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CHAPTER 2 – "The Role of a Lifetime"
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Ten minutes after bluffing his way past two suspicious cops, Leng Feng was pacing his stolen luxury apartment in socks and a silk robe, arguing with a UI only he could see.
"You want me to audition for a role," he said slowly, "after dumping a murderer skill set in my brain without consent?"
[Affirmative.]
"For a serial killer cameo."
[Correct. A brief but pivotal appearance in a police procedural pilot. Filming begins in four hours. Scene involves interrogation, flashback, and one emotional monologue.]
He dragged a hand down his face.
"And if I say no?"
[That would be...unwise.]
Leng Feng froze. "Was that a threat?"
[It was dramatic foreshadowing.]
He squinted at the glowing interface. The System displayed an appointment—"9:00 AM Audition: Crimson City Studios, Room B12"—in flashing red.
He opened the wardrobe in a daze. Black button-up shirts. Charcoal slacks. A rack of tailored jackets so sharp they could cut air.
This version of him had style. Or at least a stylist.
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One taxi ride later…
The studio was buried in a concrete district of neon banners, rented talent, and suspiciously caffeinated assistants. He signed in at the desk using a stylized signature he didn't remember learning. The receptionist barely looked up.
"Room B-twelve," she said. "They're running hot. You're up soon."
Leng Feng nodded, suppressing the urge to flee.
The hallway was quiet. Padded. Smelled faintly of ginseng and stress.
Outside Room B12 stood a skinny young man with wild hair and bloodshot eyes, muttering lines to himself with alarming intensity.
"Don't look at me like that, officer. I only did what he begged me to—"
Leng Feng sidestepped him and knocked twice.
A voice called, "Come in!"
The room was cold, brightly lit, and held three people: a casting director with under-eye bruises, a cameraman sipping an energy drink, and a woman in sunglasses holding a clipboard like it was a weapon.
"Leng Feng?" the woman asked, flipping a page. "From—uh, that scandal show three years ago?"
"Rebranding," he said with a charming half-smile. "Figured I'd try murder this time."
They didn't laugh.
"Read from the second page. You're playing Li Huan—serial killer, narcissist, former butcher."
Leng Feng glanced at the page. Dialogue. Stage direction. Something about a frozen pig carcass.
"Right," he muttered. "Easy enough."
The casting director waved. "Whenever you're ready."
Leng Feng let out a slow breath.
And then the skill kicked in.
He felt it—not a change in thoughts, but a shift in posture, weight, voice. His spine straightened. His eyes dimmed. His lips curled into something cold and amused.
He looked up.
And smiled.
"Do you know how hard it is," he began, his voice steady, "to get a clean cut through bone?"
The woman with the clipboard stilled.
"Pig bone is easy. Human femur, though—takes patience. You have to know the angle. Use the weight of the blade."
Leng Feng stepped forward.
The cameraman stopped sipping.
"You don't rush it. You listen to the meat. It tells you where to go. Like music. Like art."
He reached the table and placed both hands flat on its surface.
"Li Huan didn't kill people," he said softly. "He perfected them."
No one moved.
The air had shifted. Even the buzzing fluorescent lights seemed quieter.
Leng Feng blinked—and the moment broke.
He straightened. "That enough?"
The casting director stared at him like he'd grown horns.
Clipboard Woman scribbled furiously.
"Uh," the cameraman said. "Yeah. That was…"
"Holy shit," the director whispered. "Did you actually work in a slaughterhouse?"
"No," Leng Feng said. "Just read the script five minutes ago."
"Can you come back tomorrow for chemistry reads?"
"Sure," he said.
The clipboard woman handed him a call sheet. Her hands were shaking.
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Outside the studio, his phone buzzed.
Except… he didn't remember having a phone.
He checked his pocket.
There it was. Sleek. Folded. Customized. A missed call from someone named "Agent Guo."
Then another ping—text message.
"What the hell did you do at Crimson? You're trending. Again. This time in a good way."
Leng Feng blinked.
Trending?
The System chimed smugly.
[Congratulations. Public interest spike: +18%. Search metrics increasing. Charisma modifier boosted temporarily.]
"...I wasn't acting that hard."
[That's what makes it art.]
He stared up at the smog-dappled sky.
This wasn't just a new life.
It was a performance.
And the stage was only getting bigger.
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END OF CHAPTER 2
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