Filming day finally arrived.

  At seven in the morning, silence filled the studio.

  Even the art lead—normally the most talkative—sat unusually quiet in a corner, clutching a folder, head lowered, gaze unfocused, as if plotting something ominous.

  Today’s shoot covered scenes one and two.

  Though divided into scenes, it was in fact a continuous flow of emotion, all extending from the same event.

  To keep that flow intact, the director chose to film them in one stretch.

  Suppression, misunderstanding, resistance, and carnal collision—

  this sequence stood at the core of the drama’s beginning.

  In short—

  Hard.

  And it would be the director’s first attempt at shooting an H-scene.

  Unrest weighed on everyone present.

  Everyone—except the two actors.

  Jiang Zhilin and Shen Yanxing had arrived early, sitting off to the side.

  Scripts in hand, silent. Yet that silence itself carried a rhythm, a quiet understanding.

  As the call time neared, they shut their scripts together.

  Shen rose first, reached out, and rubbed the back of Jiang’s head.

  “Don’t be nervous. I trust you.”

  Jiang looked up, eyes carrying a trust long carved into habit.

  “Let’s clear it in one take.”

  Shen nodded.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Mm.”

  They walked side by side toward set.

  For a moment, the director forgot it was only acting.

  The way they moved together was like lovers reuniting after years apart.

  And in truth, they had known each other for over a decade.

  The director muttered under his breath:

  “...Why didn’t I write the childhood-friends angle into the script?”

  The art lead nearly jumped, almost flinging her color swatches.

  “Write it in? No way! That would totally spoil my private stash of fluff—”

  “…Aren’t you supposed to be the art director?”

  “Not anymore. I’m their disciple now.”

  “…Huh?”

  “Believe in them, and you’ll reach eternal bliss.”

  The director could practically feel the aura of a cult forming beside him.

  Filming began.

  Lights shifted, atmosphere instantly heavier.

  Camera focused, audio hushed.

  Inside the set—only fabric scraping, ragged breaths, emotion clashing under restraint.

  Jiang Zhilin’s expression blurred, body breaking down.

  From frame’s edge, Shen Yanxing approached step by step, eyes mixing mockery with suppression.

  Script’s so-called “panting and struggle” turned real.

  Sweat dotted the director’s forehead; camera barely dared move.

  Screenwriter fixed on blocking, one thought rising—

  Over. I wrote this scene way too hard.

  Manager observed coolly, already calculating if audiences might demand a cut.

  And the art lead—

  From clasping her hands at the start, to clutching her notebook tight, to finally whipping out a sketchpad and drawing.

  Fast, frantic, almost fevered—little gasps slipping from her throat.

  And if you looked closely at what she was sketching, you’d realize—

  it wasn’t stage design at all, but figure studies.

  ——Complete with arrows and lighting notes.

  “Cut!”

  Director’s voice cracked, hoarse at the edges.

  But the set stayed silent.

  No one dared relax.

  Only after a few seconds came a faint exhale, as if reality had finally snapped back.

  One take. Perfect.

  No one spoke.

  It wasn’t awe—it was the crew’s first taste of what it meant when raw intensity bulldozes sanity.

  The director muttered self-reproach:

  “Maybe the lighting should’ve been softer… otherwise it looks too real. Might scare the audience…”

  Screenwriter echoed under his breath:

  “I wrote this? Why couldn’t I watch my own scene just now…”

  The manager quietly moved toward the actors, ready for aftercare.

  And the art lead—

  Already sketching a new page.

  Eyes shining, cheeks flushed, pen racing across the paper—

  a close-up of two torsos.

  With tiny scribbles in the margins:

  This needs to be cut into a Director’s Pick…

  Even better if it goes in the bonus edition.

  Producer, please consider print merch options.

  One glance at her notebook sent the director’s pulse through the roof.

  “Are you insane—this is internal material!”

  “I’m helping you sell copies! You’d waste gold like this just burying it on the platform?”

  She turned, grinning with the zeal of a fanatic.

  Seeing a face that overlapped with a certain someone’s, he helplessly shut his eyes.

  “…You weren’t like this before.”

  “…What on earth did you go through?”