The next morning, the hotel arranged a private car to pick her up at exactly 6:00 a.m.
Lin Xie arrived at the filming location ten minutes ahead of call time. The set was a sprawling estate in the outskirts of Xicheng—an old villa modified for the movie's needs. Technicians, assistants, and stylists bustled around with headsets and coffee cups, cables snaking across the floors like a low-level hazard.
The production crew was large, the energy chaotic. But Lin Xie moved through it like a ghost—silent, composed, and unbothered by the heat, the people, or the noise.
A young assistant with bangs nearly tripped over herself trying to greet her. "Y-You must be Miss Lin! Director Qi's waiting for you inside the hall!"
Lin Xie followed her without a word.
Inside, Director Qi was standing in front of a wall-sized storyboard, animated as ever. His round glasses slid down his nose as he spun to greet her.
"There you are, my cold-faced genius!" he beamed, waving her over. "Come, come, don't just hover—meet the rest of the cast!"
The room held a cluster of actors and actresses in various states of makeup. A stylist was curling someone's hair in one corner. A makeup artist dabbed concealer under someone else's eyes. They all turned as Lin Xie approached—curious gazes following her like she was some new species of bird.
"Everyone, this is Lin Xie," Director Qi announced proudly. "She'll be playing the villainess in our movie. Yes, I know you've never seen her before. It's her first time. But trust me—she's very promising."
There was a beat of silence.
Then a few polite smiles.
"First time?" one of the lead actresses murmured under her breath, examining Lin Xie from head to toe. Her designer sweats were still creased from her driver's car, and her manicured nails tapped her water bottle rhythmically.
"Where did you train?" asked another actor, curious but guarded.
"I did not," Lin Xie answered plainly.
Director Qi gave a delighted little clap. "She doesn't need to. Her audition was that good."
Most of them nodded slowly, though a few exchanged side glances.
Lin Xie stood with perfect posture, arms at her sides, as if waiting for new parameters to be installed.
Then, the male lead stepped forward.
Wen Yifan.
He was tall, charming, and wore his leather jacket with the casual swagger of someone who knew every camera would follow him. His smile came fast—almost too fast.
"Hi," he said, offering a hand. "I play the male lead. Guess we'll have a lot of scenes together."
Lin Xie did not take his hand.
She only looked at it.
And then at him.
"I am aware."
He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide the flash of offense. "Right. Cool."
But behind that smile, something flickered in his eyes.
He knew who she was.
Zhang Min had shown him the photos, the clips, the dossier.
Told him what to do.
Ruin her.
Make her trust him. Get close. Record everything.
And then deliver it all to Zhang Min—who was still fuming that her cousin Lu Xinyi couldn't shake Lin Xie at the dorm. That Lin Xie had somehow landed herself next to CEO Shen Rui. That she'd been seen at that gala.
Wen Yifan had accepted the job. It wasn't the first time Zhang Min had paid him for favors. She was one of his "sponsors," after all.
But now that he saw Lin Xie up close, he realized it wouldn't be as simple as charm and champagne. There was something about her—untouchable, unreadable. Gorgeous in an unsettling, robotic way. Like she wasn't built for seduction or emotion.
Still.
He liked a challenge.
He grinned again and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, if you ever want to rehearse lines together or, I don't know, grab a coffee after set, I'm around."
Lin Xie didn't blink.
"You are inefficient company," she said calmly. "But noted."
Director Qi clapped his hands to break the awkward pause. "Alright! Let's get everyone to costume fitting! Lin Xie, wardrobe team is downstairs. And remember, everyone—read-through at nine sharp!"
As people began to scatter, Wen Yifan glanced back once, eyes narrowing as he watched Lin Xie follow the assistant out of the room.
She walked with zero hesitation. No sway. No softness. Not even a glance over her shoulder.
But Zhang Min had made herself clear.
By the end of the month, he'd have what she wanted.
And Lin Xie would never see it coming.
---
By the time the sun had fully risen over the villa, the filming set had already transformed into its usual state of organized chaos.
Assistant directors barked orders over walkies. The clatter of rolling equipment echoed through the marble halls of the rented estate. Makeup artists darted from one actor to the next with blotting sponges and powder puffs. The scent of foundation and coffee lingered thick in the air. Someone tripped over a C-stand. Someone else screamed about the fog machine being three minutes late.
Lin Xie stood completely still at the edge of it all. Watching. Observing.
The stylist circled her, fussing with the fit of a deep burgundy dress that hugged her frame. "You've got posture like you were born to be cruel," the stylist murmured, tugging at a sleeve. "Seriously… are you sure this is your first film?"
Lin Xie didn't respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on the mirror. Studying.
She didn't recognize the woman looking back at her, not personally. But the features were the same. Jaw angled precisely. Shoulders rolled back to communicate command. Lips tinted red to broadcast power. The image made sense.
This was the villainess she was meant to portray. And she understood the assignment.
She didn't feel anything about it.
She didn't feel anything at all.
But she knew how to replicate the data patterns of emotion. The look. The tone. The presence. That was enough.
A runner rushed in from the hallway. "They're ready on Set B! Scene 12!"
She moved immediately.
No one needed to guide her.
She arrived just as the main male lead—Wen Yifan—stepped onto his mark. The balcony scene. The one where her character warns him for the first time.
Director Qi's voice boomed. "Alright! Scene 12! Quiet on set! And—action!"
Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the balcony. The camera panned smoothly across the marble banister, catching the light against the red silk of her dress. Lin Xie stopped in front of the male lead and tilted her head slightly.
