Five-twenty a.m., Hengdian back gate.
Security Uncle sips soy milk. "Kid, sun's still snoozin'. You here for breakfast?"
Jian Ning parks her battered carry-on. "Nope, here for a job."
Uncle eyes her pale face. "You sure you ain't gonna pass out on set?"
She grins. "If I do, at least it'll be on company time."
2
Assistant director—big beard, louder than a megaphone—waves a clipboard.
"Costume runner, five-hundred a day. Who's in?"
Jian Ning shoots her hand up. "Me! I sew fast and I don't whine."
Beard gives her the once-over. "One-day trial. Don't die."
Props room is basically a sauna with clothes mountains.
Jian Ning hems a gown while gossiping with two rookies.
Rookie A: "Sis, you got magic fingers."
Jian Ning: "Years of practice—mostly making suits for my ex. He's a dog, but he's got good shoulders."
Rookie B: "Ex? Actor?"
Jian Ning: "Used to be. Now he's just a cautionary tale."
Lunch break. Plastic boxes—two meats, one veggie.
Jian Ning squats in a corner gnawing chicken when her phone buzzes.
[Bank Alert] 500 yuan just landed—subject: daily wage.
She screenshots, sends it to Su Xiao: "First blood."
Su Xiao voice-memos back: "Take breaks! You're still a patient."
Jian Ning: "I'm a patient who needs rent money. Different pill."
Two p.m., chaos next door.
Lin Xiaoman's fairy dress explodes—zipper gives up.
Beard yells, "Costume, lifesaver, go!"
Jian Ning trots over with her sewing kit.
Lin Xiaoman's eyes go wide. "What are *you* doing here?"
Jian Ning keeps it polite. "Fixing your dress, Ms. Lin. Hold still—three minutes."
Needle flies. Dress fits.
Before she walks off, Jian Ning whispers, "Remember to pay your 'service tax' on time."
Lin Xiaoman's smile cracks like cheap foundation.
Wrap-up at eight. Beard pats her shoulder. "Tomorrow, same spot—pay bumps to six hundred."
Jian Ning fist-bumps the air. "Deal!"
On the way home she grabs street-side fried noodles plus two eggs—extra protein.
Phone pings again—new job alert.
"Epic Saga"crew needs a lead costume assistant, 15 k a month, flexible chemo schedule welcome.
She spits noodles laughing. "Universe, you're shameless—and I like it."
She updates her résumé at midnight, photos of past designs attached.
Next morning, eight sharp.
Interview room: bald director, black shades.
"Ten minutes to make this fat emperor robe fit a sumo wrestler."
Jian Ning pins, slices, adds hidden zippers—nine minutes flat.
Shades nods. "You start today. Contract says month-by-month."
Jian Ning: "I'll take it if I can get daily cash-outs."
Shades: "Done."
Same morning, five-star hotel.
Lin Xiaoman pouts at Jiang Lianping. "Come pick my blue-diamond gown—pretty please?"
He's scrolling his phone. A crew member just posted a blurry pic: *"New costume girl fixing Lin's dress—looks familiar."*
His heart does a weird skip. "I've got lines to run. You handle it."
Lin Xiaoman sulks but doesn't push.
Ten a.m., new set.
Jian Ning, masked and armed with pins, hears the dreaded words:
"Lead actor Jiang Lianping on set!"
Their eyes lock across racks of brocade robes.
He blurts, "Jian Ning?!"
She calmly pulls off her mask. "Morning, Mr. Jiang. Head of wardrobe today—let's keep it professional."
Jaw drop, whispers everywhere.
He corners her near a stack of armor.
Voice low: "How sick are you?"
She shrugs. "Sick enough to need cash, healthy enough to earn it. Also—still waiting on that twenty-grand alimony, but I've got better wages now."
He fumbles for his phone. "I'll wire it—"
She taps her clipboard. "Clock's ticking. Armor fitting in five."
She walks away; he stands there looking like he swallowed a cactus.
Lunch cart rolls up. Jiang Lianping brings two boxed meals.
"Eat with me."
Jian Ning takes both boxes, hands one to a teenage extra. "Kid's still growing—needs the carbs."
Jiang Lianping: "We need to talk."
Jian Ning: "Talk costs five hundred per minute—cash or WeChat?"
He actually opens his wallet before realizing she's joking.
She winks: "Penalty for late alimony—interest compounds daily."
Night wrap. Phone buzzes—daily pay plus bonus hits her account.
She voice-texts Su Xiao: "Eight hundred today. Chemo fund secured."
Su Xiao sends back crying emojis.
Jian Ning: "Stop, you'll melt your screen."
Hotel corridor, midnight.
Jiang Lianping blocks her path, holding a bank card between two fingers.
"Thirty grand. Password's your birthday. Take it."
She looks at the card like it's a parking ticket.
"When you learn to say 'I'm sorry' and mean it, we'll talk. Until then, keep the card for your guilt tax."
She swipes her key-card, disappears into her room.
He stays outside, card burning his palm.
Back in her tiny room, fever patch on her forehead, laptop open.
Email pops up:
"Hi Jian Ning, Vogue China here. Love your on-set fixes. Wanna chat?"
She lets out a low whistle. "From hospital gown to Vogue spread—zero to hero speedrun."
She types back: "Name the time, I'm in."
Lights off, city still buzzing.
She whispers to the ceiling:
"Jiang Lianping, every needle I push, every stitch I lock, is me sewing my own parachute.
You clipped my wings once—watch me build new ones out of invoices and overtime."
She pulls the blanket up, painkillers kicking in.
Tomorrow's call sheet waits.
And so does her comeback tour.