The weekend had finally arrived, granting me a brief respite from the grind of daily responsibilities.

After finishing my schoolwork, I turned my attention to updating my novel. Despite its modest readership, I felt an obligation to reward my patient readers who had been waiting a week for the next installment. It’s summer, and with more free time at my disposal, I decided to double the updates this week and release two chapters.

I navigated to the novel website and saw the familiar popup: ** “Would you like to add a new chapter?” **

Clicking “Yes,” I opened up my story, scanning for typos or awkward sentences, adjusting the layout as needed. Most importantly, I was curious—had that one dedicated reader left me any suggestions this week?

Deep down, I think of myself as a solitary Van Gogh, but on the surface, I play the role of a humble writer—earnestly replying to every piece of feedback I receive.

When I checked the comments section, a surprising sight greeted me. My novel had garnered an impressive surge in popularity: three hundred new clicks within the week!

Not only that, my enthusiastic readers had filled the comment section with messages, some of which would send any author into a frenzy:

— “Amazing! When’s the next update?”

— “Why hasn’t the new chapter dropped yet?”

— “So much tension and... excitement, wow!”

— “Is there any *intimate* development between the male protagonist and the male side characters?”

— “Could you consider adding... um... a mecha setting for some... male-on-male action?”

...

Reading the comments repeatedly, I began comparing their interpretations to my writing—and realized that, thanks to my readers’ mischievous lenses, my fairly traditional storytelling was being twisted into something completely different.

Scenes meant to emphasize courage and camaraderie, such as the male protagonist offering his male teammates an encouraging glance before the final battle, were now veiled in unintended innuendo. That brief moment of solidarity, intended to showcase the team’s shared resolve, was enough for my readers to set sail on their own... fantasies.

Another example: the heartfelt exchange between comrades during their perilous trial, where their mutual trust and emotional support miraculously reignited the power of their waning mechas—this heartfelt moment was now being misread as something suggestively... charged.

I admit it: the setup is a bit fantastical, even bordering on improbable. But it perfectly illustrates the primary theme of my story—that the bond between brothers can transcend all obstacles, defying even the laws of nature. So, I decided to keep it as is.

Friendship, passion, conflict, reconciliation—it’s all the emotional backbone of the plot, woven into a tapestry that delivers thrill upon thrill. The ups and downs of the narrative had my readers hooked, undeniable and electrified.

And yet, these comments... just look at them! How, through some infernal twist of interpretation, did my mecha-war novel, filled with honor and gritty battles, transform into something bursting with *undertones*?

At this point, I couldn’t help but mutter to myself: “These idiotic fans!”

Why is it that a story without a female lead is immediately typecast as BL, bromance territory? Has society become so dismissive, blind to the inherent nobility in male partnerships, the unshakable brotherhood backing each bold campaign?

It burns me up inside—how society harbors this double standard. When two guys hang out, watch a movie, or stroll along the street, everyone assumes they’re romantically involved. But when two girls do the same, it’s merely labeled as a “girly outing.”

Can someone explain to me *why* that is?!

Ultimately, as I reviewed my mecha-war manuscript, I scribbled a reluctant note beneath the file: ** “Misunderstood work because of mainstream bias.” **

With that, I slammed the website window shut in frustration and began contemplating whether to continue updating my novel next week. Will my work—striving for ideals—stoop to a level where it inadvertently feeds societal misconceptions? The mere thought filled me with unresolved feelings.

Just then, something warm and soft brushed against my feet. It climbed steadily upward, scaling my leg until settling comfortably atop my lap.

Looking down, I saw it—the sleek black fur of Jiang Muqing’s mischievous little cat.

“What the—! Who gave you permission to climb up here?”

Startled, I looked at the feline. It was completely unbothered, curling up cozily on my lap. One fluffy paw reached out and began batting at my keyboard.

“bjbjbjbjbjbjbjbj... bjing... bing... *bingjiao*.”

A jumble of letters appeared on the screen, the final word stopping me in my tracks: ** “病娇”—bingjiao. **

“Wait, *bingjiao*?!”

The term sent a shiver down my spine.

...

In real life, could such a thing as a *bingjiao* exist?

My understanding of this trope was limited to a handful of iconic anime series, all of which shared a dark and tragic conclusion.

In one series, the male protagonist, caught cheating, is gruesomely decapitated by the *bingjiao* heroine, who later cradles his dismembered head in an unsettling embrace.

In another, the heroine goes on a brutal killing spree with a woodcutting axe, murdering anyone perceived as too close to the protagonist, before succumbing to despair and ending both her own life and his.

...

From these harrowing stories, one thing was clear: any man favored by a *bingjiao* was destined for an inevitable doom.

