Tang Coco took the bundle, opened it, and blinked—it was a lace bustier, dark as night silk, soft as falling dusk.

“Put this on first, or the dress won’t fit... I’ll... step out... call me when you’re ready...” Her voice fluttered away like a shy sparrow as Meng Xiaoxiao slipped out, cheeks pink as sunrise.

“...” Coco sighed, a small wave breaking, and shook her head at the tiny thing in her hands. She reached behind and unhooked her back strap, fingers moving like careful raindrops. Thank heavens Mom had taught her this; otherwise, she’d have stood there, awkward as a deer in headlights.

She changed into the black bustier, a shadow hugging her. Then she called Meng back in, forgetting to ask how Meng had guessed her size so neatly, like a tailor reading a tree’s rings.

Meng kept quiet this round, focused as a moonlit artisan. She dressed Coco with steady hands, yet her breath hitched now and then, like a kettle just shy of boiling.

As the dressing went on, Coco’s mood darkened, clouds gathering. She finally understood what this was. No wonder it had baffled her earlier—this was a bodycon mini dress she’d never dared to try, tight as a black tide.

The fabric hugged her like warm water, soft and close, carving out curves like wind shaping dunes. The bust was a crisscrossed bustier, two bands pressing together like twin waves meeting, then looping behind her neck. From shoulder to lower back, a snow-white expanse lay bare to the air, cool as moonlight on stone.

“...”

“So pretty...” Meng’s gaze went glassy, starstruck. She’d only seen this kind of dress online, never tried it herself for reasons woven into her own frame. Now, Coco wore it, and the world narrowed to one luminous figure.

Coco felt a ripple of surprise too. She hadn’t expected this effect—comfort like a soft breeze, and a few new edges to navigate. She tried walking. Her steps met a slight bound, like reeds brushing her knees. Her shoulders, arms, and back were open to the air, and it made her fidget, her hands rubbing her arms as if to warm rain-chilled skin.

“So... this works, right...” Her voice rose and fell like a cautious tide.

“Mm! It’s perfect! My god, only I, Meng Xiaoxiao, get to admire this view tonight. You really do love me, Coco!” Excitement popped like fireworks in her eyes.

“Okay... then this one, I guess...” Coco’s cheeks picked up a cherry tint. For some reason, she wanted to walk a while in this new night.

“Okay...” Meng saw the blush and a flicker of guilt pricked her, a thorn under silk. She pivoted. “Wait—hold on. I’ll grab you something.”

She dove back into the racks, a sparrow among leaves, and came back quick as a breeze.

“Coco, drape this.”

A black gauze shawl lay across Meng’s hands, thin as mist.

“Mm.” Coco took it and set it on her shoulders, thinking this girl did have sense. Black, lightly sheer fabric floated to her shoulders, and the skin beneath, half-veiled, carried a quiet, smoldering charm, like lantern light behind rice paper.

“All right. Give me a second, I’ll get you shoes.”

“I’ll go with you.” Coco couldn’t make her run errands alone.

They wandered together, footsteps tapping like rain on tile, and each picked a pair of heels. Meng chose white platform princess boots; once on, she looked like a tiny proud princess, chin lifted, snow bright. Coco chose black round-toe mid-heel pumps—clean lines, steady grace. She was five-foot-nine, and too high a heel would make Meng look like a little sparrow beside a cedar.

“Okay, we’re set then?”

“Mm, now we can go eat. I’m starving...” Meng rubbed her belly, a hungry drum. Coco shot her a look, rolling her eyes like shifting clouds—wasn’t this all Meng’s idea in the first place?

They slipped on their masks, fingers lacing together like ivy, and left the changing room. The elevator lifted them to the sixth floor. From four to seven, the tower was a world of food. Floors four and five were regional specialties, six held snacks like a carnival of smoke and spice, and seven was upscale—steak knives and quiet candles. Meng had always favored the sixth; it served small bites she couldn’t find elsewhere, clean as new snow compared to street stalls.

The doors slid open. A wave of fragrance rushed in, warm and bright, like a festival wind.

“Mmm—God, I missed this taste—let’s go, Coco.”

“Slow down. Don’t trip.” Coco’s voice buffered her rush like a hand on a kite string.

This floor wasn’t crowded. A quick scan, and Coco counted about a dozen people, scattered like ponds in a field. Most of the tower’s elite flocked to the seventh, like peacocks drawn to chandeliers. But they didn’t know—snacks were the real joy, a street river flowing free.

Even with few diners, every stall stood ready, a colorful array like a painter’s palette. It worked like a buffet. The two of them picked a generous spread and headed to their private booth, a quiet nook where no one would intrude. They could remove their masks and feast, faces open as dawn.

“Nom-nom-nom~” Meng was already devouring a fried skewer, quick as a sparrow pecking grain. Maybe that’s why she had chosen a half-mask—food first, no fuss.

“Slow down...” Coco sighed, the sound like a soft bell. She set a glass of juice in front of Meng, then slipped off her own mask and her shawl. The snack floor ran hot, like summer under awnings; Coco had already broken a small sweat.

