At home, Zhou Jiaxin hugged a rabbit plush half her height, tossing like a boat in night surf. Fear clung like damp fog—about the contract, about burning one of her five free days at the Modification Center right when storms were breaking.

All this for double pay for a single day, and to sell out her company to a maybe-myth Aklatia—was that really worth it? The thought tasted like cold iron on her tongue.

Every time she tried to go straight, her thumb found her phone. Resolve ran hot, then went thin as paper; her hand dropped by itself. Was it the contract tugging? Or just her own shadowy heart? Maybe she feared a scolding from above. In the end, she didn’t open the message screen again. Shame pooled, heavy as rainwater in a low field.

She scrolled dull, copy-paste short videos, the glow washing her face like neon rain. The “food” on her feed didn’t stir her appetite. If anything, she felt like a platter herself—an autumn feast cooling on lacquer—waiting for Night Frost to taste.

She opened a browser like cracking a shutter at dawn. She searched Aklatia. She searched contract. She tried to dig up anything on Night Frost. The Order Keeper headquarters had already declared Aklatia destroyed, a fire snuffed into ash.

Contracts were just campfire stories among Magic Maidens. Night Frost left no footprint at all. The emptiness felt like a graveyard wind, and fear pricked her skin like needles.

An unknown enemy. An organization “dead” on the surface. A contract from storyland. Had she been pulled into some strange working? The truth might be that the Modification Center helped push Aklatia to its end—and now Aklatia’s dead came back for revenge.

Or maybe Aklatia faked its own funeral. Maybe they sent agents into every undercity warren, binding minds and hands with contracts, aiming to unify the underground like roots strangling a stone.

Or maybe—

Knock, knock, knock.

Her thoughts broke like glass. It had to be Night Frost. Should she bow and play respectful? Maybe that would raise her favor bar. If she was already on this road, why not curry Night Frost’s mood and get her to shower more coins?

Hello!

She opened the door and bowed low, deep as a willow to wind. She shut her eyes and held her breath, waiting for Night Frost’s voice like a bell.

But the air was wrong. She peeked, face draining, and saw a courier in blue, a package in his hands. He froze where he stood, spooked by her ceremony, a street sparrow caught in temple incense, unsure where to land.

Realizing her mistake, Zhou Jiaxin flushed from neck to ear. She straightened slowly, covered her cheeks with a hand, took the parcel with both palms, and whispered an apology that smelled of steam and shame.

It was fandom merch she’d ordered months ago. Cross-district shipping crawled like winter snails, and Abyssal Rift openings had spiked. The courier was two months late. She’d almost lost interest in the whole thing, like tea left cold.

She opened the box and lifted out a male figurine. She set him on the most obvious corner of her desk, a little sentry for her screen. She probably wouldn’t touch him much later. Better in sight, a daily glance, a careful wipe after cleaning day—then savoring, like aged oolong.

Parcel done, she wanted to bury herself under the quilt and vanish. That scene was mortifying; luck like clear weather—no camera, no living third person. If two or more had seen her, she’d rather the floor open and swallow her whole.

Your performance just now was pretty funny.

Holding back a laugh, Night Frost swung in through the window like a silver shadow, landed solidly on the balcony, and watched the whole play in silence.

Zhou Jiaxin went blank, then it hit her like a dropped pot. She hugged the rabbit, scooted to the bed’s edge, and fell face-first into the not-so-soft mattress. Give her a shovel and she’d turn ostrich, head in sand, world erased.

Sadly, Night Frost had no shovel. Otherwise, she’d kindly help fulfill that wish—only not an ostrich trick. More like a full send-off: coffin hoisted, firecrackers blazing, banquet laid. Kidding, of course. Night Frost was very kind.

Zhou Jiaxin didn’t buy it. Night Frost and kindness fit together like flint and snow.

Night Frost drew a stack of cash from her Spatial Box. Leftovers from treating Zhao Qingsnow, plus what remained after rent. Maybe not as much as double wages. But this was just an advance, she said, voice cool as moonlight.

By the way, she’d told Blade to wire money. Whether Blade would, who knew.

Qianchun had sent support, and Night Frost felt nine parts moved, one part stubborn. Qianchun really was Aklatia’s financial pillar. Without her, Aklatia couldn’t breathe.

And Blade? Night Frost had gone out on mission. Zhao Qingsnow took a hit. Reimbursements needed a full stamp parade. She asked Blade privately for cash and got nothing. Funny, given Blade was rich as a dragon’s hoard.

