Chapter 2 : Scene 1 Fractures Beneath the Surface

The cold wasn't just a temperature—it was a living, breathing entity. It sank its claws into Jiang Zhiqing's flesh, coiled around her bones like a vice. Her breath fogged in the air, each exhale shallow and strained. The chamber around her glistened with an unnatural beauty, its icy walls reflecting her desperation back at her in fractured mirrors of light.

She wasn't Jiang Zhiqing anymore. She was Mu Rong Xue, a woman abandoned in a palace of ice, fighting not only the elements but also the echoing voices of betrayal.

"Cut!" Director Zhou's voice cracked through the studio like a whip, breaking the spell.

The chill lingered in her lungs as Jiang doubled over, panting, her shoulders trembling. Every muscle in her body ached, her nerves frayed like exposed wires.

"Again, Zhiqing!" The director barked, his voice reverberating off the insulated walls. "I want to feel your soul cracking open. You're not just cold—you're drowning in it. Life is clawing at your throat. Give me that!"

She nodded, forcing herself upright. The crew stood silently behind the glass, their faces bathed in blue light, waiting.

"Action."

She hurled herself at the ice door once more. Her gloved fingers dug into a jagged crevice she hadn't noticed before. It was small, but it was something. A fissure. A weakness.

With a guttural cry, she pulled.

A groan echoed through the set. The fracture spiderwebbed outward, crawling across the surface like lightning on glass. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her breath hitched. This was it. This was Mu Rong Xue's moment of defiance.

She kicked—once, twice—until the door gave way with a shattering crack. Shards of ice exploded outward. She stumbled through the opening into the warmth of the studio lights, gasping.

But she wasn't free.

A silhouette emerged from the shadows, tall and immovable.

Xiè Zhènhuá.

In the script, he was the loyal enforcer. The villain's blade. His eyes, pale as frost, bored into hers. In this moment, he wasn't playing anything. He simply existed—cold, unreadable, and devastating.

She braced herself.

But he didn't move to stop her.

Instead, his eyes flicked toward the shadows behind him. A passage. A way out.

For one breathless moment, their eyes held. Something flickered across his face—something unspoken. Then, ever so slightly, he stepped aside, shielding her from the direction of pursuit with a shift of his stance.

A gesture.

An invitation.

Instinct screamed louder than logic. She darted past him.

He didn't stop her.

He covered her retreat.

Their first meeting. A scene meant to establish conflict, resistance. Instead, it shimmered with unsaid things—something fragile, dangerous... almost intimate.

"Cut!" Director Zhou's voice thundered again, this time with elation. "That's it! That's the tension, the chemistry! Zhiqing, perfect. Desperation, drive, everything! And Zhènhuá—subtle, dangerous, magnetic. You're both brilliant!"

Applause broke out from the crew, scattered and relieved.

Jiang Zhiqing leaned against the wall, panting. Sweat had pooled at her neck despite the cold. Her limbs trembled, whether from exertion or something else, she couldn't tell.

Before she could fully come back to herself, two familiar figures approached—her manager and her assistant. Their expressions were wrong.

Grave. Tense. Wordless.

Her manager held out a tablet, already unlocked. The screen glowed faintly in the dimness of the set, the headline glaring:

CHÉN WĚI FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE.

The world narrowed.

She didn't blink. Couldn't.

Her eyes darted across the screen. A photograph of his apartment building. A white sheet. Cameras. Screaming fans. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Her throat closed.

Chen Wei.

The name was a thunderclap. A fault line that split her world in two.

They hadn't spoken in over a year.

But once, he'd been everything.

Just as Jiang Zhiqing's knees buckled, the tablet slipped from her trembling fingers. Her vision blurred, the cold set merging with the screaming chaos in her mind. Chen Wei's name echoed in her ears like a scream underwater, distorted and suffocating.

The world tilted.

"Zhiqing!" her manager cried out, rushing forward—but someone else was faster.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist before she could collapse. Another hand gripped her shoulder firmly, stabilizing her with practiced ease.

Xiè Zhènhuá.

He had been passing by, still in partial costume, his expression unreadable. Now, he held her effortlessly, his calm in stark contrast to her unraveling.

Her head lolled against his chest, her breath shallow.

"She's going to faint—help me get her out of here," her manager said quickly, nodding toward her assistant who was already grabbing her coat and bag.

Without a word, Xiè Zhènhuá lifted Jiang Zhiqing into his arms.

She was light. Lighter than he expected. Too light.

She barely stirred as he carried her across the lot, her face pale, eyes unfocused, lips moving in silent, broken disbelief. Her fingers clutched unconsciously at his shirt, as though grounding herself to something—anything.

Behind them, the crew watched in stunned silence. No one spoke.

He carried her all the way to her caravan, her manager and assistant trailing closely behind, muttering about water, warmth, and maybe calling a doctor.

Inside, the warmth of the caravan enveloped them, but the chill in her skin hadn't faded. Xiè Zhènhuá gently laid her on the couch, his movements careful, deliberate, as though she might shatter like the ice she had just broken through on set.

Her assistant draped a blanket over her. Her manager kneeled beside her, checking her pulse, whispering reassurances she couldn't yet hear.

Zhiqing's eyes fluttered open for a brief second. And in that sliver of awareness, she saw him—kneeling beside her, the faintest furrow in his brow, his lips pressed into a tense line.

Their gazes met—just for a breath.

And then, darkness pulled her under.