The elevator ascended with a hushed mechanical purr, its polished doors reflecting the faint crease of concentration between Lu Jianjun's brows as he methodically turned each page of the script.
His attention, honed by years of dissecting contractual loopholes and boardroom stratagems, absorbed every nuance of the narrative with unsettling precision—the protagonist's motivations, the supporting cast's shallow arcs, the predictable rhythm of conflicts and resolutions.
By the time the digital display marked the thirty-second floor, he had already unraveled the entirety of Li Na's role, tracing the script's clumsy attempts to sculpt her character into something palatable, something smaller, as if her fire were merely a plot device to be extinguished by the male lead's arrogance.
Then his gaze snagged on page seven.
