INT. EDITING BAY - NIGHT
The only light in the cavernous room comes from the massive monitor on the wall, a stark, cold rectangle that bleeds into the darkness. On the screen, a woman in lavish, blood-red robes kneels on a rain-slicked stone floor. Her hair, a cascade of jet-black silk, is plastered to her pale cheeks by the downpour. Her face is a mask of defiant agony, her dark eyes burning with a hatred so pure it's almost beautiful.
A sword, gleaming like a sliver of captured moonlight, is pressed to the delicate skin of her throat.
The image freezes.
A hand, elegant and manicured with a perfect, glossy nude polish, reaches out from the shadows and taps the spacebar on the console. The hand belongs to AN WEIYUN (30s), sharp, poised, and looking utterly, profoundly bored. She sits in a high-backed leather chair that seems to swallow her small frame, a half-empty glass of champagne sweating on the console beside her.
Across from her, LI (50s), a portly, effusive producer with a face that seems permanently stuck in a state of excited flush, bounces on the balls of his feet. He can't stand still. He's a bundle of nervous energy, a live wire crackling in the sterile silence of the editing bay.
An Weiyun picks up her glass, swirling the amber liquid. The bubbles cling to the sides, tiny, frantic prisoners. She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the frozen image of the dying woman, her creation. Mei Lian.
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of champagne, savoring the sharp, clean taste on her tongue.
An Weiyun finally turns her head, a faint, humorless smile touching her perfectly lined lips. She sets her glass down with a soft, definitive click that cuts through Li's enthusiasm.
She leans back, the leather of her chair sighing under her weight.
She gestures lazily with a manicured finger at the screen, at the woman frozen in her final moment.
She says it without a trace of arrogance, as if she were a physicist explaining the law of gravity. It's not an opinion; it's an undeniable fact in her world.
Li just stares at her, a mixture of fear and reverence in his eyes. He knows she's right. Her last three dramas were smash hits, each one a masterclass in emotional manipulation.
She rises from her chair, grabbing her blazer from the back. The meeting is over.
INT. AN WEIYUN'S APARTMENT - LATER
The city sprawls below her floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering carpet of lights that stretches to the horizon. The apartment is minimalist, chic, and almost painfully sterile. White walls, white furniture, chrome accents. It looks less like a home and more like an art gallery where no one is allowed to touch anything.
An Weiyun kicks off her heels, not bothering with the lights. She moves through the dark space with practiced ease, shedding her blazer and letting it fall onto a pristine white sofa. She unzips her dress as she walks toward the bedroom, stepping out of it and leaving it in a heap on the floor—a rare act of disorder in her meticulously controlled life.
She collapses onto her large, modern bed, the scent of high-thread-count cotton and faint city rain filling her senses. The only sound is the distant, muffled hum of traffic, a soothing lullaby to her.
Her phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand. She glances at it. The screen is a flood of notifications. Texts from Li, emails from her agent, mentions on social media. All about the show. All about her.
One text from Li stands out.
LI (TEXT):The early numbers are in. We're a phenomenon. You did it again, you magnificent witch.
A small, satisfied smirk plays on her lips in the darkness. She lets the phone drop onto the duvet, her eyes already drifting closed. The buzz of success and the lingering warmth of the champagne are a pleasant, heavy blanket, pulling her down into sleep.
Her final thought before the darkness pulls her completely under is not of the hero or the heroine. It's of the villainess, of the perfect, tragic arc she had crafted. It's a quiet, smug whisper in the darkness of her own mind.
FADE TO BLACK.