She Was Cast as the Live-Action Version of an AI Star. Then the Hate Started.

The audition room’s air conditioning was too cold. Hu Dongqing finished the third passage of dialogue. Lao Zhou, the casting director, didn’t look up. He turned his phone screen toward her. On it was Jiang Yuechu from the AI version of The Chronicle of Myriad Demons: a modeled face, pupils with starlight, hair moving without wind.

“Does she look like her?” Lao Zhou asked.

Hu Dongqing looked at that face, perfect to the point of being inhuman. She said nothing. Her nose bridge wasn’t straight enough. Her jawline wasn’t sharp enough. Her eyes didn’t have that cold light tuned by an algorithm.

“Go home and wait for notice,” Lao Zhou said.

She walked out of the building. Her phone buzzed. A Douyin push notification: the AI version of Jiang Yuechu had passed 8 million followers. Season 13 reservations had reached 8.37 million. The top comment: “If they dare make a live-action version, I’ll dare boycott it.”

She shoved the phone into her pocket and went to a convenience store to buy a bottle of water. On the shelf next to the checkout counter were pothos plants. One pot’s leaves were wilted. She poured the rest of the bottle into it.

Three days later, she got a call. Lao Zhou said the director wanted to see her.

The director’s surname was Lu. Lu Yuanzhou. He wasn’t the director. He was the male lead. He sat in the meeting room, the AI version’s storyboard script spread out in front of him, twirling a pen. The pen cap had tooth marks.

“Have you seen the AI version?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“The modeling is perfect.”

“I’m asking what kind of person you think Jiang Yuechu is.”

Hu Dongqing paused. In the AI version, Jiang Yuechu was reborn, cultivated immortality, fought monsters, and leveled up. She had three expressions: cold, angry, smiling. Hu Dongqing thought for a moment. “She seems to have never been afraid.”

Lu Yuanzhou put down the pen. “Right. That’s the problem. A real person can’t act like that. A real person has to be afraid.”

He pushed a sheet of paper over. On it was a scene: after Jiang Yuechu kills someone for the first time, she hides in a cave, her hand shaking so much she can’t hold the sword. In the AI version, the scene was three seconds. The music exploded. She stood up and kept walking. Lu Yuanzhou said, “In the live-action version, I want her to shake for a full thirty seconds. Can you shake?”

Hu Dongqing said, “Yes.”

The first scene began shooting. Green screen, wind machine, fake blood. Hu Dongqing wore Jiang Yuechu’s costume. The sword was plastic. The director called action. She followed the AI version’s rhythm: cold face, draw sword, swing. The director called cut.

“No.” Lu Yuanzhou walked over. “You’re too much like the AI.”

“That’s how the AI version acted.”

“The AI version has no heartbeat.” He put his hand on his chest. “Feel yours.”

Hu Dongqing put her hand on her chest. Her heart was beating fast. Her face showed nothing.

“Are you afraid?” Lu Yuanzhou asked.

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of messing up. Afraid of being cursed at. Afraid of those 8.37 million people.”

She said nothing.

“Being afraid is right,” Lu Yuanzhou said. “The first time Jiang Yuechu killed someone, she was afraid too. Give me the moment when she’s afraid.”

She stood in front of the green screen again. The director called action. She drew the sword. Her hand trembled. The director didn’t call cut. She kept acting. The tip of the sword sank. She gripped it hard, nails digging into her palm. Fake blood seeped between her fingers. She looked up. Her eyes were red.

The director called cut. The set was quiet for two seconds. Lu Yuanzhou said, “Passed.”

After wrapping, Hu Dongqing sat in a corner of the set eating a boxed meal. Lu Yuanzhou came over and handed her a box of stomach medicine. “You squeezed your hand too hard just now. Your stomach will hurt.” She took the medicine and said nothing. He didn’t leave. He stood beside her, watching the crew put away the lights. A light stand fell. He reached out to block it. The back of his hand scraped open. She saw him pull his hand back. She didn’t say anything.

The second scene was an emotional scene. Jiang Yuechu and the male lead confronted each other under the moon. In the AI version, this scene was a bombardment of special effects, spells clashing, and in the end the male lead took a sword for her. The live-action version changed it. Lu Yuanzhou said, “No spells. Just two people standing. You hate me, but you also want to get close to me.”

