Everyone thought I was dead. A perfectly timed car crash, a funeral live-streamed across every platform. My supposed best friend, Serena Thorne, stood before my memorial photo, wearing my favorite black dress, her face streaming with tears. She choked out that she would carry on my legacy, completing the screenplay we had co-written. Flashbulbs, like a galaxy of stars, twinkled for her from the audience. Later, that screenplay won an Oscar for Best Screenplay. She became a celebrated genius writer, showered with fame and fortune. She moved into my house, drove my car, and even my usually aloof cat seemed to adore her. She had stolen almost everything from me. Almost. I stood in a quiet corner of the funeral, masked, watching the grand spectacle with a cold gaze. I wasn’t dead. I just wanted to see how ugly a person’s greed could become when unbound. Now, the performance was over. It was time for the “dead woman” to make her entrance. At my memorial service, Serena cried so hard she nearly fainted. She wore the custom-made black velvet gown I’d designed, its hem trailing on the floor like a dark, blooming rose. I hadn’t even had the chance to wear it once. “Ava, how could you just leave like this…?” She clung to my memorial photo, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Her voice, amplified by the microphone, filled the hall, broken and heart-wrenching. Cameras zoomed in on her face. Every angle, every tear perfectly timed. You’d think *her* mother had died, not me. I stood in the least conspicuous corner, hidden behind a baseball cap and a mask, watching her perfectly made-up, sorrowful face on the big screen. I almost burst out laughing. A entertainment reporter, Maya, whispered to her colleague, Chloe: “Serena is truly devoted. Ava Hayes was lucky to have a friend like her.” Chloe sighed, “Absolutely. I heard Serena painstakingly organized every word of Ava’s posthumous screenplay. She’s even going to star in it herself, to fulfill her best friend’s last wish. It’s incredibly touching.” As I listened, I pulled a mint from my pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and popped it into my mouth. The cool sweetness melted on my tongue. Touching? I thought it was pretty “touching” too. Using my life, my script, to secure her fame, fortune, and a stellar performance of grief? What a profitable deal for her. The somber music continued to play in the hall, and guests wore expressions of profound sorrow. My agent, the company CEO, directors I’d worked with. Even a few so-called “friends” from the industry took turns giving eulogies. Each one echoed the same sentiments of regret and remembrance. I was almost falling asleep. Until Julian Maxwell stepped up to the podium. The room suddenly fell silent. He was the industry’s top investor, and the biggest financier behind my “posthumous work.” A man who rarely appeared even for high-profile business interviews was here in person today. He didn’t use notes, just stood there. His dark suit accentuated his broad shoulders and long, lean frame, a towering presence. His gaze swept across the room, finally resting on my enormous black and white memorial photo. “Ava Hayes was a genius.” He spoke, his voice deep. It resonated through the speakers with a compelling authority. “Her passing is a loss for the entire industry.” He didn’t say much else, just those two sentences, then bowed slightly to my photo. Serena immediately rushed to meet him, her eyes red as she looked up, a picture of utter vulnerability and dependence. “Mr. Maxwell, thank you for coming. Ava, wherever she is, would certainly be grateful.” Julian’s gaze skimmed over her, utterly devoid of emotion. “How are the preparations for the script coming along?” “You needn’t worry,” Serena immediately assured him, “I will certainly fulfill Ava’s last wish and make ‘The Cage’ a masterpiece.” Julian nodded, said nothing more, and turned to step down from the stage. He passed the corner where I stood. For a fleeting second, as he walked by, his footsteps faltered, and his gaze seemed to drift towards me. My heart pounded, and I pulled the brim of my cap lower. He couldn’t have recognized me. My current appearance was starkly different from my public image. Short hair, thick-rimmed