The next morning, the ground floor of the Power Station was a war zone.

  Sixty crew members were running cables. A catering truck had backed into a lighting rig. The Director, a man named Marcus with a scarf he definitely didn't need in July, was screaming about "sightlines."

  In the center of the hurricane stood Sarah.

  Yesterday, this level of chaos would have had her vibrating with stress, chugging espresso, and likely crying in the bathroom. Today, she stood still.

  She had a confidence about her that she never had before. She was surrounded by a ring of people—assistants, gaffers, legal aides—clamoring for attention. She was calm as a storm.

  Wei watched from the mezzanine balcony, leaning against the railing. He smiled. He recognized the look in her eyes. It was the Empty State. She wasn't ignoring the noise; she was filtering it.

  Sarah was wearing a headset. Her fingers danced across an iPad. She would occasionally tap a button on the headset, listen for a microsecond, speak a few precise words, then tap it again. All the while, people were shouting questions at her face.

  "Sarah! The union rep says we can't film after six!"

  "Sarah! Where do we put the boom mic?"

  "Sarah! The smoothies are lukewarm!"

  She didn't flinch. She simply queued them.

  In her mind, the voices weren't noise. They were packets of data. She saw them floating in the air, glowing with different priorities. She assigned them a number. She slotted them into the Grid.

  "Bob," she said, not looking up from her iPad. "Union contract clause 4B allows for overtime if meal penalties are paid. Pay them."

  Bob blinked. "Uh... okay."

  "Janet," Sarah continued seamlessly, tapping her headset. "Boom mic goes on the truss, not the floor. Wei trips on floor cables."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Kevin," she turned slightly to the craft services guy. "Get ice. Now."

  She answered questions in the exact order they were received, regardless of who asked. When the Director stormed over, red-faced, demanding to know why the set wasn't cleared, Sarah held up one finger.

  "One moment, Marcus. I am addressing the electrician."

  The Director opened his mouth to yell, but the sheer weight of her aura stopped him. It wasn't aggression. It was the absolute, unyielding authority of a Bureaucrat Immortal.

  "Okay," Sarah said, finishing with the electrician. She turned to Marcus. "Now. Set clearance. You have three minutes."

  Marcus blinked. "I... yes. Three minutes." He wandered off, looking confused.

  Wei chuckled softly. The Dao of Administration was a terrifying thing. It did not punch you in the face; it simply organized you out of existence.

  He walked down the stairs, his robes flowing behind him. The "Extras" hired to play disciples were stretching in the corner. They looked fit, attractive, and completely incapable of surviving a real fight.

  Wei made his way to Sarah’s circle of calm.

  "Manager Sarah," he bowed slightly. "The turbulent winds do not disturb the mountain."

  Sarah didn't look up, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

  "Process complete," she murmured, tapping her iPad one last time. The crowd of assistants dispersed, suddenly knowing exactly what to do.

  She looked at Wei. Her eyes were still glowing slightly with that internal rhythm.

  "Wei," she said. "I just renegotiated the catering budget while simultaneously approving the insurance waivers. I feel... incredible."

  "Your Qi is flowing," Wei noted. "But do not overextend. The Mind Core burns fuel quickly. Have you eaten?"

  "I don't need food," Sarah said. "I need data."

  "You need a sandwich," Wei corrected. "And perhaps a break. The 'Talent' has arrived."

  He pointed to the door.

  A black SUV had just pulled up inside the loading bay. The door opened, and out stepped a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of mahogany and ego. He was shirtless (despite the dust), oiled, and wearing MMA shorts.

  "That," Sarah noted, her eyes narrowing as she pulled up his file on her mental grid, "is Jax 'The Hammer' Reynolds. The network brought him in to be your 'Rival'."

  Wei looked at the man. Jax flexed a bicep at a lighting guy.

  "He looks... damp," Wei observed. "Is he ill?"

  "He's oiled, Wei. It's for the camera." Sarah tapped her headset. "I'll handle the contracts. You... try not to break him in the first scene? We need him for at least three episodes."

  Wei sighed. "I will use the soft hands."