Zhou Jiaxin thought of money like most people do. The more, the better. Thin wallets made her skin crawl. Maybe she was greedy by nature. Maybe poverty had carved deep. She wanted nothing of the slums. She studied like a wildfire, got spotted by a talent scout, and landed her first job at the Modification Center.

But it wasn’t enough. The life she chased wasn’t this one. A bit over ten thousand a month, a mortgage and a car loan just starting to bite. Every month she pinched and saved. She could still squeeze out a little for things she liked, but it drained her like a leaky jar.

That’s why, when Night Frost offered double pay, she said yes on the spot. One piece of intel going for twenty thousand plus—what’s not to love?

Think twice, though, and the noose shows. If the Center caught her, they’d come down on her hard. So she twisted, caught between need and fear. But the contract was signed. No turning back on a sealed knot.

She let out a long breath, like steam off a kettle, and told her story. Night Frost recorded every word.

Zhou spoke of the slums, of a narrow path she found and slipped through, of odd jobs in parks and scenic zones. She saved for her first book, cracked it open, and the world widened like a sky after rain. And in that sky, one truth hung: everything took money.

Schooling, food, dreams—they all sat on coin. She needed seed capital to feed herself before she could chase what she loved.

For the poor, there are two roads: labor till you drop, or study and cut a path through stone. She was lucky. She lurked by a high school and sat in on free classes. With self-study and a policy shift, she slipped into the promotion stream like a minnow into deep water.

Years later, the Order Keeper caught her. But her grades shone, and her words moved the previous administrator of District Twenty One. He arranged papers for her. Her slum birth drew sneers and cold eyes, but at least she could walk in the sun.

After college, she didn’t chase grad school. She went biopharma, and her talent bloomed. Her resume landed in the hands of the underground group that called itself the “Divine Cult”—the Modification Center—and they hired her.

Her project was drug resistance in one or more biological cell lines. Find new drugs. Draft new plans. Success was rare as snow in summer, and the workload a mountain. She got off work at near-dawn, slept at the company, lived on fluorescent day.

She then laid out how to use certain instruments, the cadence of her speech, her daily habits, her favorite foods. Night Frost took everything, like a net drinking the tide.

After hours of watching and mimicry, Night Frost began to catch the rhythm. Their lives rhymed, so their tempers leaned the same way. Imitation came easier.

Zhou Jiaxin felt some knot loosen. She’d lived alone for decades. Her parents vanished when she was in middle school. In the slums, people disappeared like morning mist. Death came without a drumbeat. It was normal.

Life’s like that: one wrong step, and you tumble into an abyss. She knew it in her bones.

Night Frost still moved a little stiff, but she’d smoothed a lot. She told Zhou to get ready to return to the Modification Center. She’d go ask Kaneko whether to stay or leave. They’d regroup and enter the lab together.

Zhou nodded. Honestly, she didn’t want to take leave today. Leave meant lost overtime, and overtime meant stacked coins. But she looked at the thick wad in her hand. It beat overtime by a mile. She could buy so many plushies.

No. She needed to think about not getting caught. She and Night Frost were grasshoppers tied to one string. If Night Frost went down, her money-road snapped.

So she would prepare. Either leak the message skillfully, or jump ship entirely. Before that, she wanted to learn how the contract worked. Few knew that lore.

Rumor said Magic Maidens among the Seeker were erudite as old libraries. She’d once discussed biology with one and left on good terms. Maybe that girl knew what a contract truly was.

Mm-hmm. Let’s do that.

She opened her phone and sent a single line: You there?

Silence. The message lay there like a leaf on still water.

Night Frost rubbed her temple, thinking about Kaneko. For infiltration, Kaneko was a weight tied to her ankle. If she wanted to go under, she needed to cut her loose.

She hesitated. Kaneko was smart and could care for herself, but her identity was false. If the Order Keeper caught her and dug deeper, threads would show.

Especially that psychic Magic Maiden from last time. If Night Frost hadn’t been quick, the truth would’ve spilled like a kicked bucket. Unthinkable.

The Black Dragon was another trouble. Its revivals were coming faster, like thunderheads building. The mirror-still lake of the mind would soon see a spirit-storm.

Night Frost knocked on the landlady’s door. The landlady greeted her with sunny warmth. Night Frost spun a lie—that there’d been a small accident, so she got back late. The landlady believed it and asked after her injuries.

Night Frost said she was fine and walked straight to her room. She reached to push the door. An invisible pressure rolled over her like a silent wave.