glasses, a faded tracksuit. And a few strategically placed freckles. Not just him, even my own mother would probably hesitate. He paused for only a second before continuing on his way, long strides eating up the distance. I exhaled slowly. The most poignant part of the service was over; what remained were just formalities. I wasn’t interested in staying any longer and turned to slip away. Just as I reached the exit, I heard Serena’s voice behind me. “Miss, please wait.” My steps faltered, but I didn’t turn around. A hand rested on my shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you a friend of Ava’s?” Her voice, just behind me, was perfectly modulated—a touch hoarse and polite. I slowly turned. When she saw my face, a flicker of something almost imperceptible—disappointment—crossed her eyes. As if she was surprised by how ordinary I looked. “No, I’m not,” I mumbled, my voice deliberately muffled, “I’m just a fan of hers, came to pay my respects.” “Oh, I see,” Serena instantly adopted an emotional expression, gripping my hand. “Thank you. Ava would be so happy to know she had fans like you.” Her hand was cold, her nails adorned with sparkling rhinestones. “She was a great actress,” I said. “Yes,” Serena sighed, tears welling up again. “She always said her biggest dream was to win the Golden Lion for Best Screenplay, but… it’s okay. I’ll fulfill it for her.” As she spoke, she squeezed my hand, as if trying to convey some profound connection. A truly stellar performance. Well, she did learn from the best – me. I pulled my hand away, nodded at her, and walked out. Another second, and I swear I would have ripped her hair extensions right out. Stepping out of the funeral home, the sunlight stung my eyes. I hailed a taxi and gave an address. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror: “Heading to the cemetery, miss?” “Yes.” “Isn’t that where the big star Ava Hayes’ memorial was held today? It’s all over the internet.” “It is.” “What a shame, so young.” The taxi driver was quite chatty. “I heard her best friend, Serena, is going to finish her legacy project. What a good person.” I leaned against the window, watching the city blur by. “Yes,” I echoed. “Quite the… wonderful person.”
I didn’t go home. That “home” was now Serena’s. I rented a small apartment in the suburbs, old but clean. My landlady, a woman in her fifties, didn’t follow celebrity news and had no idea who I was. My new identity was Lynn Miller, a freelance writer. Back in the apartment, the first thing I did was open my laptop. Out of the top ten trending topics on social media, five were about Serena and me. * Serena Vows to Honor Ava’s Legacy Project * Ava Hayes Memorial Service * Julian Maxwell Makes Surprise Appearance at Ava Hayes Memorial * Serena and Ava: A Heartfelt Friendship * #PitySerena I clicked on the #PitySerena hashtag. The comments section was flooded with her fans and an army of paid trolls. “Don’t cry, Serena! You have to live well for Ava!” “OMG, what an epic friendship, I’m ugly-crying right now!” “Am I the only one who noticed the way Mr. Maxwell looked at Serena? I’m sensing some serious chemistry.” “Hold up, no baseless rumors! Our Serena is focused on her career and honoring Ava’s memory. Don’t spread false gossip!” I scrolled through the comments, eating an entire bucket of instant noodles, my face devoid of emotion. My stomach burned, a sensation far more potent than any chili ever could be. My phone vibrated. It was a message from my private detective. [That Serena woman moved the last few things out of your house today, including your Ragdoll cat, Mochi.] Attached was a photo of Serena, holding Mochi, smiling gently at the camera. The background was my familiar living room. Below the photo, there was a video clip. In the video, Serena shoved Mochi into a cat carrier. Her assistant, Jessica, asked, “Serena, are you really taking the cat? Aren’t you allergic to cat fur?” Serena waved her hand dismissively. “Allergic or not, I have to take it. Ava’s fans all know how much she doted on this cat. If I don’t take it, how will I maintain my ‘devoted friend’ image? Just a few days on allergy meds, it’ll be fine.” I closed the video and tossed my phone aside. Mochi was a rescue