"Cut!" the assistant barked. "Where did you learn to move like that?" He Jingzhou's voice was low and cold. "I didn't," I said, because I couldn't tell him the truth. I kept my hands loose at my sides and let the lights hit my face the way cameras wanted. He stepped closer. The set smelled of coffee and fake rain. He Miao hovered behind me, chewing on the end of a makeup sponge like it was a talisman. "You shoved the choreography," He Jingzhou said. "You broke the beat on your entrance." "You said to improvise," I replied. "Li Jiahe told me to find a new angle." He looked at Li Jiahe through the mirror, then at me. "This isn't improv class." "Then say so on the record," I said. He smiled, and the smile was not a smile. "Record's off." He reached out and adjusted my shoulder without asking. His fingers pressed there like a test. "Cut," the director repeated, but the set stayed sharp. Phones peeked from pockets. Assistants shifted, waiting. He moved behind me and checked the line of my jaw. "You drop your eyes on the line," he said. "You don't look away from him." "I can look," I said. "Watch." I turned my head and did the move the old footage in my head demanded. Instinct took the stage; muscles remembered the weight and release, steps folding into something smooth and quiet. He froze. I felt his breath along