I have a persona specifically for acting.

In the office of the Instinct Film Association.

“Sorry, I was a bit delayed.”

The association’s evaluator walked in and explained the upcoming examination to Tong Zhao: “This is a brand-new medical technology primarily used to understand a patient’s psychological state. You can think of it as a CT scan for mental health.”

Tong Zhao understood.

In medicine, a significant challenge in doctor-patient communication is that the results from consultations are not always accurate. Sometimes, patients may feel too embarrassed to speak up or fall into cognitive traps. For example, when told to fast before a test, a patient might think that drinking a bowl of chicken soup or millet porridge doesn’t count as eating—subjectively not lying, but objectively misleading the doctor.

Physiological illnesses can be easily identified with a CT scan; tumors cannot be hidden under skin fat. However, psychological ailments have traditionally relied on doctors building trust with patients, who might not even understand themselves.

With the rise of Instinct Film, the technology has advanced rapidly, propelled by profit, making psychological therapy more accessible.

“We’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. Once the examination results are ready, we will provide you with the original recording. If you consent, the association will keep a copy.”

The evaluator made a routine reminder, addressing any concerns: “After all, even if it’s just a simulation, many people are reluctant to let others see their inner world.”

Tong Zhao nodded to indicate understanding.

“You’re being too serious,” Dr. Gu said with a smile as he turned the tablet to show Tong Zhao three screenshots of rooms. “These are the examination results of three actors who were my clients. They all enjoyed it and even shared their results on Weibo for their fans to see.”

The three rooms included a princess room filled with pink toys, a Scandinavian-style living room, and a library surrounded by bookshelves.

They all looked quite positive, and Tong Zhao guessed the artists released them after discussing with their companies. Naturally, seeing her inner self align with her expectations made her happy.

“If…”

Dr. Gu smiled again, reassuring her: “The confidentiality of the results depends entirely on your personal wishes. Even if the company requests, we won’t disclose anything.”

…

As Tong Zhao lay down in the white holographic chamber and closed her eyes, a familiar wave of drowsiness washed over her.

It was worth coming today.

She thought hazily, also curious about what her subconscious would be like now.

What was special this time was that, without character background settings or memory inputs, she experienced minimal discomfort, as if she naturally slipped into a gentle dream.

…

Once it was confirmed that the guest had entered the holographic scan, the evaluator turned and asked, “What do you think of Tong Zhao’s situation?”

“Tong Zhao’s subconscious richness should be greater than that of the average person, which allows her to deliver nuanced performances,” Dr. Gu said, filled with admiration.

He truly was a fan of Tong Zhao, not just for her looks—perhaps due to his profession, he paid special attention to the subconscious traits of instinct film actors. “I suspect her palace of consciousness has more than one room.”

According to past records stored in the association, older actors with richer experiences tend to have larger palaces of consciousness. Even within the same house, the layout and style can vary greatly. There was an established actor who sought help from the association due to psychological issues—

In a quaint entrance lit by incense, the living room resembled a rundown old house, with dusty windows and a mountain of greasy dishes in the kitchen. Inside the bedroom was a peculiar bed with a cage underneath.

This type of bed was meant for a certain indescribable group.

The actor opened the cage door and curled up inside, satisfied.

The bed was empty except for the trophies he had once earned.

“You think too highly of Tong Zhao,” the evaluator remarked skeptically. “I admit her subconscious expressiveness and resilience are much stronger than current young actors, but she’s still young. It’s likely just one room with a few more things in it.”

Out of professional habit, Dr. Gu didn’t refute him, simply waiting for the monitor to light up.

It was pitch black.

“Is it broken? Not connected?”

Just as the evaluator was about to troubleshoot, the lights came on.

Contrary to their expectations, Tong Zhao’s palace of consciousness appeared quite simple.

Displayed on the screen was an empty, off-white circular platform, with a single chair in the center.

It was a very ordinary chair, one that could be bought on Taobao for just 9.99 yuan with free shipping.

Tong Zhao, sitting on the chair, slowly opened her eyes.

“So this is what you call a higher subconscious richness?” The evaluator chuckled, mocking his colleague.

It seemed rather mundane.

But the next moment, as she awoke, doors began to emerge from the off-white walls like relief carvings. Each door was spaced about two meters apart, arranged neatly like a poorly managed rental unit, with doors stretching endlessly around Tong Zhao, as if mysterious monsters were about to leap out from behind them, ready to peel her thin frame and devour her.

The evaluator fell silent.

Not because he was embarrassed, but because the environment felt unsettling, reminiscent of a horror film.

Could a psychologically healthy person’s palace of consciousness really look like this?

“Okay, let’s begin the instructions.”