Looking at the black cat sprawled across my keyboard, the thought struck me. If I was her male lead and Jiang Muqing truly was a *bingjiao heroine*... then neither of us was likely to emerge from this unscathed.

The only thread of hope was establishing some kind of ultimate cure—a way to heal her psyche before the narrative reached its tragic crescendo—turning Jiang Muqing back into a normal high school girl with average thoughts and feelings.

There *must* be a way to return her to normalcy. Her not being a *bingjiao* is the only guarantee I have that neither of us will face catastrophe.

Yet both fiction and reality seemed to conspire against me—the world was cruel enough to ensure there were no documented methods, no clinical solutions to cure a *bingjiao’s* heart.

With no historical success stories to emulate, it became clear that I was pioneering unexplored territory.

Feeling slightly more hopeful, I decided to consult the internet—the ultimate oracle of human curiosity.

Drafting a detailed forum post, I described Jiang Muqing’s troubling behaviors. Then I began my vigil, eyes fixed on the screen, awaiting wisdom from the anonymous masses.

At first, I expected the wait to be long. After all, my predicament seemed so outlandish that most would scoff or ignore it entirely. But to my surprise, responses flooded in just minutes later.

“Second!”

“Reserving a spot here for later.”

Are you kidding me? A life might hang in the balance, and yet you’re out here flooding my thread with meaningless comments?!

“Get over yourself and watch some TV, OP.”

“Bro, you’re dreaming. Wake up!”

A cacophony of dismissal, denial—can we move on? If you don’t believe me, just scroll away!

“If you know a girl like this, please share her contact info with me. I’ll take care of her.”

What am I supposed to do, give them Jiang Muqing’s phone number? I don’t even have that. Sure, her address is within my knowledge, but broadcasting it online feels all kinds of wrong.

“Is she cute? If yes, *then* we can talk.”

What are these creepy comments? Did you even think through the *aftermath* of such actions? Aside from imminent criminal consequences, these suggestions resolve nothing!

Just when I was ready to abandon the forum entirely, one reply caught my attention:

** “Show her kindness and patience. That’s the key.” **

For a long time, I mulled over those words while reading them over and over. Was it suggesting that I extend warmth and patience—a kind of deep, unwavering care—to bring healing to her fractured mind?

It sounded promising on paper. Yet “kindness” is such an abstract concept; who defines it? How would I measure if my gestures were soft enough, genuine enough, and meaningful enough to count?

The remaining replies lacked any novel ideas, just variations on the same theme. No practical guidance, no roadmap through this labyrinth.

Was I the first to undertake the impossible task of curing a *bingjiao* in reality?

A pang of pressure gripped my chest. There was no turning back now; I had unwittingly planted the seeds of her fixation.

All this stemmed from my well-meaning but careless promise. Those foolish words I’d uttered to persuade her—to assure her that someone in the world truly cared. Those words, spoken in desperation, had tied my fate irrevocably to hers.

“A promise given in haste is the root of all this chaos,” I whispered to no one in particular, staring blankly at the screen until another thought took hold.

Just then, Jiang Muqing’s voice broke the silence behind me.

“Fan, what are you up to?”

“No—nothing! What do you need?”

My hand shot out, slamming the forum page shut at the speed of light. If she caught even a glance at the word *bingjiao* on my screen, things would escalate far beyond my control.

“Fan,” she said with a soft smile, her face now peeking over my shoulder, her voice tender yet filled with expectation. “I’d like to sleep with you tonight.”

Her invitation was sweet, yet unsettling. She had just emerged from her shower—her damp hair tied loosely with a clip, stray strands clinging to her forehead.

She was standing by my desk, holding a pillow she must have stolen from my dad’s study room, wearing nothing but my oversized teddy bear pajamas. The outfit, far too large for her petite frame, hung loosely across her slender silhouette.

The scene was both innocent and alarmingly intimate.

“Did you use my shampoo?” I asked, distracting myself from less appropriate thoughts.

“Mm-hmm. Aunty said it’s Fan’s favorite scent,” she replied, her lips curving into a playful grin.

Could you please have your *own* opinion for once? I mentally groaned.

I sighed, trying to deflect her request. “If you sleep in my room, my mom will kill me!”

“Aunty said as long as it makes me happy, it’s fine,” she answered, beaming with satisfaction.

She leaned in closer, her delicate figure trembling slightly, her fresh-from-the-shower scent wrapping around me in wisps.

Suddenly, her neckline dipped—revealing a glimpse of what wasn’t beneath.

Nothing.

Idiot! I saw everything!

...

“Mom, are you trying to *set me up* or sabotage my very existence?!”

My inner world exploded—a stampede of mental alarms rampaging through my already chaotic mind.