"I warned you," she said, voice like ice poured into velvet. "Don't confuse kindness for weakness."
Wen Yifan adjusted his collar and leaned against the rail with an easy grin. "And I warned you not to underestimate a man who's already lost everything."
She held his gaze.
It was not difficult.
She calculated the blink rate for intimidation. Dropped her tone by 12%. Narrowed her eyes by 4 degrees.
The tension built silently around them, like strings pulled taut.
When Wen Yifan stepped forward slightly, Lin Xie did not retreat. She didn't stiffen or shift or soften.
She was calculating angles. Calculating pause-to-speech ratio. Analyzing the rhythm of the dialogue. Interpreting patterns.
"You think I'm afraid of your little games?" he said.
"No," she replied calmly. "I think you're afraid of mine."
Director Qi shouted, "Cut!"
Applause broke out on set.
Wen Yifan blinked. "Damn. That was intense."
Lin Xie stepped back and adjusted the cuff of her dress. "Was my delivery unsatisfactory?"
"No—God, no," Director Qi laughed, walking up from behind the monitors. "You were perfect. Gave me actual chills. You held your ground like you've been doing this for years. Amazing. Just… amazing."
She gave no visible reaction.
"Let's reset for Scene 13. Red room. Lin Xie, get your touch-up done, and we'll light for your close-up."
She nodded once and turned.
The crew scrambled.
Behind her, a few of the supporting actors watched from the shadows—whispering.
"Where'd they find her again?"
"She's new."
"She doesn't act like she's new."
"She doesn't act like she blinks."
Wen Yifan lingered longer on the mark than necessary, watching her walk away. Then he pulled out his phone and sent a single message.
To Zhang Min: You didn't tell me she was gorgeous.
Zhang Min: Ruin her. Record it. You know what to do.
Wen Yifan: Of course. After the shoot.
Lin Xie sat down in the makeup chair. She didn't need the touch-up, but she let the artist do her work. Her mind was elsewhere.
Emotionless.
But alert.
Observing everything.
Calculating.
---
The red room was silent. Thick velvet curtains blocked out the morning sun, casting the entire set in a moody, blood-warm glow. A crystal chandelier hung low from the ceiling, its light refracted into sharp shards across the polished floor.
Lin Xie stood in the middle of it all, the center of the scene.
"Scene 13. Take 1," came the voice of the assistant director. "Roll camera. And… action!"
She moved like silk stretched over steel. Every gesture choreographed, precise, yet natural. She didn't stumble. She didn't fidget. Her expression shifted just enough to match the script's instruction:
"She smiles—but there's sorrow in it."
Lin Xie had never felt sorrow. Not once. But she understood what it looked like. What it was supposed to sound like. She adjusted her breathing rhythm. Dropped her gaze just one inch below direct eye contact. Curved the corner of her lips by three degrees.
"Sorrow"—achieved.
In the scene, she was meant to mourn a lost brother. A boy betrayed by the system she helped build.
The dialogue was quiet, cutting.
"He trusted me," she whispered, lifting her eyes to the other actor. "I told him it would be safe."
There was a tremble in her voice. Artificial. Controlled. She inserted it deliberately, perfectly timed.
Off camera, one of the crew members watching muttered, "Holy hell…"
Even the boom operator forgot to breathe.
The male actor opposite her, playing her childhood friend, took a step closer. In character, his brows drew together in concern. "You did everything you could," he said gently.
The script required her to show denial. Deflection. Guilt.
Lin Xie understood all of it from an external view. She processed emotions like a series of behavioral codes—data. If sorrow meant trembling lips and a gaze that darted just before tears fell, she could simulate it. If guilt was tight shoulders and silence held just two seconds too long, she could mimic it.
She didn't feel anything.
But her portrayal was so convincing, so eerily vulnerable, it sent a ripple through the entire crew.
She turned slowly to face the camera for her close-up. The lighting was soft on her features, her eyes glassy.
"I lied to him," she said. "I told him he'd be okay."
Her voice cracked—not from any genuine grief, but because she had practiced pitch-shift breaks in tone over a hundred times in her memory bank. She knew exactly when to let her breath hitch.
It was acting. But no one could tell.
"Cut," Director Qi finally breathed.
Silence stretched across the set. Then someone clapped. Then another. Until a sudden wave of applause filled the room.
"That was incredible," the makeup artist whispered.
"How is this her first time?" one of the grips said in disbelief.
Even Wen Yifan—still lurking just behind the lighting rig—was stunned speechless.
Lin Xie blinked, the sheen of simulated tears still in her eyes.
Director Qi walked over slowly, his brows lifted. "You're scaring me," he said. "That was the cleanest emotional transition I've ever seen from a debut actress. Like—how did you do that?"
Lin Xie tilted her head slightly. "I followed the script."
"No," he said, shaking his head, "you lived it. You felt it."
She didn't correct him.
She simply nodded once. "Understood."
The makeup artist rushed in with tissues. "Don't blink, don't blink—let me catch it for continuity."
Lin Xie held still. Perfectly.
As the crew reset the lighting for the next angle, the other actors whispered among themselves.
"She's so good."
"She doesn't even talk to anyone during breaks."
"Do you think she's, like, method acting?"
"She's something else."
Lin Xie sat back in her chair, allowing the stylist to fix the slight wrinkles on her sleeves. She didn't react to the praise. She didn't need to.
All she cared about was accuracy.
Adaptation.
Replication.
Even now, she reviewed her performance in her head—checking for inconsistency in tone, fluctuation in expression, micro-reactions that could be improved.
She was not an actress.
She was a mimic.
And for this role, that was enough.
More than enough.