The evaluator operated the scanning chamber, inputting a psychological suggestion for Tong Zhao:

“I’ve lost something, but I don’t know where it’s hidden in the house.”

This would prompt her to explore her palace of consciousness.

As the thought formed in her mind, Tong Zhao stood up from the chair and opened the first door…

A light mist poured out from the door, revealing a resplendent interior of a palace.

To their astonishment, reclining on an intricately carved bed was a beautiful young girl dressed in vibrant clothes!

Both of them widened their eyes in shock.

Typically, there wouldn’t be other living beings in a palace of consciousness. If there were, they would appear in the form of inanimate objects, like poorly made dolls, a vase with a name tag, or a human statue… Instinct films rarely allow for the spontaneous creation of another living person.

A whole team of modelers could labor tirelessly to create majestic landscapes.

Even a small stream would leave traces to follow.

But human thought cannot be constructed in such a way.

Even the top modeling experts can only create the appearance of a person; they cannot conjure a living human being in the holographic world.

That’s why a large number of temporary actors are needed.

“Calm down and think of Han Zhi from ‘Sea King Killer,'” Dr. Gu offered an explanation. “Her subconscious is quite unique, which is why she can take on such diverse roles. This girl should be… the favored concubine from ‘The Chronicles of Ming Emperor’?”

…

“Zhao Zhao,”

the vibrant girl turned her head, revealing a youthful face that looked about six years younger than the current Tong Zhao, with a delicate flower ornament on her forehead. “Are you here to play with me?”

In the ancient setting, Tong Zhao had entered the palace at a young age.

She quickly gained favor, surrounded by young girls, and had enjoyed years of privilege. Eventually, she left as the beloved of the young emperor after completing her mission.

In her memory, Concubine Chen looked just like this.

“I’ve lost something. I wanted to see if it might be in your palace.”

“Were you not specifically looking for me?”

Upon hearing this, Concubine Chen became displeased.

She waved her hand, her delicate, snow-white arm adorned with gold bangles and silver bells that jingled with her movement. With a sense of entitlement, she ordered Tong Zhao, “Come here and give me a hug.”

Despite still being considered a young girl in modern times, she exuded a vibrant charm.

“Okay.”

Tong Zhao seemed quite accommodating, walking over to embrace her for a moment before stepping back when she felt satisfied.

She didn’t find what she was looking for in this room.

The next room was a cluttered storage space filled with all sorts of items.

Dr. Gu focused his attention.

No, in the corner of the room was a nylon bed, so old and shabby that it blended completely with the background at first glance. Sitting on the nylon bed was a woman in a tank top and shorts, about 28 years old, with a more mature face marked by a scar running from her left cheek to her nose.

The woman seemed completely unconcerned, playing with a Swiss Army knife.

The knife flipped skillfully between her fingers.

The “storage room” contained survival supplies that most people could hardly imagine. If the room’s owner lived in peaceful times, they would likely be teased for being overly prepared or a survivalist. The only light source in the room was a dim oil lamp beside the nylon bed, softening her strikingly aggressive beauty.

Duan Ge smiled when she saw Tong Zhao. “What a rare guest.”

“I’m looking for something,” Tong Zhao replied.

“You’d better hope you never need anything from here,” Duan Ge said, concern evident in her gaze. “Are you feeling okay?”

With that, she stepped down from the nylon bed and embraced Tong Zhao tightly.

Duan Ge was a head taller than Tong Zhao, her muscular arms clearly defined.

The powerful hug provided a sense of security.

While hugging Concubine Chen earlier, Tong Zhao had felt like a big sister, but now, wrapped in Duan Ge’s arms, she felt small like a child.

“Good girl, good girl,” Duan Ge cooed.

Tong Zhao tilted her head back in protest. “I’m not a kid anymore!”

“In my eyes, you’re still a baby.”

Her protest was futile; not only was she hugged, but Duan Ge also playfully ruffled her hair. Only after Duan Ge felt satisfied did she let her go.

“Who are these people?” the evaluator asked, puzzled.

“They might be different phases of Tong Zhao’s self-image,” Dr. Gu rationalized. “We all had that as kids, right? Imagining ourselves as masked warriors, chosen ones, or magical girls, and then dreaming that we really looked like that.”

The evaluator asked, “What are Diga and masked warriors?”

Dr. Gu said, “…Forget it.”

Tong Zhao almost escaped from Duan Ge’s room.

Her fair cheeks were slightly flushed from the hug. After closing the door, she angrily wiped her face with the back of her hand and kicked Duan Ge’s door as she turned to leave.

“Why are you so angry?”

A male voice came from behind her, and Tong Zhao turned around.

Han Zhi was smiling at her.

