The bus rattled through the city, packed with afternoon commuters. Ye Chen leaned his head against the window, watching blurred buildings slide by.
His hangover had faded to a dull ache, but his mind was clear, sharper than it had been in days.
The system was real.
He'd stopped arguing with himself about that sometime between the instant noodles and stepping out the door. The panel, the voice, the way it responded when he spoke, it wasn't a dream or some booze-fueled breakdown.
It was here, bound to him, and it wanted him to climb back up.
Fine. He'd use it.
The mission timer ticked steadily in the corner of his vision: 29 days, 18 hours remaining. He glanced at it and almost smiled. A deadline felt good. Better than drifting.
[Distance to audition venue: 4.2 km. Estimated arrival: 17 minutes.]
"Helpful," he muttered under his breath.
A woman across the aisle shot him a weird look. He ignored her.
The blacklist still gnawed at him. Wang Hai's influence was wide in the big studios, anyone with real money would've heard by now. But this gig? Summer Again was a tiny web drama, crowdfunded and shot on a shoestring.
The director was some indie guy who'd only made a couple of short films that barely cracked a million views. Places like this didn't check industry gossip. They just needed bodies who could act.
Small mercies.
The building was a nondescript office block in an older district, faded sign, flickering fluorescent lights in the lobby.
The audition was on the fourth floor, room 408. Ye Chen took the stairs, script printout folded in his back pocket.
Inside, it was exactly as run-down as he'd expected: a long table, three plastic chairs for the panel, a camera on a tripod, and a handful of hopefuls waiting on folding seats.
The assistant at the door barely looked up from her phone as she handed him a number, 17, and pointed to the queue.
Ye Chen sat and watched the others go in.
Number 15 was a guy in his late twenties, gelled hair, too much cologne. He came out five minutes later looking smug.
From the muffled voices inside, his reading had been loud and theatrical.
Number 16 was quieter, a girl who forgot half her lines and apologized profusely on the way out.
The assistant leaned over to the producer and whispered, "Still nothing. Thirty-plus people and no one's hitting the heart of it."
Ye Chen pulled out his script, reviewing the confession scene one last time. The wait was dragging, but he felt steady.
The door opened again. The assistant poked her head out. "Number 17, Ye Chen?"
He stood, folding the script.
At that exact moment, a girl hurried through the outer door, breathless, clutching a worn copy of the same script to her chest. Early twenties, simple white sundress, ponytail swinging.
No makeup, no designer bag, just bright eyes and flushed cheeks from running.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry I'm late," she told the assistant, bowing quickly. "Traffic was awful."
The assistant sighed but checked her list. "Bai Ling'er? You're number 18. Sit, he's going in now."
Bai Ling'er nodded gratefully and dropped into the seat Ye Chen had just vacated. As he passed her, their eyes met for a second. She gave him a quick, encouraging smile, nervous but genuine.
"Good luck," she whispered.
Ye Chen nodded back. "You too."
Then he walked into the audition room.
The panel was small: Director Zhao Lei, mid-thirties, tired eyes but sharp; a young producer taking notes; and a script supervisor handling the camera.
Zhao Lei glanced at the form. "Ye Chen. You're reading for the male lead, Xia Tian. Scene 14, the confession on the rooftop. Opposite our reader."
Ye Chen took his mark.
As he settled, the system panel flickered subtly.
[Pre-Mission Prep: Minor Insight Boost Activated.]
A faint warmth spread through his mind, like a fog lifting. The lines suddenly carried more weight, memories of his own regrets, the sting of Liu Xiaoxiao's betrayal, the years spent chasing a dream that kept slipping away.
It all aligned with the character's quiet longing.
He didn't fight it. He let it in.
The reader started the scene. Ye Chen responded, not loud, not dramatic. Just honest. Voice low on the confession, eyes steady, a slight crack on the line about regretting silence.
When he finished, the room was quiet.
Zhao Lei leaned forward. "Again. But this time, improvise a little after the confession, like she hasn't answered yet."
Ye Chen did. He added a small pause, a half-step closer, a soft "I just… needed you to know."
The producer stopped scribbling. Zhao Lei's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but recognition.
Finally, the director nodded. "That was… exactly the feeling we've been missing. We'll be in touch very soon, Ye Chen. Very soon."
Ye Chen thanked them and stepped out.
In the hallway, his legs felt steadier than they had in weeks.
[Ding! Audition success: Demonstrated superior talent in a low-stakes reversal of industry doubt.]
[Reward: God-Level Acting Insight (Temporary, extended to 48 hours), 500 Fame Points, Basic Script Fragment ×1, Enhancement suggestion for Scene 18 of Summer Again.]
The insight deepened immediately. A new angle on a later scene popped into his head, a subtle gesture, a line delivery tweak that would make the emotional payoff hit harder.
It wasn't magic. It was clarity. And it felt earned.
Bai Ling'er was no longer in the waiting area, the assistant must have called her in right after him.
He caught a glimpse through the half-open door: she was standing on her mark, script in hand, already starting her reading.
Ye Chen paused for a second, listening to her soft, earnest voice carry through the gap.
He smiled faintly and headed for the stairs.
On the bus home as the city lights came on, the panel hovered quietly, mission timer still counting down.
For the first time since the betrayal, the future didn't feel like a closed door.
It felt like the first page of a new script.
One he might actually get to star in.