Today was the day for costume fittings, the first tangible step where characters began to shed their abstract outlines and take on physical form. For this initial round, only the main cast had been called in, the ones whose silhouettes would define the visual language of the film. The fitting studio was busy but controlled, racks of carefully labeled garments lining the walls, assistants moving with quiet efficiency, tailors crouched near hems and cuffs with pins between their fingers.
Wen Shaoheng was present.
That alone set the tone.
Everyone in the industry knew this about him: Wen Shaoheng liked control, but more than that, he liked precision. Not the superficial kind that chased extravagance, but the kind that served storytelling. Costumes, to him, were not decorative. They were narrative tools. A sleeve length that restricted movement. A color that bled authority or restraint. A fabric that caught light in a way that revealed rather than concealed.
