His smile folded like a paper fan; Ye Weibai stepped forward like a shadow crossing a threshold and reached out his hand.

His face went still as winter water. He lifted the handset, lips parting a fraction.

—“Hello.”

A soft, girlish voice fell into his ear like dew onto leaves.

No matter how fast Ye Weibai moved, the girl on the other end seemed to watch him from the rafters of Time. Or maybe she was bound by [Rules], caged by settings. She always could—she always had to—shout the one thing before he spoke. The greeting a person says by habit the instant a phone clicks alive—“Hello.”

So after dying nine times, how would Ye Weibai answer this tireless, AI-like girl who looped the same scene like lantern slides?

His lips pressed tight. His chest held its breath.

He didn’t speak.

After a few seconds of waiting, a chill “bzzzt” rose in the air like hornets from a nest.

Half-transparent threads bled out of the Void, spider-silk from nowhere, and wrapped Ye Weibai’s skin with a lullaby-soft yet iron-dead grip.

His body felt it at once—an icy malice like river water in midwinter.

He lowered his lashes, then opened his mouth. “You—”

—Hello?

Nine deaths. Nine dismemberments. Ye Weibai had more or less learned what the other side wanted: a plain little greeting anyone would blurt to a ringing phone—“Hello.”

Sure enough, the moment he let “You…” slip, the brain-boring buzz thinned like fog, and the threads around him sank back into the air like fish into dark water.

[Rules], that girl, or maybe that [Unknown] presence, all waited for Ye Weibai’s next sound.

For the end of this little game.

They had patience; they had mercy. He’d held silence a full ten seconds, and still the nervous buzzing didn’t return.

Receiver in his right hand, Ye Weibai lifted his left and gently stroked the culprit that had “killed” him nine times—the black, cold handset—like petting a sleeping snake.

“You—” At last, when every listener frayed with impatience, he went on and gave the syllable that [Unknown] craved.

“Hao—” He lifted his head. Starlight caught in his eyes; a smile tugged his mouth. He breathed lightly. “—sha ya.”

Ni—hao—sha ya.

Hello, silly.

He smiled like a boyfriend teasing a lover after a blunder; warmth in his gaze, slack grace in his pose and tone.

He yawned lazily, cloud-thin and unbothered. He hugged the black phone to his chest like a cool stone, leaned on the table leg, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

The handset had the right weight, the right cool. It felt good to hold, like a smooth river pebble.

Head on the table, Ye Weibai stared at the ceiling, bored, that crooked smile showing a streak of mischief. “Silly. You thought I’d say—‘hello’?”

Bzzzt—

No surprise. The instant his words fell, the hive screamed awake—sharper and fiercer than ever.

“Don’t joke with me.” His voice stayed soft, eyes bright as wet ink catching moonlight. “I hate [Rules] more than anything.”

Bzzzt bzzzt—

The sharp, glassy threads dropped onto him in a breath. They wrapped him head to toe like frost racing over a pond. This time the owner burned with rage—tricked, taunted, humiliated. Even before the strangling began, red lines rose on his skin, one by one, crosshatching like winter branches. They promised the cruelty to come.

“I don’t know what you want out of this—why you must make me say ‘hello.’ Is it to grease the talk that follows? Or…” His clothes had already shredded to ribbons; blood began to seep warm as tea. He didn’t flinch. He still wore a smile, though its warmth cooled like ash. “Honestly, I don’t care.”

“If you’ve got the guts—” He chuckled. “Make me die crying, then. Fool.”

Bzzzzzzzzzz—!

A blade-bright screech burst in the room, a sound to split eardrums like lightning splitting pine.

Faster than sound came the countless threads. They quivered with fury. This wretched human, this paper body—they needed a blink to grind him into pulp. This time—this time they could swear—not one piece would be bigger than his little fingernail.

And faster than the threads came—an ice-blue blaze.

Blue light leapt, spearing in from an unknown Void like a comet, and fell into the white room, wrapping Ye Weibai in a gentle, ardent embrace.

The blue was scorching, a winter sun breaking through clouds. The threads that had killed him nine times melted like frost at first light. Even their shrill scream vanished, swallowed whole by that blue flare.

Yet the blue was tender. Held by it, Ye Weibai felt warmth like never before. His blood-loss chill eased in a heartbeat. Heat flooded back like hot spring water, like noon sunlight in deep winter. His limbs went drowsy; sleep tugged at him like a quilt.

For no clear reason, in that wash of blue, Ye Weibai felt it—an illusion, or a memory. He was in a gentle big sister’s arms, hugged tight to her chest.

He could almost smell the sweet note in her long hair. He could almost feel her heartbeat against his cheek—too quick, brimming with pent-up thrill, wild joy, fierce delight… and a shy, timid flutter beneath it.

Somehow, it felt familiar. Somewhere, once, he’d slept heavy in just such an embrace.

“So nice.”

The thought rose, and the words fell from his lips like leaves.

In the next heartbeat, he and the blue light vanished from the white room.

Clang, clang, clang—

The blue light took Ye Weibai, but not the black landline cradled in his arms. It hit the floor like a dropped bell.

The next moment.

“Tsk.”

With that click of tongue, gold light whooshed into the white room.

“Ran, did he?”

The voice sounded like pearls spilling into a porcelain plate—clear and bright—and made you ache to see the face behind it.

The gold light thinned. A black, embroidery-rich boot stepped out first.

Follow the neat little boot up. A calf—slender, girlish, lovely enough to stop a heart. Above that, a Gothic gown bloomed like a black rose. Black fabric, gold threads weaving and crossing, sketched garlands and bursting flowers.

Golden filaments flowered from the hem, climbing up to a waist slim as a willow branch. A gold ribbon cinched it, fluttering in windless air, making that narrow waist look even finer.

Follow the gold lines higher—past the flat plane of her belly, and the—yes—flat plane of her chest.

The threads circled those modest rises with rings of golden blossoms, paired left and right. They ended at the collar, where two tiny flowers bloomed over elegant collarbones. Perfect finish.

On anyone else, this Gothic dress would steal the scene and leave the wearer dimmed.

Not her.

Her face was painfully beautiful, delicate to the point you didn’t dare touch. Milk-pale skin like you could press it and milk would bead out. Small cherry-red lips. A proud bridge of nose. Under trembling lashes, eyes like twin golden suns, their fire seething and bright.

Gold hair, lightly wavy, fell to her waist like a waterfall. A black bow tied at the ends like a night-butterfly.

Whoever saw her face would agree: she lifted the dress, not the other way around.

She looked twelve or thirteen, a girl carved by snow and light. Yet between every frown and smile, a chill nobility rose like a blade, keeping people back, making hearts flinch.

She was one of the Deities—[Doll].

If [Void] held the seat of “neurotic” among Deities, no one would guess this breathtaking [Doll] carried another name among them—[Pervert].

Unlike [Void]’s purposeless wandering, [Doll] had a simple hunger. She loved—[to control others].

To pull strings as if they were Dolls was her joy.

She wrote the script herself, built the stage herself, hunted her [actors] herself, stamped roles onto them alone. Then she took the director’s chair and called, Action.

It didn’t matter if those [actors] agreed.

And the reason her name stank among the Deities was simple—her actors weren’t just humans, elves, dragons, angels.

They also included—[Deities].