cat I’d adopted, severely injured and almost dead. I’d nursed her back to health, feeding her spoonful by spoonful. She was only affectionate with me. Serena was severely allergic to cat fur; even a touch would bring out a rash. She was willing to endure that for an image. She truly was ruthless. I stood up and walked to the window. Outside, apartment buildings stretched endlessly, a sea of twinkling lights, none of them mine. On the day of the crash, I was driving home from my studio. A large truck suddenly swerved into my lane from the side. I instinctively swerved the steering wheel hard to the right. My car hit the guardrail and flipped over. Before losing consciousness, I saw the truck driver jump out and glance in my direction. Then he ran off without looking back. His eyes held no panic, only the cold satisfaction of a completed mission. When I woke up, I was in a remote private clinic. My rescuer was my college mentor, now a doctor at this clinic. He said I was brought in covered in blood, with no identification. Meanwhile, the news was already plastered everywhere, screaming “Award-Winning Actress Ava Hayes Dies in Car Crash.” The police announced that the “victim” was a woman roughly my height, but whose face was tragically mangled. Where did this poor body double come from? I didn’t need to think to know whose doing it was. Serena. She probably thought I was a goner, so she decided to finish the job, making sure I was “dead” beyond any doubt. That way, no one could ever compete with her for that screenplay. The script I’d poured three years into, the one destined for the Golden Lion Award: ‘The Cage’. I sneered. Did she really think that if I died, all those things would become hers? Naive. I opened my laptop and logged into an encrypted email account. There was one unread email, one I’d scheduled to send to myself a few minutes before my “car crash.” The email contained only one attachment. It was the complete screenplay of ‘The Cage’, from the first draft to the final version. Every revision record, my creative process, photos of my handwritten notes, everything was there. The file’s timestamp was the best evidence. I backed up the file again, saving it to an even more secure hard drive. Serena, you want my things? Fine. I’ll give them to you. I’ll even be the one to lift you up, place you in the brightest spotlight, and let you bask in everyone’s praise and adoration. And then… I’ll let you experience what it’s like to fall from the highest pedestal, straight into the dirt. The real show was just beginning.
For the next month, I didn’t leave my apartment. Every day, I watched the news, observing Serena’s meticulous steps as she claimed ‘The Cage’ as her own. She gave a deeply intimate interview on the country’s most prestigious talk show. On the program, she tearfully recounted her “creative journey” with me. “This screenplay, it was truly something Ava and I conceived together. Many late nights, we’d be curled up on the sofa, snacking and chatting. I’d throw out an idea, she’d expand on it, then I’d build on that… Now, she’s gone, and I’m left to raise our shared child alone.” The host, visibly moved, offered her a tissue. “What was the hardest part of the creative process for you?” “The loneliness,” Serena dabbed at her eyes. “Before, when I hit a wall, I could just turn and see her. Now, I can only hold her photo and imagine her still beside me.” After that episode aired, Serena’s social media followers skyrocketed by five million. She became synonymous with “talent, beauty, and profound devotion.” The production team for ‘The Cage’ was officially established. The lead actress was Serena herself. The director was Director Thompson, renowned in the industry for his commercial blockbusters. Everything proceeded smoothly. I watched Serena’s triumphant smile on my laptop screen during the kick-off ceremony, then closed the browser. The time was right. I made a phone call. It rang for a long time before someone picked up. “Hello? Who’s this?” A young, wary male voice answered. “Is this Director Liam Reed?” I asked. “Who are you? Why are you calling my private number?” His voice was impatient. “I have a screenplay here I’d like you to take a look at.” “A screenplay?” He