Hu Dongqing stood in front of him, half a step away. The director called action. She looked up at him. He looked down at her. Her hand rose, touched his collar, then pulled back. He leaned forward a little. His breath brushed her forehead. She didn’t dodge. His lips were still an inch away.

A phone rang off set. It was a protest livestream by AI version fans. “Boycott the live-action version! Give us back Jiang Yuechu!” Hu Dongqing jerked back and knocked over a prop rack. Lu Yuanzhou reached out to pull her. She shook him off.

“Cut,” the director said.

Hu Dongqing crouched on the ground picking up props. Her hands were shaking. Lu Yuanzhou stood beside her and didn’t help. He looked toward the set entrance. The livestream noise had come from there.

That night, Hu Dongqing returned to her rented room. The room was small: a bed, a table, and on the table that pot of pothos. She turned on her phone. The AI version of The Chronicle of Myriad Demons played automatically. Bullet comments floated by: “This is the real Jiang Yuechu.” “Live-action version, get lost.” She turned off the comments and watched the AI Jiang Yuechu kill with a cold face on the screen. She watched for a long time. Then she opened the front camera and looked at her own face. No starry pupils. No hair moving without wind. She turned off the phone, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

At 3 a.m., she sent Lu Yuanzhou a message: “I want to quit.”

Lu Yuanzhou replied instantly: “Why?”

“I don’t look like her.”

“You were never supposed to look like her. You’re Hu Dongqing.”

“The audience wants Jiang Yuechu.”

“The audience wants a living person. The AI is already perfect enough. They don’t need another perfect fake.”

She didn’t reply. She put the phone face down on the table. The pothos leaves were wilted. The soil was dry. She looked at the bottle of water on the table. She didn’t get up.

The next day, she didn’t go to the set. Lao Zhou called six times. She didn’t answer. At noon, Lu Yuanzhou came. He stood at the door, holding a bag. She opened the door and saw the injury on the back of his hand still hadn’t healed.

“I came to get the script,” he said.

“The script is on the table.”

He walked in and put the bag on the table. Inside were stomach medicine, a bottle of water, and a pack of wet wipes. He picked up the script and turned to leave. At the door, he stopped.

“That emotional scene,” he said, “I changed it. You don’t need to get close to me. You just need to stand there and let me get close to you. If you’re afraid, step back. If you don’t want to step back, stand still. You’re in charge.”

She looked at him.

“Also,” he said, “the pothos needs water.”

He left. She closed the door, picked up the bottle of water, and poured it into the pothos pot.

The third day, she returned to the set. The director asked, “Thought it through?” She nodded. Lu Yuanzhou stood opposite, saying nothing. The director called action. She stood under the moon. He walked closer. She didn’t step back. He stopped in front of her, raised his hand, and touched her hair. She trembled, but didn’t dodge. His fingers slid from her hair to her earlobe and stopped. She closed her eyes.

Off set there was no ringing. The fans’ protest livestream had been cut off by the crew. On set there was only wind and breathing. The director didn’t call cut. Lu Yuanzhou’s lips were an inch away, then stopped. He stepped back.

“Cut,” the director said.

Hu Dongqing opened her eyes. Lu Yuanzhou had already turned and walked away. She stood there. Her palms were full of sweat.

The last scene. After Jiang Yuechu is reborn, she returns to the first cave. In the AI version, she gets a divine weapon here and her power skyrockets. In the live-action version, she just sits on a rock, looking at the sword in her hand. The sword is plastic, with nail marks from where she squeezed it.

The director called action. She sat, not moving. Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds. She looked up at the camera. Her eyes weren’t red, but her gaze had changed. She stood up, put the sword back at her waist, and walked out of the cave. No music. No special effects.

The director called cut. No one on set spoke. Lao Zhou came over and handed her a bottle of water. She took it, twisted off the cap, and took a sip. The water was warm.

After wrapping, she sat by the road waiting for a car. Lu Yuanzhou came over and stood beside her. Neither spoke. The car came. She got in. He knocked on the window. She rolled it down.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

She nodded. The car drove off. She looked down at her phone. The AI version of The Chronicle of Myriad Demons was still updating. She turned off the screen and looked out the window. Streetlights ran backward one by one. She took the stomach medicine out of her bag and swallowed a pill.

The pothos in the rented room had grown a new leaf.