thirteen when the Emperor died in the script, but he'd already learned to wield silence like a sword. A child carved from steel and silk, raised by wolves and sharpened by grief.
Yichen remembered penning whole scenes around him—scenes of icy gazes, veiled threats, blood hidden beneath brocade sleeves. A boy monarch forced to become a monster to survive.
But that was fiction.
Wasn't it?
"Why does he want to see me?" Yichen asked quietly.
"I—I don't know," the servant stammered. "The steward only said you must be clean and punctual. His Highness is… particular."
Particular.
Yichen had written Han Zhen as brilliant—but unstable. His cruelty came in silken layers, always precise, always plausible. He did not act without reason.
Which meant Liang gonggong—the eunuch Yichen now embodied—must have done something to draw attention.
Good or bad, it remained to be seen.
"Very well," Yichen murmured, swinging his legs over the bed.
The floor was cool beneath his feet. Solid. Real.
No cut. No retake. No exit.
He was truly here.
The servant hesitated. "Gonggong, should I help you dress?"
Yichen nodded absently, still lost in thought. As the boy fetched fresh robes, his mind raced.
He was in a story. A story he wrote.
But the rules were no longer his to dictate.
This world had breath and history. Consequences. And Han Zhen was no longer ink on paper. He was real—and dangerous.
Yichen's role may have been small, but that suited him fine.
Directors thrived in the shadows, after all.
And this time, if he wanted to survive, he'd have to learn to play the palace game—not as the author or director, but as a ghost among its walls.
And ghosts… watched everything.