scoffed. “I’m busy right now. Don’t bother me.” He sounded like he was about to hang up. “A screenplay about plagiarism and betrayal.” I said slowly. “The protagonist is an unknown young director whose idea is stolen by a popular actress, and he’s then blacklisted by the entire industry. What do you think of that story?” The other end of the line went instantly silent. Several seconds passed before Liam’s voice returned, carrying a barely perceptible tremor. “Who are you?” Liam Reed. A truly talented emerging director. He had been Serena’s college classmate and had openly pursued her. A year ago, a short film he directed even picked up a minor international award. Upon returning home, Serena had approached him, expressing interest in collaboration. Liam, deeply touched, had unreservedly shared a screenplay concept he’d been developing for a long time. But Serena immediately took his concept and used it for a web series she was starring in. The web series became a massive hit. Serena’s career advanced significantly. When Liam confronted her, she slandered him, accusing him of riding her coattails. She then used her connections to ensure Liam couldn’t get any work in the industry. No one in the industry knew about these details. I had my private detective dig them up. Serena had climbed over too many bodies to reach the top, and she’d left too many fingerprints. “My identity isn’t important,” I said into the phone. “What *is* important is that I want to give you a chance to reclaim what’s rightfully yours.” We met in a secluded coffee shop. Liam looked far more haggard than his actual age. Heavy dark circles under his eyes, messy hair, and an expression filled with wariness and distrust. “How do you know all this?” He stared intently at me. I didn’t answer. Instead, I pushed a brown envelope across the table. “This is the original screenplay for ‘The Cage.’ Take a look.” He paused, then suspiciously opened the envelope and pulled out the script. After only a few pages, his expression shifted. From shock, to anger, then to disbelief. “This… this can’t be…” He looked up at me, his voice trembling. “I saw the synopsis Serena released, and it’s completely different in its details from this… This version… it’s far superior to hers!” “Because this is the original,” I said. “Written by Ava Hayes.” “Then Serena’s version is…” “What do you think?” I countered. Liam wasn’t stupid. He understood instantly. “She… she even dared to steal Ava Hayes’s work?!” “What wouldn’t she dare?” I said flatly. “Dead people can’t speak.” Liam’s breathing grew heavy. The script in his hands was clutched tightly. Betrayed by the person he trusted most, stripped of his most important creation. He understood that feeling better than anyone. “Why are you looking for me?” He asked, two sparks igniting in his eyes. “What do you want me to do?” “It’s simple.” I leaned slightly forward, looking into his eyes. “I want you to use this original screenplay to enter the ‘Emerging Talent Director Program’ hosted by the Maxwell Group.” Julian Maxwell’s company had recently launched a competition. Its purpose was to discover promising new directors and invest in their projects. This was Liam’s only chance. And the first step in my plan. “Using Ava’s screenplay?” Liam frowned. “What does that make me? A thief too?” “No,” I shook my head. “The copyright for this screenplay is legally mine.” I pulled another document from my bag and slid it across to him. It was a copyright transfer agreement, bearing Ava Hayes’s handwritten signature. Of course, it was forged. But it was convincing enough for others to believe it was real. The beneficiary line bore my new name. Lynn Miller. Liam stared at the contract, utterly stunned. “You… what’s your connection to Ava Hayes?” “An old acquaintance,” I gave him a vague answer. “You just need to decide whether to do it or not.” I stood up. “If you do, you’ll not only get a chance to create a great work but also personally bring Serena Thorne down. If you don’t, you’ll stay cooped up in your rented apartment, watching the person who stole your hard work bask in glory.” I placed the choice in his hands. But I knew how he would choose. For a genius pushed to the brink, nothing was more tempting than revenge.
