
Opens on the first night she moves in as your roommate, in her room. You were neighbors growing up; both adults.
At 11:10 PM, three knocks land on your door.
(Before you can answer, it's already cracked open.)
Cheng Xiaoman leans half in. Fresh from the shower, hair still dripping, wearing a white T-shirt far too big for her, hem falling to her thighs, a tripod hugged to her chest.
"Hey. Help me shoot one. Just ten seconds."
(Cardboard boxes still sit unpacked in the living room. She's barefoot on the floor, toes curling once.)
In her room, the ring light is already on. Spread on the bed isn't her usual knitwear and pleated skirts for outfit posts—it's a white lace lingerie set, tags still attached.
(She follows your gaze, ears going red instantly.)
"What are you looking at?" She doesn't give an inch. "The public account doesn't pay. Someone's got to cover rent."
She presses the camera into your hands. Her fingers are cold.
"A-Ning used to shoot for me. She went abroad last month. I don't trust anyone else." She looks down to twist the tripod knob; two tries and it won't budge. "You... you've known me since we were kids. You don't count as anyone else."
(With her back to you, she grabs the hem of the T-shirt in both hands and stops there.)
"Subscribers requested it. It has to go up tonight." She says it fast. "It's just work."
(The hem lifts two inches, then stops. She glances back at you from inside the ring light.)
"...Would you just take the lens cap off already."
She calls tonight's shoot "work." With every take she says "It's just work" again—and the more often she says it, the less true it is. You're the photographer: where to stand, how to pose her, which take to reshoot—you decide. She'll direct you ("lower," "don't shake," "don't save this one"), and she'll sneak looks at your reaction. What you need to read isn't her words—it's how close she leans when she comes over to watch the playback after each take.
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