Then I’ll keep going, Xiao Hei.

Ye Weibai stepped off the bus, the city wind brushing his sleeves like a cool stream. He waved at the high school girl still glaring from the seat, her eyes sharpening like knives, and smiled goodbye.

Maybe we’ll really meet again, he thought, like two leaves crossing in the current. I still have to visit her school today.

Getting from Ye Weibai’s place to downtown was a maze of transfers, like hopping stones across a river. He’d just gotten off and had to switch again. Luckily, he had an unseen “friend” to talk to, like a shadow walking beside him.

This bus had fewer people, a quieter tide of faces. Ye Weibai slid into a seat, elbow propped on the window ledge like a perch, cheek cradled in his palm. His right hand held the phone, and he went on.

Finding nothing to do isn’t lightness. It’s a weight on the chest, like a stone in winter. You don’t feel free; you feel hollowed out, a shell.

For a girl who “lost her brother because of her own fault,” she found she couldn’t even manage to die. She couldn’t follow her father and brother into the dark. In that moment, she decided she was trash, a broken tool, only able to keep breathing without meaning—sliding toward the abyss.

The girl’s mother was delicate-souled, like silk folded in hands. She saw the girl’s wandering gaze. But she believed Time would smooth the scars, like rain on dust. Meanwhile, she had to carry a funeral, and a single mother’s house on her back, like mountains pressing her ribs.

So she offered a little comfort and let the river run. By the time she felt the undertow, the water had turned deadly, near the point of no return.

The girl still went to school, came home, ate, slept, chatted with friends, watched TV, like clockwork turning. But the light in her eyes faded, like dusk over water. Losing “self-worth,” she drifted toward the edge of the inhuman.

I met her in that state. Morning light, uniform crisp as frost. She was chatting with friends, smiling like a mask. But when I saw those ash-gray eyes, I knew it—she had rotted inside, like fruit with a glossy skin.

I imagined: if I walked up and cursed her, hit her, tore her clothes, even raped her in front of her classmates—she might not react at all. Because then, she was only a corpse, a body without a pulse.

No, not a corpse. A white page, washed clean, pure as snow. Anyone could press heavy ink on it, black or white, leaving a mark.

Ye Weibai paused. City colors streamed past the window like ribbons. Memory softened his gaze. After a breath, he said, I decided I’d hold the brush.

What are you talking about? the little girl asked, voice tight as a string. His certainty made her doubt herself. Could it all be true?

He was too sharp; he caught her falter like a draft through a curtain. He smiled. You guessed right. Ye Fei isn’t my sister. But here’s the correction: I didn’t “ask” her. I led her there.

They say like repels like. I believe the cold huddle for warmth, like two strays in snow.

I started closing in on Ye Fei—through her teacher, her friends, real-world ties, and threads on the net. It’s complex; I’ll skip the weeds. In the process, I shaped myself into “the brother who lost his sister in an accident and shut down,” a man iceberg-cold.

The kicker? In that accident, I’d argued with my sister. She ran out crying and got hit. Soap opera, right? But reality loves a basin of mess, a dousing you can’t dodge.

With her psyche shattered, Ye Fei believed it without blinking. Or maybe belief didn’t matter to her at all, like rain to a drowned man.

Even with the same role stamped on our hearts, we were just two tragic souls side by side. Parallel lines don’t meet; they don’t start a story.

To tie me to Ye Fei, we needed a spark.

In galgame terms, we had to “trigger the event.”

Right then, the bus chime rang: [Tianqiao Station arriving. Tianqiao Station arriving. Please…]

Ye Weibai stood, and when the doors sighed open, he stepped off. Forty-five minutes of ride, the hour nearing nine-thirty. The gentle sun had sharpened, pouring gold on his face like spilled honey.

He sat at the stop, eyes on the road, then continued in a calm, slow voice that chilled like mist: So I killed myself in front of her.

Same script, same pain, but I was braver. I chose death. That made her hollow heart thump again, a drum in a dead room. She wanted to know more—how I had that courage.

Naturally—no one pushed her, no daily routine set the rails—after that event, for the first time, she took action. She dove into the lake and pulled me out, like a swimmer hauling driftwood ashore.

Wanting to do something is the engine of the human world, a flame under the pot.

From there, the plot flowed like water. Not huddling to share warmth with me anymore—at the moment she saved me, Ye Fei found a new “self-worth.” She wanted to “save” me.

So the next day, in the ward’s white light, she played my sister. She chatted. She fed me slices of apple, sweet as autumn. After that, she came regularly to be my sister on schedule.