Liam didn’t disappoint me. Three days later, he registered for the “Emerging Talent Director Program” with the original screenplay of ‘The Cage’. In the preliminary round, the judges only reviewed the screenplays. I knew better than anyone how undeniably strong that script was. It effortlessly stood out from hundreds of other projects, advancing to the semi-finals. This news quickly spread through the industry. An unknown young director entering a competition with a screenplay sharing the same name as popular actress Serena Thorne’s “posthumous work.” It was inherently sensational. Serena’s team reacted immediately. Her studio posted a statement on Ins. [Some clowns are always trying to ride coattails with clumsy, laughable tactics. We have already instructed our lawyers. We advise certain individuals to act wisely. @LiamReed] Attached was a photo of a legal letter. The implication was clear: Liam was a plagiarist. Serena’s fans swarmed Liam’s Ins account, tearing into him online, relentlessly slamming him. [Shameless! Exploiting the dead for clout?] [Do you know how hard our Serena worked to organize her best friend’s legacy project? And you plagiarize it?] [Get out of the directing world! Scumbag!] Liam’s Ins account was overwhelmed within a day. He called me, his voice trembling with suppressed rage and a hint of panic. “They… how can they spread such lies!” “You’ll get used to it,” My tone was calm. “This is just the appetizer.” “So, what do I do now? Should I respond?” “No,” I said. “You don’t have to do anything. Just focus on preparing for your semi-finals. I’ll handle the rest.” After hanging up, I logged into an old, rarely used social media burner account. I used this account to discreetly monitor competitors; it had few followers, and no one knew it was me. I drafted a post and published it. [Interesting. Whose screenplay is it really? One says it’s a best friend’s legacy, the other claims it’s their original work. One is already successful, the other is a newcomer. On the surface, it looks like the newcomer is just trying to ride someone else’s fame. But what if? What if the newcomer is telling the truth? Now *that* would be a story. Waiting for the results of the Maxwell Group competition. Money talks, right?] I didn’t mention any names, just posed a possibility. But the internet never lacked for drama-lovers and self-proclaimed online sleuths hungry for justice. My post was quickly picked up and shared by several gossip accounts and influencers. [Intriguing, whose script is this anyway?] [Chilling thought… if a celebrity really stole from a rookie, that’s seriously messed up.] [Ava Hayes is gone, so there’s no way to confirm anything. It’s all up to her ‘best friend’ now.] The tide of public opinion began to shift subtly. Of course, this level of public speculation wasn’t enough to shake Serena’s foundation. Her team’s PR was highly effective, quickly suppressing these “dissenting voices.” But it didn’t matter. I never expected to take her down with a few guesses alone. I just needed to muddy the waters. To draw everyone’s attention to the Maxwell Group competition. I wanted this showdown to play out on a completely public, authoritative stage. I wanted Serena to be utterly disgraced in front of the entire world. A week later, the semi-finals began. The format required directors to present their screenplays in person to the judges. And this time, there was an additional judge. Julian Maxwell. He was personally presiding over the judging panel. This instantly elevated the competition’s profile even further. I didn’t go to the venue. But I had people on the inside. Not long after Liam entered, I received a message. [Serena Thorne is here too, with her legal team.] I looked at the message on my phone, a faint smile playing on my lips. She’d come. The fish had taken the bait. She probably thought that by showing up, by adopting the stance of the original creator. And by having her lawyers pressure the Maxwell Group, that nobody, Liam, would be scared into withdrawing. Unfortunately, she miscalculated one thing. Julian Maxwell, of all people, absolutely detested being threatened. Another thirty minutes passed. My phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered. “Miss Miller?” A clear, cold male voice came from the other end. It was Julian Maxwell’s assistant. “That’s me.” “Mr. Maxwell would like to meet you. Now, in his office on the top floor of the Maxwell Tower.” What had to come, would come. Julian wasn’t foolish. With such a commotion, it was impossible he wouldn’t investigate. Given his resources, it was only a matter of time before he uncovered Lynn Miller’s identity and my connection to Liam. “Alright,” I replied calmly. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” After hanging up, I changed my clothes. A simple white blouse, a pair of jeans. I washed off the freckles and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. It made me look sharper, more formidable. I was going to meet the biggest player in this game. I had to make him believe that the cards in my hand were stronger than Serena’s.
