11:30 p.m.
The director sat at his desk, his face even grayer than the desk lamp’s light.

Beside him: a cup of cold coffee, two packs of antacids, a post-it labeled “Team Discussion Points,” and…

…a script from Satan himself.
Or more accurately——a summons.

On the cover, a single word:
Guiltbound.

He opened to the first page, took a glance, then closed it.
Opened again. Closed.
Again. And again.

On the fourth try, he finally gave in.
Took a deep breath.
And prepared to enter hell.

“…Sigh.”

The first sigh came while reading the character sheet.

“These minds… are insane.”

He picked up a pen to draw a relationship chart——
but halfway through, the level of manipulation in the plot nearly gave him a heart attack.

“These scenes… this dialogue… these actions…”

He flipped three more pages.
Each scene felt like running naked on a rooftop——with no place to hide, and too much on display.

One scene even specified:
“Camera pans from ankle to collarbone. High lick-the-lens energy.”

“I’ve never shot a scene this explicit… this graphic…”

He muttered to himself, holding his head like someone freshly dumped.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t film steamy content.
But this wasn’t just “steamy.”

This was a show that never wore pants to begin with——
and sprinted, shameless, to the very end.

“No, no… I need adjustments…”
“Angles… lighting diffusion… maybe have them wear sunglasses…”

He scribbled shaky notes while his mind spiraled.

Then he paused.

He remembered what the screenwriter said in the meeting:
“This script was written with what’s left of my life.”

The art lead: “I redesigned forty props. I’ve got one breath left.”

The manager: part priest, part producer, drawing character sheets while purifying the set.

This wasn’t just a script.
It was a product of resentment, grief, despair—and deadlines.

“How could I possibly say this can’t be filmed…”

“I’d get murdered…”

He glanced at his phone, opened the team chat.
Fingers hovered above the input box for three seconds.
Then closed the app.

No message sent.

Didn’t dare.

He went back to the script, still trembling, still trying to sketch out camera angles.

Page 13.
He gasped again.

This scene…
There’s no way they can shoot this outdoors.
They’d get reported.

How… how do they block this…
How do you even block a bite… there?

He buried his face in his hands,
letting out a string of miserable noises.

“I’m gonna die…”

Under the desk lamp, his shadow stretched across the wall——
like someone being consumed by the script itself.

The storyboard software was still open.
Title: blank.
The white screen reflected the despair in his eyes.

For the first time in his directing life——
he feared a script might actually kill him.

He wanted to glance at the bunny-and-human photo for comfort——
but the boss had posted again—another emotional Story update.

A sand drawing.
The bunny and the human had traced a heart in it… with a spelling mistake.

The director closed his phone.

Stared at the script’s cover.

Said nothing.

Only a sigh——
so light, it got swallowed by the room before the air conditioner could feel it.