The Villainess A Marked the Seductive Movie Queen - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Impression

Resignation complete, audition passed, contract signed. With one month remaining before joining the production, nothing was left but to wait.

During this month, whenever Liu Yitong had free time, she went to the nursing home to visit Liu Lin. She considered her life quite ordinary, but Shu Ran remarked that she was as emotionless as a robot—one could hardly tell she was about to join a set with the person she secretly loved.

Faced with this critique, Liu Yitong accepted it indifferently. However, a moment later, Shu Ran reminded her: “Don’t keep shaking your leg; it looks unsettled.”

Only then did Liu Yitong notice her knee bouncing with a restless anxiety she couldn’t hide. She hadn’t realized it; after all, she never had such a habit before.

Finally, May arrived. Liu Yitong flew alone to Xiangheng City, where the crew was stationed.

Late spring in Xiangheng was rainy. The commencement ceremony for Counterkill was scheduled for a morning after the rain, symbolizing “meeting water brings wealth.”

In the center of the outdoor venue stood a redwood offering table. Along the table were roasted suckling pigs, fruits, pastries, and wine—a lavish spread. Presiding in the center were statues of Guan Yu, the God of the Land, and the ancestor of theater, Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. Incense burners and candles billowed with smoke.

As the ritual began, the lead creators offered three sticks of incense to heaven, earth, and the gods, followed by wine and incantations. The audience below consisted of actors and staff, all looking respectful. Among the crowd, only Liu Yitong wore a wooden expression, her eyes cold as she gazed at the divine statues.

Liu Lin believed in gods. In her times of destitution, having a place for her staggered soul to rest—a devout faith—was the thread keeping the helpless woman alive.

Liu Yitong held a different view from her mother. She was indifferent to deities. It wasn’t that she was certain they didn’t exist; it was simply that whether they existed or not didn’t matter to her. Because Liu Lin was still alive, Liu Yitong maintained a respectful distance from the gods. Had a god ever responded to even one of Liu Lin’s prayers during those years, she might have stood there today with at least three percent more respect.

Following the old tradition from the film era to avoid “scratches,” the red cloth over the camera was solemnly unveiled. Liu Yitong stayed for the group photo of the main cast, but once the champagne was opened and the suckling pig served, she vanished.

She had little interest in the festivities and decided to wander around the studio city to acclimate herself early.

—At the commencement ceremony, Ruan Minxue did not appear.

She was a person of great renown, likely delayed by important matters. It wasn’t surprising. Liu Yitong wasn’t disappointed not to see her. What she found difficult to move past was her own behavior that morning:

The moment she entered a circle related to Ruan Minxue, or whenever there was a possibility of seeing her, Liu Yitong became jumpy—startled by every rustle in the grass. If a person with dazzlingly white skin flashed by at the edge of her vision, she would whip her head around to check. If a woman with an elegant silhouette stood at the periphery of the crowd, she would stare until the person turned their face to speak to someone else. Only then would she withdraw her gaze, extinguishing her lingering delusions.

If it were truly Ruan Minxue, how could she be standing at the edge of a crowd?

A person like that could only stand in the center, on the stage, at the intersection of every spotlight and gaze, admired by all.

Humans differ from animals because reason can suppress desire. This was what Liu Yitong repeatedly told herself. Yet her heart would throb and race the moment it caught a glimpse of a back similar to hers, only to sink into a dull, heavy ache upon confirming it wasn’t her. Her heart refused to obey her reason, as mischievous and unruly as a little demon.

This fact told Liu Yitong that humans differ from gods because they have weaknesses. Once one’s heartbeat is controlled by another, one is no longer invulnerable.

The studio city was vast, divided into zones for period dramas, modern shows, and sci-fi. The new district had been expanded, and most recent crews gathered there. The deeper she walked, the more desolate it became, leading to an abandoned, uncleaned old district.

Moss grew freely along the edges of the walls; half-collapsed houses had exposed beams; the surveillance cameras at the corners were rusted with broken lenses. Clearly, this area saw little maintenance. It was a perfect setting for a horror film. However, since no such production was currently filming, the place was eerily quiet—only Liu Yitong, with her unnerving boldness, wandered through like a lonely ghost.