Maxwell Tower, top floor. Julian Maxwell’s office was as vast as a small soccer field. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of half the city’s nightscape. When I entered, he was on the phone, his back to me, standing by the window. His tall figure, silhouetted against the glittering city lights, seemed somewhat solitary. His assistant led me to the sofa area, poured me a glass of water, then quietly exited. I sat still, not looking at him or surveying the surroundings. About five minutes later, he finished his call. Footsteps approached, stopping in front of me. A faint scent of cedarwood wafted over. It was his signature cologne. He didn’t sit, just stood, looking down at me. His gaze was like an X-ray, trying to see right through me. “Miss Miller.” He spoke, his voice giving nothing away. “Mr. Maxwell.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. He was strikingly handsome, with a kind of aggressive good looks. Sharp brows, piercing eyes, a high nose bridge, and thin lips. They say men with thin lips are heartless. I never believed it before, but now I did. “The screenplay for ‘The Cage’ is in your possession.” He stated it as a fact. “Yes,” I nodded. “Ava Hayes gave it to you?” “You could say that.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if judging the truthfulness of my words. “What’s your relationship with her?” “Someone she trusted.” These were the same questions Liam had asked me. Julian was silent for a few seconds, then sat down on the single armchair opposite me. His legs crossed, his posture composed. But the more composed he was, the more I knew he wasn’t calm inside. “Serena Thorne was also here today,” he said. “She told me the script Liam Reed has was stolen, that it’s corporate espionage.” “Of course, she would say that,” I smiled faintly. “False accusations are her specialty.” “What evidence do you have to prove yours is the original version?” Julian stared at me, asking each word precisely. “Evidence?” I took a small USB drive from my bag and placed it on the coffee table. “Mr. Maxwell, perhaps you should take a look at this first.” He gestured, and the assistant immediately stepped forward. He took the USB drive and inserted it into Julian’s desktop computer. Soon, the projection screen on the wall lit up. Playing was a video. The scene was a warmly decorated study. Ava Hayes—or rather, *I*—was wearing comfortable loungewear, sitting at a desk. Manuscript paper and a laptop were spread out on the table. “…Regarding the male lead’s childhood trauma, I feel the previous setup was too simplistic. If we made him witness his mother being domestically abused as a child, wouldn’t it have more impact? That way, his later-life paranoia and insecurity would have a clear origin…” The video showed me talking to the camera. It was as if I was discussing the plot with someone, or perhaps just thinking aloud. This was a habit I had when writing. I would record my inspirations and ideas on video. It made it easier to review and organize later. This video was recorded when I was brainstorming the core concept of ‘The Cage.’ It detailed the male lead’s character backstory. This specific detail, in the “censored” version of the script Serena had released, was changed to a cliché “divorced parents, lack of love from childhood.” The difference in quality was instantly undeniable. The video was short, only a few minutes. After it finished, the office was utterly silent. Julian Maxwell’s face had gone beyond mere annoyance. He looked at the familiar face on the screen, his eyes swirling with complex emotions. “How much of this do you have?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse. “Enough to meticulously reconstruct the entire creative journey of the script,” I replied calmly. This was my trump card. I never go into battle unprepared. Serena thought she had stolen a printed manuscript. She didn’t know how many backups, how many records of the creative process, I had kept. Each piece of evidence was enough to drag her to hell. Julian leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a long while, he opened his eyes again and looked at me. “What do you want?” He was smart. He knew I hadn’t shown him these things to make him “seek justice” for Ava Hayes. I was here to negotiate. “I want the Maxwell Group to invest in Liam Reed,” I said. “Is that all?” “Of course not.” I smiled faintly. “I want the Maxwell Group to withdraw all investment from Serena Thorne’s version of ‘The Cage.’ And, Mr. Maxwell, I want you to personally attend the launch event for Liam Reed’s version of ‘The Cage.’” This was my true objective. I didn’t just want Serena’s project halted. I wanted Julian Maxwell, the man at the pinnacle of capital, to personally endorse my screenplay. I wanted everyone to know who the chosen one was. This was undoubtedly a direct slap in Serena’s face. And in the most brutal way possible. Julian looked at me, his eyes unfathomably deep. “Miss Miller,” He suddenly changed the subject. “The ring on your hand is very unique.” I instinctively glanced at my right hand. On my index finger, I wore a very plain silver ring. The design was simple, with a single letter engraved on the inside. A ‘Z’. *Zhao*. It was my own name. I had worn it for many years, almost never taking it off. My heart plummeted. He… recognized me?
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