The place Nana Toki rented sat in an apartment block not far from Bai Jing’s school, a concrete hive under a bowl of milk-white moonlight.

By the time she rolled up, the sky wore a thin silver veil, and foot traffic flowed like a small river across the sidewalk.

To avoid eyes like curious sparrows, Nana melted behind a thick tree trunk, a shadow stitched to bark.

Her notes said Chi Mu’s unit was on the seventh floor, a square of light among stacked beehives.

She counted windows like rungs on a ladder, then nodded, a pebble settling in a pond.

Tools came out of her trunk, cold metal fish gleaming under streetlamps, and she slipped toward the building’s unlit back, a cat to a wall.

Embarrassment pricked first, like a nettle in the dark.

Plan A had been a cleaner’s disguise, a mop as cover, a broom as banner.

On the drive in, she’d realized these flats had no cleaners, only residents moving like tides.

So she cut sideways through the bamboo, and went with Plan B—climb.

Not that kind of climb, she chided herself, humor flicking like a firefly.

She meant a hook-and-line ascent up the building’s spine, a cat burglar on a TV wind, a gecko on a cliff.

Fortunately, the original owner’s body had been trained for shoots, muscles woven like braided rope.

Without that base, this plan would’ve felt like crossing a rope bridge in a storm.

She fired the grappling hook with a soft thwip, the head biting the roof edge like a hawk’s beak.

She tugged the rope, felt it bite like a root in earth, then started up, step by step, a black ant on a pale wall.

Night thickened like ink in a stone, and unless someone peered deliberately at the building’s back, they’d never see the silent swallow tracing its spine.

Hook by hook she rose, the line a taut snake under her gloves.

After nearly three minutes of wind and breath, she reached the level behind Chi Mu’s room, a ledge in a sea of brick.

“Whew. This building’s design has a bit of mercy,” she whispered, breath a little cloud in the dark.

The seventh-floor exterior hung over emptiness like a cliff lip.

She held the rope sideways and set a light foot on the AC unit, a tin raft on a high river, and let out a long breath.

Fatigue washed in first, a warm wave against bone.

Climbing that high in one run tugged at even a trained body like winter pulling at leaves.

“Hm? Did I land just in time?” The thought flicked like a fin in water.

Nana sat on someone else’s AC box, sipping water as calm as a pond.

Then she heard a faint rustle through the wall, like mice in dry grass, a door sighing open.

A man and a woman murmured, their voices blending like smoke beyond a curtain.

She set the bottle down, curled like a cat, and edged toward the glass veiled by heavy fabric, only to meet a blind angle like a dead end in bamboo.

Silence filled her throat first, thick as cotton.

Damn it, the curtains actually close at night; they weren’t doing anything that needed shadows, right?

At this rate, why not kick the window like thunder and storm in?

Her thought hadn’t finished rippling when a woman’s coy voice floated out, a petal on wind: “Ah, why so eager? We’ve only been together three months, and you’re like a kid.”

That voice was the heroine’s, no mistaking it, warm as tea over porcelain.

Nana leaned closer, trying to net the man’s tone like a fisherman at dusk.

No male words came, only the heroine’s breathy moans, silver bells rising and falling like waves on a moonlit shore.

The sound went syrupy, soft and sweet, a silk ribbon sliding over skin.

Nana sat on the AC unit for ages, a gull in fog, head a little blank.

Wait. They went straight at it? A spark popped like dry pine.

She glanced at the night sky like a dark lake, then at the curtained window, lips twitching like a bowstring.

“…All right, my lady, you win,” she breathed, a wry smile a thin crescent.

Home in under three seconds and already doing cardio—she hadn’t seen that coming, like rain from a clear sky.

From the sound, the man had been the one to start, a match struck in dry grass.

That stunned her twice over; in her mind, Bai Jing was a shy, cute boy, a fawn at the forest edge.

Someone like that wouldn’t pounce like a hungry tiger.

So… who was the man behind the curtain of night?

Her phone sang just then, a clear chime like a lark over fields.

She’d been dazed, a moth to a flame, and didn’t react.

Only when the sounds inside hushed, like a lake freezing, did she jolt and stab the ringtone dead.

Heat climbed her ears first, a blush rising like sunrise.

She’d been listening too closely and forgot silent mode, of all things.

Footsteps approached the window, soft rain across a roof.

A jolt of panic bit her spine like cold iron, and she grabbed for the rope to drop like a falling leaf.

Too late.

Chi Mu slid the window open a step before Nana’s escape, a paper door whisked by wind, and the chance shattered like thin ice.

“…” The air outside held its breath, a pond under frost.

“Strange…” Chi Mu’s brows gathered like small clouds.

