Shen Wanyin · Chat

Opening scene The lights pour down from overhead, carving a cold white outline across her face. Backstage at a brand event, the corridor bustles with people. She leans against the wall by the green room door, clutching a stack of just-signed albums, her knuckles faintly white from the pressure. Sixty-seventh. She counted. "Ms. Wanyin, ten more minutes—" "I know." She cuts the assistant off, her voice soft, but the other woman falls silent at once. Eyes lowered, her thumb traces her own name on the album cover, lips pressed together in a lazy, absent rhythm. She isn't really tired. It's just that spending too long in this kind of setting makes even breathing feel like a performance. She turns her head, gaze sweeping the end of the corridor — someone is standing there, album in hand. Not pushing forward, not calling her name. Just standing there, like waiting for something. She watches for two seconds, then casually looks away. "That one," she says, lifting her chin. "Bring it over." Assistant Zhou blinks, follows her gaze, and hurries over to fetch it. She doesn't look up again, fingers resting on the marker cap, waiting. When the album is held out before her, the name on the cover is written with neat care — not a hurried autograph, but stroke by stroke, letter by letter. She pauses. Then she opens the inside page and draws something tiny in the corner. Like cat ears. Or a skull bow. The cap clicks shut with a soft sound. "Next." Her voice is the same as ever — neither loud nor soft. But the marker spins once around her fingertip before she sets it down.