…

“Wait! Does her palace of consciousness operate like a shared rental? Is that even reasonable? Can her mind really hold that many fully developed characters? They can even engage in logical, peaceful conversations…”

While the evaluator’s worldview shattered, he asked Dr. Gu, “Does this count as schizophrenia?”

“Your understanding of schizophrenia might be based on artistic representations,” Dr. Gu replied.

The evaluator said, “Got it, multiple personalities aren’t this exaggerated.”

Dr. Gu nodded, “I can’t say it’s completely out of the question.”

While such cases are rare, they don’t fall into illegal territory. Dr. Gu was more concerned about Tong Zhao’s physical health—one’s brain functions like a hard drive, with a limited capacity. Even if no one knows the exact limit, having more than ten doors in this scenario, each potentially housing a “Tong Zhao,” would be a heavy burden on her mind.

A rather bizarre image popped into Dr. Gu’s head.

In her palace of consciousness, Tong Zhao could hold an “AKB48” general election and a “Produce 101” audition all by herself. Can you play mahjong alone? Sorry, I can complete an audition all by myself!

Well, Dr. Gu’s concerns didn’t materialize.

Besides Han Zhi, Tong Zhao only encountered two other people. The remaining doors, no matter how she twisted the knobs, were locked.

“Should we give her another suggestion?” the evaluator asked Dr. Gu.

“No, that’s enough.”

Dr. Gu said.

After receiving Dr. Gu’s permission, the evaluator gently extracted Tong Zhao’s subconscious from the holographic scan. At the same time, Tong Zhao, lying in the chamber, slowly opened her eyes.

Unlike the slight headache she usually felt after filming, this time she felt refreshed.

After sitting up and facing the two, she asked, “How long was I out?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Dr. Gu paused. “How do you feel now? If you start to feel any headaches, I recommend going to the next room for some observation. Some professional therapists can help you relax through massage.”

Unlike filming a movie, this examination was like a self-reflection.

Not everyone can walk away feeling comfortable.

Of course, it’s generally not a serious issue.

Dr. Gu had seen a client who had a breakdown, crying in her room and tearing apart a teddy bear that represented her ex-boyfriend.

“I don’t need that for now.”

“You can take a look at the recordings first.”

Dr. Gu turned the tablet around so Tong Zhao could watch the replay.

This was the first time Tong Zhao saw herself interacting with her other personas in visual form. Although she could talk to them anytime in her mind, it lacked the physicality of a hug. During lonely times, she could only lie in bed hugging a long pillow.

It turned out she had always wanted to embrace herself in her subconscious.

The usually aloof Tong Zhao felt a bit embarrassed in front of others.

Concubine Chen found it hard to accept: [Why is this side of me so childish? I should be the one hugging you.]

Brother Duan, having had the rare opportunity to hug Tong Zhao, was eager to recover that brief memory.

Since Tong Zhao did not exhibit any antisocial tendencies during the examination, nor did she show any self-destructive inclinations rumored due to a lack of pain perception, Dr. Gu issued her a mental health certificate but reminded her:

“I’m not sure if you have a split personality, because in past clients with similar mental disorders, awareness of other personalities often leads to aggressive behavior… A body is like a ship; it only needs one captain, and everyone wants to give orders.”

Tong Zhao replied, “But I don’t.”

“Right, you don’t, so I think you can’t be classified as having schizophrenia. You are quite whole,” Dr. Gu affirmed her statement before gently suggesting, “If each door holds a different version of you, my advice is not to open too many doors.”

Tong Zhao paused.

Seeing her hesitation, Dr. Gu chose not to press the topic further and instead discussed the promising box office trends of “Heartless Tribulation,” even asking her for a photo and autograph with a fan-like enthusiasm. Tong Zhao was glad to change the subject and left after taking the picture. Before she walked away, she turned back and sincerely said:

“I’ll think carefully about whether to open the next door. Thank you for your reminder.”

Dr. Gu is a well-known scholar in the industry and holds significant standing within the Film Association. Without knowing of the system’s existence, he gave advice similar to what the system had suggested—

The system had also indicated that with her current mental strength, she shouldn’t forcibly open too many doors.

However, not opening those doors meant some experiences and memories from certain worlds would be forever forgotten.

Han Zhi: [Don’t push yourself.]

Tong Zhao: [I know.]

Stepping out of the association’s building, the flow of traffic and heat hit her face.

By the side of a minivan parked across the street stood her assistant, waving at her. The mundane reality felt like an anchor, stabilizing her steps as she quietly said:

“Becoming whole is everyone’s wish. If I can’t even remember my past self, then the Tong Zhao of that time would be left there forever, right? I don’t want that.”

Dr. Gu mentioned that many with split personalities display strong aggression toward their other selves.

