The Movie Queen's Virtual Little Girlfriend - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Jiang’er

By the time the final night scene finished filming, it was nearly 3:00 AM. Jiang Yitong leaned against the back of her seat with her eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep as the car carried her exhausted body back to the hotel.

Even at this hour, fans were still waiting for her at the entrance. Heedless of the midnight chill and the biting wind that made them shiver, several people huddled into their coats, finally seeing the headlights of the car approaching them.

As the car drew closer, the light was blinding, but many only squinted slightly, their eyes fixed on the vehicle. Their hearts, chilled by the cold wind, were reignited in an instant, burning with fervor.

Jiang Yitong wore a long black down jacket, a black knit beanie, and a black mask. The light outside the hotel was dim, and she was almost entirely shrouded in darkness, save for her narrow eyes which caught a sliver of light spilling from the hotel lobby.

With a look that was half-smiling, she waved to the fans lined up orderly on both sides.

“Yitong, thank you for your hard work today!”

“Yitong, get some good rest!”

“Yitong, see you tomorrow!”

“…”

The greetings of her fans echoed in her ears. Jiang Yitong nodded slightly and, flanked by her manager and assistant, entered the hotel and headed straight for her room on the seventh floor.

As the elevator ascended, she closed her eyes briefly, and a wave of dizziness immediately swept over her.

From 6:00 AM until now, her entire day had been packed to the brim with back-to-back scenes. In this drama, her character was the absolute “big female lead,” so it was only natural that she had the most screen time. She had nothing to complain about; no matter how tired she was, she always managed to face the camera with her best state on set.

Since it was so late, she parted ways with her manager and assistant in the hallway without a word. Upon entering her room, she went straight to the shower.

Fortunately, the call sheet for tomorrow showed she didn’t need to be on set until 10:00 AM, allowing her a bit more sleep. If it had been the same early start as today, she wasn’t sure if even three or four cups of coffee would have seen her through.

While drying her hair, Jiang Yitong had a podcast playing on her phone on the table. She could only catch the gist of it, as most of the sound was drowned out by the roar of the hair dryer near her ear.

But that was enough. She just wanted some background noise; she wasn’t in the mood to actually listen to the content.

Once her long hair was dry and hanging smoothly, Jiang Yitong picked up her phone and returned to the bed, burrowing into the slightly chilly sheets.

She wasn’t ready to sleep immediately, nor was she going to look at the script to familiarize herself with tomorrow’s plot.

The script had been flipped through so many times it was practically falling apart. Not only did she know her own lengthy monologues by heart, but she could also recite the gist of her co-stars’ lines. If someone pointed randomly to any scene for tomorrow, she could recite the lines without missing a single word.

However, she always believed that being an actor was more than just that.

When she was a rookie, she simply memorized whatever lines were given and performed exactly as the director instructed. Back then, her abilities were limited; she could only say she tried her best, but she truly couldn’t do more.

Now, she had been in the industry for a full ten years and was considered a senior to many actors. Her emphasis on script quality was no longer what it used to be. During table reads, filming, or even in her spare time, she was always ruminating on the script, leading to many ideas and concepts.

She would always propose the ideas she thought were useful; sometimes, a discussion with the director and screenwriter would last over an hour.

She didn’t just memorize lines; she sought to understand the character’s motivations and emotions. She would constantly weigh whether a line was appropriate or logical, or if there was a better way to interpret it, and she would take the initiative to suggest changes.

At all times, everything she did was in service of the work currently being filmed.

Most people knew she was capable and passionate about the film and television industry—responsible to herself and her work. Yet, another group of people called her a “set tyrant.” There were even artists she had worked with who used their platforms to imply she had a bad temper or bullied other actors. All sorts of mud-slinging rumors were endless.

She never explained herself or paid them any mind. By now, she no longer wasted her energy on such things.

Jiang Yitong used her phone very little while on set; she only looked at it for a while before going to sleep.

She never used this time for socializing, nor did she use it to learn something new or improve herself. The only thing she did was relax.

And the way she chose to relax tonight was a bit different from most people.

Aside from the system defaults, there were only a few apps downloaded on her phone. She logged into Weibo occasionally. WeChat was mostly used to discuss scripts with directors and colleagues, usually in a group chat; she only switched to private messages when the conversation became too long, so as not to disturb others.

Additionally, she had one news app and two video apps, which she used to listen to ten minutes of social news every morning and watch movies or dramas in her spare time to absorb acting techniques and spark new thoughts from others’ work.

The very last app was a game.

This game had “lain” on her phone for nearly two weeks, and she used it even less frequently than Weibo.

On the day she finished downloading it, she clicked in for the first time, quickly registered an account, roughly created a character, and entered the game to try it out.