Because the environment was so silent, the sound of a distant male voice caught her interest. She stepped closer.

“…Sneak in… my dad… connections…”

As Liu Yitong drew nearer, she saw a young man standing by the door of what looked like a school equipment shed. She vaguely remembered someone calling him over for his position as an intern director during the group photo. The man was unaware of her behind him, his focus entirely on his phone call:

“Hilarious. Why else would I join the crew if not for Ruan? I’ll send the photos to you once I snap them.”

Liu Yitong’s face darkened. She hid against the wall, calmly poked her phone camera out to record, while observing the available props nearby.

“Hehe,” the man laughed lewdly. “The brothers are full, but we can’t let the sisters go hungry. Those sasaeng fans you contacted last time… yeah, I’ll find a way to arrange things. Right… right…”

Before the man could finish his sentence, his vision suddenly went black. A sharp pain hit his wrist, his fingers loosened, but his phone didn’t hit the ground. Immediately after, he was shoved down by a powerful force.

The sequence of movements dealt to him was fluid and seamless; he had no chance to resist. By the time he reacted, the loud, creaking sound of an iron door being slammed shut and locked echoed in his ears.

He pulled the foul-smelling, bucket-like object off his head only to find it was still pitch black. He realized someone had put a bucket over his head, stolen his phone, and shoved him into the warehouse.

“Fuck!! Who is it!”

The man inside pounded on the iron door, a stream of curses erupting from within. The insults were vulgar and crude; any passerby would have felt fear or anger. Only Liu Yitong listened without a flush or a skipped heartbeat. She was used to this; after all, it wasn’t half as filthy as what she had heard from her father growing up.

She scrolled through his phone apps. She had intended to use his contact list to identify the illicit industry chain, but she was surprised to find she didn’t even need her own recording. The chat logs were filled with photos and text—comprehensive evidence. These people were clearly amateurs; they didn’t even delete logs after talking, likely just a bunch of beginners in malice.

She took photos of the evidence, سپس shoved the man’s phone under the door crack and kicked it inside. Amidst his desperate, enraged cursing, Liu Yitong turned away coldly. On the walk back, she organized the evidence logically and later sent it to Zhang Lishen via an anonymous email from a computer.

Inside the VIP lounge of Huchuan Airport, the carpet emitted a pleasant orchid fragrance. Exquisite pastries sat on the refreshment table; the coffee machine’s green light flickered, needing only a cup to be pressed against it for hot, black coffee. Several well-dressed urbanites sat on leather massage chairs, some typing on laptops, others wearing eye masks to rest.

A fashionably dressed couple was arguing. The boy was lecturing the girl in a condescending tone:

“You’re lucky to be with me. For example, you like that fried chicken and burgers just because you never had anything good before you met me. I usually just buy that stuff to feed my dog.”

“…”

“Then you’re quite a filial son.”

A clear, crisp female voice passed by them—like jade falling onto a porcelain plate, a heart-tugging sound, yet the words were incredibly sharp. The girl, who had suppressed her emotions for a long time, suddenly felt a sense of clarity from this perfectly timed retort.

Her expression brightened. She looked up to see who had spoken for her and saw a curly-haired woman in a soft, long dress walking gracefully past. Her bare skin was translucently white, followed by three staff members.

Losing face in front of his girlfriend, the boy stood up in a rage, only to see the woman walk straight toward the private waiting rooms in the back of the VIP area. She was respectfully welcomed inside by an usher, her silhouette disappearing behind the door.

Huchuan Airport, as a major hub, frequently hosted distinguished guests. These private rooms were reserved for people of extreme status. The boy had asked before; even his father, a company president, wasn’t qualified to be received in those rooms. Realizing this, the boy sat down sullenly, averting his face in embarrassment under his girlfriend’s curious and teasing gaze.

Ruan Minxue rested in the private room for a moment before boarding with the first group. She arrived in Xiangheng smoothly. She hadn’t been able to make it for yesterday’s commencement ceremony, but it couldn’t be called “missing it”—she had no interest in standing in the sun listening to long-winded speeches anyway. At least she wouldn’t miss this afternoon’s script table read.