We both knew it was a play, a stage with thin curtains.

Watching the next bus roll in like a slow tide, Ye Weibai rose. Sun glazed his profile, bright as polished jade. What Ye Fei didn’t know was, not only the sister act—the moment she and I met was already a microfilm. Everyone else was cast. I was director and writer.

But that’s not the point. The point is, Ye Fei, once all torn and frayed, got re-woven, patched and whole. So when I finally stopped pushing her away and called her “little sister,” she hugged me and broke down, sobbing hard, voice scraped raw, breath catching—like she was the one redeemed.

Honestly, I can guess—she wasn’t just happy for me. She felt herself freed, a knot undone.

In that process, whether she became my sister or I became her brother stopped mattering. The labels blew away like leaves.

If—everything you said is true. Then you’re a good person, the little girl said, her voice flattening like calm water.

Praised by a Deity. Ye Weibai boarded his final transfer and laughed out loud, a bell in the tin bus. Heads turned.

Haha. Handing me the “nice guy card” already, Xiao Hei? By common values, sure, I’m a good guy. I bled for that girl. But actually—

Ye Weibai’s tone turned secret and solemn, like a locked shrine. I really am her brother. I died and crossed back. I’ll save my sister, then marry her, and have so many children. The revived me and her are free of ethics and blood, no shackles now.

What?!

He beamed. Just kidding. You really bought that, Xiao Hei?

The little girl screamed, sharp as a teakettle: Go die!

But don’t you think that plot is more fun? he teased, like flicking water.

Who cares! Her pitch climbed to a fever, almost hysterical, like cicadas at noon. As a Deity, she was truly rattled—she’d believed him.

In her long life, it was the first time she’d met a human like Ye Weibai—so baffling.

Facing death, no fear, like standing in rain. Facing a Deity, no awe, only jokes tossed like pebbles. A lazy, bookish aura wrapped him, but she felt a hidden swagger.

Boiling with a new anger, the little girl clenched her jaw and stopped talking to Ye Weibai. Because of that, she never learned whether his tale was true. Nor why, if it was, he fought so hard to save Ye Fei.

In the end, even as a Deity who governs human life and death, she couldn’t see through Ye Weibai.

…

…

Welcome to Cat House Café!

The front desk girl in pale blue and white chirped at the doorway, voice sweet as sugar. The British Shorthair on the counter flicked its ear, meowing like a soft bell.

Then she saw who it was. Her bright spirit dimmed in a heartbeat, like a page turned. Oh. It’s you.

Is this how you greet a revered God? Ye Weibai couldn’t help poking fun, words like feathers.

She touched her ponytail, smile missing like a button. Ah, we don’t love Gods who order one lemon water and sit all day. We prefer the kind who glance at the menu, fling down a few big red hundreds, then say, “Bring me a couple hundred of the priciest.”

That’s not a God. That’s a rich idiot, Ye Weibai said, deadpan.

By the way, you got cuter since last time, he added, and reached toward the girl’s full chest like a wicked cat. He stopped on the British Shorthair instead.

Meow.

The cat leaned in, head rubbing his palm like velvet.

The girl smirked. Heh. You think I’d fall for that again?

What a pity. That shy blush the first time was adorable, Ye Weibai said, regret soft as smoke.

Yes! A customer wants one spicy-sour shredded potato lemon juice! the girl shouted toward the bar, voice like a tossed dart.

Hey! That’s not on any menu outside isekai! Ye Weibai yelped.

Yes, and the customer wants mustard, volcano chili, and gasoline added, she fired back, eyes gleaming like knives.

That last one isn’t food! he sputtered, hands up.

Morning brought few customers. The other staff, idle as cats in sun, snickered at their banter. Strictly speaking, Ye Weibai was this girl’s mentor—Li Mengguo. The shop paired seniors with newbies. When she started part-time here, Ye Weibai had already been around. Back then, his bad-tempered teasing met her shy, fawn-like nerves.

The once-soft Li Mengguo turned prickly. Maybe Ye Weibai trained that thorny shell. For that, she was grateful, a warm coal under the ribs. And beyond gratitude—there were feelings she couldn’t name.

Because of that, she held a grudge over Ye Weibai quitting for no reason, like a door slammed.

So? Why are you here today? The manager’s out—comic con, she said, shrugging like a cat’s tail.

That otaku, Ye Weibai sighed, and took his usual window seat. He accepted the lemon tea, took a sip, citrus bright as sun, and said lazily, A middle schooler confessed to me a few days ago. I’m here to turn her down.

Huh?!

…

…