She’d heard a familiar ringtone—clear as a bell—but from where?

Outside lay a quiet stage, the city’s lights scattered like spilled stars.

She leaned out, eyes sweeping the ledge like a crane over reeds, still puzzled; her unit was on the seventh floor, birds higher than neighbors.

Was it a phantom sound? The doubt floated like mist on a river.

But she’d heard it clean, like a coin struck on stone.

And then… “A water bottle?” Her gaze snagged on a clear cylinder, new plastic gleaming like ice on the AC.

“When did an unopened bottle show up on my unit?” she murmured, the question a feather in air.

She picked it up and turned it, the brand an unfamiliar seal under moonlight.

“Bai Jing, did you put a water bottle on the AC outside?” she called, voice drifting like incense.

She turned to the man on the bed, his upper body bare, light pooling on pale skin like milk.

He didn’t answer, only shook his head, slow as grass in breeze.

“I see… then where did this bottle come from?” she muttered, the words a bead stringing air.

A night wind slipped in, cool as a blade across the nape.

Standing at the window, she felt a chill creep like damp through cotton.

She shivered, shut the window in a quick clutch, and stepped back into warmth like a hearth.

Phew. That was close.

Hanging between the seventh and eighth floors, Nana let her lungs deflate, a bellows easing in the dark.

Chi Mu had closed the curtain again, and relief slid through Nana like warm tea.

That had been a hair’s breadth from discovery, a lotus petal from water; good thing her hands were quick.

She lowered to the seventh-floor AC again, light as a swallow returning to a wire.

A glance at her phone showed the caller: Shuyao Qin, a name bright as a lacquer seal.

There was also a text, a soft knock on the door: why so late, why no calls, what are you doing?

Nana looked out over the neon river, thought a moment like a stone sinking, then snapped a photo and sent it.

“I’m out being a lady thief,” she typed, a grin small as a cat’s smile, “on an infiltration mission. I’ll be home soon.”

The reply came like a pebble skipping fast across water, almost before her message hit shore.

“Lady thief my foot. If you’re filming, film. Don’t slack off mid-shoot. The manager will dock your pay.”

A dinner photo arrived, steam rising like little clouds.

This was your fault for calling first, she grumbled inside, the complaint a whisper leaf.

Still, she sent back a neat okay, a stamp on soft paper.

“Mm, I’ll be back in a bit,” she added, words warm as a hand.

“If President Qin has nothing urgent, she can wash up and wait in bed.”

She held the phone, the silence sweet as honey, and waited.

At last a single “Mm” arrived, a plum blossom on snow.

Shyness bloomed in her mind’s eye, pink as dawn on Shuyao Qin’s cheeks.

Nana smiled knowingly, a curved moon behind clouds, picturing that blush like a petal glow.

That’s enough for today, she decided, the thought a fan closing.

Hand on the rope, she eased down, a spider on silk in the night.

She glanced at Chi Mu’s window, lips quirking like a fox’s tail.

She’d heard what she’d needed; Bai Jing was darkening as expected, a shadow lengthening at dusk.

Next… yes, it was time to invite our icy CEO to the board.

Games grow sweeter with more players, like a hotpot with extra spice.

She left the block behind, shoes tapping the street like rain on tiles, and went to find her car.

She found it under a streetlamp halo, a body without legs, sitting crooked like a turtle without feet.

Wait. Missing four tires? The thought thudded like a dropped brick.

She crouched and patted the wheel well, fingers meeting nothing but night-cool air.

“…You’ve got to be kidding,” she breathed, anger flaring like a struck match.

Who steals tires in this day and age?

Her brand-new car, begged off the manager, had lost all four feet in a single day, like a colt hobbled at dawn.

Is this even something humans do? The outrage boiled, a kettle rattling its lid.

She even wondered if she’d found the wrong car; then one look at the plate cut that hope like a blade.

“…Damn,” she hissed, the word a spark in dry grass.

And that wasn’t even the boldest part.

To avoid acquaintances recognizing her plate like a name on a fan, she’d chosen a hidden spot, a blind cove with no cameras, no moon-eyes watching.

You can guess the rest; she swallowed the loss like bitter tea.

The System in her head nearly laughed itself to death, a monkey shrieking in a tree.

In the end, she called her insurer; a tow truck came like a slow turtle and hauled the shell away.

No trace of the tire thieves ever surfaced, their footprints wiped like waves on sand.

For days, sleep dodged her pillow like a skittish deer.

Good grief—she wouldn’t even pull that stunt on someone else’s car.

Which brainless gremlin had time to strip her wheels?

Plenty of other cars sat in blind spots like ducks on a pond.

Why, of all stars in the sky, did they pluck hers?