“Phew—” She lifted her hand and fanned her neck, a palm stirring air like a folding fan. Meng caught the moment, eyes snagged like fish in a net.

“...”

“What now?” Coco noticed Meng had stopped chewing, staring with a dazed focus, and asked, tone dry as autumn leaf.

“Coco... please don’t tempt me, okay...” The plea dripped like honey from a spoon.

“...” Coco’s look sharpened. “Your head’s packed with grime. Eat your skewer.”

She picked up a skewer of fish balls. The first bite singed her like a flicker of flame; she pulled back, blew on it, then took a smaller bite, patient as embers.

Meng chomped big and loud on the surface, but her gaze kept sliding to Coco, like a moth drawn to a lamp. The more she watched, the itchier her heart got, a soft fever under the skin.

“No... hold it... wait till tonight...” She told herself, words threading thin. She took a deep gulp of juice—too fast, too bright—and choked.

“Cough... cough-cough... cough-cough...”

“Slow down already. Honestly. I’ll have your sister keep you in line when we get back.” Coco’s voice carried a weary warmth, like a light rain.

“Hee-hee~ cough...” The laugh tumbled out, a pebble skipping water.

They ate slow, savoring, a rhythm like waves. Over an hour later, they finally leaned back, done.

“Ugh—so full—” Meng sank with contentment, belly round as a moon.

“Where next?” Coco’s eyes turned like a compass.

“Ninth floor has movie rooms. Let’s watch a movie.”

“Mm.” Coco had no objections; the thought of a dim room felt like cool shade.

They walked to the elevator, hand in hand. A staffer stationed nearby stepped forward, smile polished like marble, and offered two cards.

“Good evening, honored guests. At seven tonight, our boss is hosting a rooftop party on the top floor. You’re warmly welcome to attend.”

“Oh, okay. Got it.” Meng took the cards, and they stepped into the elevator, doors closing like book covers.

“What a coincidence. What kind of party is Sister Lin hosting?” Meng flipped the card back and forth, eyes narrowed like a cat reading rain.

“...” Coco fell quiet. A small doubt unfurled in her chest, a shadow under lantern light. How could it be this neat?

“No, stop it. Why so suspicious? We’re here to have fun.” She shook her head at herself, sending the thought away like scattering sparrows.

“Eh? Coco, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What do we watch?”

“Mm... I want the hot one—‘Heroes Alliance’!”

“Mm.” Coco didn’t care much what it was; movies were the pond, not the fish.

They reached the ninth floor. Meng led her into a private theater, a soft cocoon. A large semicircular couch sat there like a crescent moon—you could sprawl and never fall. A screen faced them, sized just right, like a window onto storm and starlight.

“Coco, let me hold you, okay~” Meng’s voice purred, soft as velvet.

“...” Coco never had a defense against Meng’s cuddles, the way vines find their way around a stone.

“Okay.” She slipped off her shoes and half reclined on the couch. Meng lay in her arms, and the two watched in quiet, bodies nested, like swans on still water.

Coco’s mind drifted beneath the surface, a river under glass. Yesterday, her mother, Su Xinhua, had reached out. They’d finished decoding the device from that business van; it was built to target Abnormals, designed like a snare hidden in reeds. Now Su was tracing the parts, piece by piece, to find the factory. Even if they found it, Su insisted Coco must not go alone. Coco thought it through and agreed. She wasn’t who she used to be. She had people now—anchors and warm fires—and she couldn’t gamble them on reckless storms. Tomorrow, she’d visit the Ouyang family and discuss plans with Ouyang Lingtian. His reach, combined with the Abnormal students Murong Ling had chosen for her, would let Coco form a force of her own, quick as a net cast at dawn.

Over an hour later, the film slid into its middle. A thin whisper rose from Coco’s arms, soft as drifting smoke.

“Coco...”

“Mm?” Coco’s answer brushed the air.

“These heroes with special powers... why do they try so hard to protect everyone else...” Meng’s words trembled, a reed in wind.

“...” Coco hadn’t expected that question. She lifted her gaze to the screen, where figures leapt like lightning over a dark sea. “To protect the world, I guess...” Her voice was steady, a lighthouse beam.

“But no one asks them to... If they die for it... no one will remember them...” The thought lay heavy, a stone in shallow water.

“...” Coco took a breath, then let the truth fall, simple as rain. “They’d do it anyway. Even if no one remembers. Because... that’s their mission.”

“Mission...” Meng tasted the word, slow and quiet, like a drop of medicine on the tongue. Then she breathed, lighter, like snow settling. “Yeah... a mission can’t be betrayed. Even if your heart resists... you still do it...”

“Don’t think too much. Movies are fake.” Coco smiled and ruffled Meng’s hair, her hand warm as sun on a sill. What was with this little one, suddenly so full of sighs?

Coco didn’t see Meng’s face just then—eyes unfocused, like a lake without ripples. Staring at the screen, Meng mouthed a faint thread of sound, too thin for Coco to catch.

“Movies... are all fake... huh...”