Ruan Minxue didn’t stay in the hotel arranged by the crew; instead, she checked into a hotel she trusted. As soon as she messaged Zhang Lishen, he arrived at her door with a screenwriter and a laptop to bother her.

Rewriting scripts was common; sometimes flaws were only discovered after actors rehearsed on set. This afternoon was the table read, and Zhang Lishen, the perfectionist film fanatic, had discovered some other loophole. As the only person in his eyes qualified to discuss things with him, Ruan Minxue naturally wasn’t spared.

Perhaps out of a mutual appreciation between geniuses, the travel-weary Ruan Minxue didn’t hold it against her old acquaintance who often forgot to act like a human.

Ruan Minxue lay leisurely on a soft couch, her silk dress clinging to her warm body, the fabric draping to outline her graceful figure. She used her fair hand to tie her long hair into a knot by her ear. As she raised her arm, her lily-white skin caught the light, causing the female screenwriter to keep stealing glances while pretending to adjust her glasses. When Ruan Minxue caught her gaze with a smile, the screenwriter looked down with a slight blush.

And the only male present who wasn’t treated as a “person” by Ruan Minxue didn’t seem to treat her as one either. Zhang Lishen stared at the script, talking incessantly without looking away. It was likely because of this trait that the screenwriter was lucky enough to witness a side of Ruan Minxue’s laziness rarely shown in public.

After the script was revised, during a break, Zhang Lishen mentioned casually, “Yesterday, someone sent an anonymous tip. A head of an illicit paparazzi operation targeting you had sneaked into the crew. I fired him, and I’m holding others accountable.”

Ruan Minxue wasn’t surprised. She lazily flipped through the revised script and asked, “Did you find out who it was?”

Zhang Lishen had just said he fired the guy; Ruan Minxue wouldn’t ask a redundant question. After a pause, he emphasized: “I said, the whistleblower was anonymous.”

“That’s why I asked,” Ruan Minxue put down the script, “Did you find out?”

She put heavy emphasis on the verb.

“Couldn’t,” Zhang Lishen said. “There were no cameras where that intern director was found.”

Ruan Minxue’s expression remained flat. She held the script up to hide her face, and only her cold, crisp voice came through:

“If you want to find out, you can.”

“…”

Zhang Lishen admitted he hadn’t intended to look into it deeply, but the moment Ruan Minxue said that, he knew he had to.

The surveillance in the old district was broken, but there were working cameras on the path from the new district to the old. Zhang Lishen gave the order, and soon a supervisor gave feedback. There was only one necessary path to the old district. He was sent the footage from the time the intern director was trapped.

In the video, the intern director walked deep into the old district while on the phone. About two minutes later, the silhouette of a tall girl with a ponytail flashed by. Fast-forward ten minutes. The intern director who went in didn’t come out, but the ponytail girl did. She was holding a phone, apparently editing something.

The footage paused, freezing on the girl looking up.

Seeing this, Zhang Lishen raised an eyebrow, his reaction much larger than Ruan Minxue’s. “It was actually her?”

Ruan Minxue just stared at the screen. Whether it was due to the blurry distortion of the video or not, the girl’s pupils were intensely black and her eye shape was unique, leaving one in a daze.

“She’s in the cast?” Ruan Minxue blurted out.

Zhang Lishen was surprised. “Yes. You actually have an impression of a newcomer?”

It was a rhetorical question that required no answer. Ruan Minxue withdrew her gaze, letting her eyes fall lazily back onto the script. She asked casually:

“What is her name?”

Hearing this, Zhang Lishen understood. “…So you really don’t remember.” The great director was sharp. “Now I’m curious. You don’t even remember her name—under what circumstances did you form an impression of her?”

Ruan Minxue didn’t answer him. Perhaps she was too lazy, or perhaps she was lost in a certain memory. After a long while, when Zhang Lishen pressed her again, Ruan Minxue slowly asked back:

“Did you answer my question?”

Her gentle tone held a needle hidden in silk, piercing only the disobedient insider, quietly keeping the rhythm in her hands. Even if the opponent was a leader, it was the same.

“…” Zhang Lishen sighed and compromised. “Her name is Liu Yitong.”

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