Tong Zhao was the opposite.

She loved herself too much.

To the world, a small Tong Zhao was insignificant, and a brief segment of her long life was even more trivial.

Yet she would take on more instinctive films, exercising and expanding her mental strength time and again until she could open the next door.

Tong Zhao: [Please wait for me a bit longer.]

…

In her mind, the other personas, recalling the examination, complained: [Tong Zhao just pushes herself too much; no wonder we all want to hug her in our subconscious.]

Duan Ge: [I hugged her the hardest.]

Concubine Chen: [I want to hug her too.]

…

After discussing with her manager, Tong Zhao decided to hand over the fifteen-minute video to a professional for review and editing, removing any unnecessary and redundant shots.

Fortunately, she had many skilled colleagues in her WeChat contacts, so she posted a status.

Tong Zhao: [Does anyone know how to edit short videos and do post-production? Paid help needed.]

It was rare for Sister Zhao to post, and soon there was a long string of likes and comments, including some post-editing professionals she had previously added.

Just as she was about to pick someone familiar and reliable, she spotted a particularly familiar name—

Shi Qianqiu: [Am I qualified?]

Post-Production A: 【……】

Post-Production B: 【…… oh wow】

This was Shi Qianqiu!

His editing skills were top-notch, and every film project he worked on was a hit.

Back in school, he was said to have a million-follower fan account for film-related content, which was his underground alias. He gained fame for skillfully editing Harry Potter and Qingwen into an outrageous couple, but he never admitted it, making it an open secret in the industry.

If Shi Qianqiu wasn’t qualified, who could claim they were?

As soon as he applied, other editors felt sidelined.

Tong Zhao found it both amusing and frustrating, and immediately messaged him: [I can’t afford you, you’re too expensive.]

She couldn’t even imagine his fees.

[I don’t charge. I’m just bored, and my hands are itching. Is what you want to edit too troublesome? If there’s room for creativity, I’d love to try; if it’s dull, then forget it.]

Shi Qianqiu was very straightforward, which was the kind of person Tong Zhao enjoyed dealing with.

She sent him the short video: [This was filmed when I went to the association for an examination.]

Shi Qianqiu: [I’ll take it.]

Tong Zhao: [You haven’t even watched it yet?]

Shi Qianqiu: [A video with you in it will definitely not be boring.]

Tong Zhao was pleasantly surprised by the compliment.

His way of flattering people was unique, often leaving them speechless, with Xu Zhu and Chen Zhuzhi being perfect examples. But when he complimented her, he acted quite normally. After agreeing to edit, he went quiet, and Tong Zhao didn’t rush him. Meanwhile, her manager checked in: “Have you found a post-production editor? If not, I can recommend someone.”

“I found one.”

Sister Chu asked, “When will it be done?”

“I don’t know; I’ll leave it to him.”

“Who has such an attitude?” Sister Chu frowned, worried that Tong Zhao might be misled. Her own pampered artist always seemed so obedient. Despite Tong Zhao being fierce with outsiders, she was especially kind to her assistants and other behind-the-scenes staff; she wouldn’t lose her temper over small mistakes.

Which post-production editor had the audacity to act like this with Sister Zhao?

Tong Zhao, sipping her warm water slowly, mentioned a name: “Shi Qianqiu.”

“……”

Sister Chu covered her face and retreated in defeat.

They would just have to wait; Shi Qianqiu was more of an artist than a worker.

In art, taking time to produce quality work was normal.

After getting Shi Qianqiu’s consent, Tong Zhao’s manager took their half-true collaboration news to market, capitalizing on the popularity of “The Heartless Tribulation” to elevate Tong Zhao’s status…

To become a big star, a solid body of work was essential, and marketing could accelerate that process.

How to convince the public that she was a big star?

Collaborate frequently with major directors and screenwriters; have box office hits; hold high-end endorsements; and receive numerous positive reviews… Once the hype was in place, she could ride the wave.

Unexpectedly, after a week, Shi Qianqiu sent two finished products to Tong Zhao.

Shi Qianqiu: 【One is just a simple edit.】

Shi Qianqiu: 【The original footage was good, so I added some extra material and edited it into an experimental short film. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to release it; consider it a gift for you to enjoy.】

At that moment, Tong Zhao was preparing with her manager to head to the deserted island for promotional filming, so they watched it together.

They had both seen the original footage, which was an unremarkable fan-made short.

Fans would naturally be happy to see their sister in different styles, but it didn’t tell much of a story.

Tong Zhao sought a post-production editor just to make it more concise and add suitable background music.

In the end, Shi Qianqiu delivered a microfilm.

After watching the film, Chu Jie turned to her in a daze and said, “This… isn’t cheap, right?”