She had initially been attracted by the ad copy in the app store, but when she actually played it, she found it dull and tasteless. The characters on the screen were talking, but her phone was on mute; she had no interest in turning on the sound. Watching the text jump line by line didn’t feel vivid; instead, it felt tedious. Thus, following her usual indifferent nature, she calmly exited the game.

It felt like her time had been wasted, but she wasn’t annoyed or resentful. After all, she knew no one had forced her to play; she had chosen to waste that time herself.

After that, the game was set aside and never opened again.

Being busy with work was a small part of the reason, but the main reason was simply her lack of interest. The reason she hadn’t uninstalled it was a somewhat absurd thought: she felt that perhaps when she had free time in the future, she would open it again, turn on the sound, and play for a bit treating it as a second chance. If she still couldn’t find any interest then, she would have no reason to keep it.

Skipping over the other apps in the same folder, Jiang Yitong’s gaze landed on the game’s icon.

There was no artwork, just a few large characters seemingly stamped onto a pale red background. The name of the game was “A Grain of Red Bean.”

A non-player would have no idea what kind of game it was from the name alone. “Red Bean” was merely a metaphor for two people in love. To put it bluntly, it was a dating sim.

Jiang Yitong looked down in thought for two seconds, then lightly tapped the app icon. Finally, after a two-week hiatus, she entered the game for the second time.

On a night that was as ordinary as any other, Jiang Yitong—the woman the film industry called “frigid,” the woman countless netizens commented on saying she would “never fancy anyone, never love anyone, never fall in love with anyone, and was destined to be alone for life with only movies to accompany her in old age” silently opened a dating game.

For over twenty years, she indeed hadn’t found the energy to love anyone. From school to work, and now having worked for ten years, she had met many different types of people along the way, but she had never felt a sensation even remotely close to her heart fluttering.

So why did she suddenly have a thought that others might find strange and completely contrary to her nature?

Perhaps because “others” were just “others.” Whether they were colleagues in the industry or netizens who loved to spectate, they were a group of people who would never reach her heart or see through to the palpitations and desires deep within her soul.

She had never said she didn’t long to experience the feeling of loving someone, or being deeply loved by someone.

However, she was also aware that a game was just a game. The NPCs within could never become real people with thoughts and emotions. The other party couldn’t truly understand her, but she was willing to try it once.

There wouldn’t be a huge loss in trying; after all, it was impossible for her to pour too much emotion into an NPC.

The loading screen was the same as before, a simple background. Only the four characters for “A Grain of Red Bean” were on the screen; everything else was blank, save for a pale red progress bar in the center, with numbers gradually increasing toward one hundred.

The character she had created previously wasn’t a player character, but rather the image of the NPC.

Players could only name their own character in the game. There was no specific visual image for the player; the identity was fixed as an ordinary office clerk with a girlfriend she had just started dating and was still in the “ambiguous” stage—this girlfriend was the only NPC in the game.

There was no complex plot, no main or side quests. There were only daily life routines—the most mundane of trifles.

Since there are millions of gamers with different tastes, the NPC’s image had to be set by the player: height, body type, facial features, hobbies, etc. If a casual player didn’t want to spend time “sculpting” a face, they could choose a small option at the bottom to “Generate Partner’s Appearance and Personality” with one click.

Jiang Yitong was that type of player. she didn’t make any specific settings, choosing to rely on so-called “fate.”

In truth, she couldn’t imagine the specific look of a lover. Whether the other person had long hair or short hair, was tall or petite, had exquisite or ordinary features, or where they had a mole—she didn’t care at all.

She didn’t need a lover from her own imagination.

The name Jiang Yitong used in the game was her real name. As for the NPC’s name… Jiang Yitong kept it simple. Her surname was Jiang, so she would let the NPC share her surname. Her name was Yitong (One-Tong), so she would let the NPC follow her and be called “Er-tong”.

This approach was indeed casual, so she instinctively hesitated before clicking “confirm.”

Jiang Yitong and Jiang Ertong… the names sounded like a pair of sisters, which was incredibly awkward. Jiang Yitong habitually deleted the last character. Thinking this name was slightly better than the last, she pressed “Create.”

Thus, Jiang Yitong’s “Virtual Little Girlfriend” was born.

Though looking back now, the name “Jiang Er” (Jiang Two) wasn’t much better.

The final step before officially entering the game screen last time was setting what Jiang’er would call her. There was no need to think about this title; Jiang Yitong entered the two characters for “Yitong” without any hesitation.

She could just call her by her name. She didn’t believe a pre-set program could truly voice the name she had just entered, let alone call her “Yitong” with feeling. That was simply impossible.

The progress bar reached 100%. After re-entering the main game interface, the first thing Jiang Yitong did was open the NPC’s personal profile panel. Using her one-time free name-change opportunity, she changed “Er” (Two) to “Er” (Jiang’er), which finally felt much more pleasant to the ear.

Jiang’er…

Jiang’er.

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