It was a bright spring morning. I strolled through a new lingerie store downtown, baseball cap and sunglasses shielding my face. Awkward? Sure—men don’t exactly swagger through aisles of bras and panties. But orders were orders: my so-called little sister, the real slave driver of this household, demanded it. Truth was, rarely leaving home had left my hair long, my bangs shaggy, my skin ghostly pale. Even in just a shirt and slacks, I could pass for a tall girl.

I’d never pretended to be one. But explaining felt pointless. I’d told myself that for years.

After squeaking out a transaction in falsetto, I slipped out of the store. The pretty clerk’s burning gaze followed me hotter than the midday sun. Passersby whispered and pointed. Confused, I glanced up—

The giant screen across the street flashed a horrifying sight.

MUA, the nation’s top idol group, live-streamed their concert. Catchy tunes and dazzling teen idols drew crowds. The camera panned to a radiant new star.

“No way…”

I gasped. The girl onscreen looked 70% like my sister.

…

The clock rewound to early September. Another calm morning.

My silk-smooth alarm chimed. I blinked awake at 7:30 AM. Shoulders ached from working late—my chaotic schedule clashed violently with slave-driver life.

Because the terror sleeping next door was my sister. Yep, textbook proletariat underclass.

What? Why such a ridiculous name for a slave driver? Blame Dad’s obsession with Gu Long novels.

Too bad I wasn’t Jiang WQue. I was Jiang Lan. For a while, I wondered: was I not perfect like my sister, so Dad refused me that flashy name? Did he ever consider Jiang *You*Que?

I’d never know. Every year, I visited his grave alone. My rebellious, gaming-obsessed middle school self must’ve crushed him.

I wiped the bathroom mirror. A weary, pale face stared back—slender phoenix eyes, unnaturally crimson lips.

Staying indoors for my niche job and gamer lifestyle meant never cutting my hair. Objectively? If this weren’t me, I’d cradle this delicate beauty like Lin Daiyu.

Bad joke. Ice-cold bad.

I shook off old regrets, headed downstairs to cook breakfast. Jiang Xiaoyu was a violent little queen but also a picky health-food gourmet. She spent hours each month planning meals based on calories, protein, and "flavor depth."

I didn’t yet know why she pushed herself to exhaustion, chasing that perfect figure…

“What’s salt-grilled saury?”

“You don’t know?” Jiang Xiaoyu rolled up her sleeves.

I paled. “Wait! I’ll learn, okay?”

I’d grown numb to this. The sweet, game-loving sister who clung to me had vanished as she blossomed into a beauty. Our “happy orphaned life with a house and sister” was really my slave memoir. Technically, we weren’t orphans—we had a guardian.

Thankfully, today’s breakfast was simple dragon-whisker noodles. Hard to mess up. Living alone with Xiaoyu in our old house had maxed out my housekeeping skills. This ex-gamer was turning into a full-time househusband.

Was this the slave driver’s plan? To mold Dad’s “wastrel son” into a doormat?

Once bitten, twice shy. After meeting *that* devil in middle school, I’d developed a deep fear of certain women.

Rumor had it: straight-A, gorgeous girls with zero dating rumors were all fujoshi. Not the “stand still and take it” type—but tall, handsome oppas with BGMs and flower backgrounds, adored by girls.

If my violent slave driver leaned that way? Terrifying.

“Muttering to yourself again?”

A lazy, crisp voice cut through my thoughts. Its owner sat at the table, chin propped on her palm, staring at me.

Xiaoyu had woken up. Her dewy, oval face was freshly washed, damp strands clinging to her ears. Flawless features, perfect proportions—utterly impeccable.

“N-nothing!”

I plastered on a servile grin, dropping a fried egg into her bowl. Added scallions. Threw in pickled shrimp—this fierce little fish hated cilantro but loved anything from water. She’d lick her lips like a cat spotting tuna.

“Here! Iku yo! Today’s breakfast!”

I presented the steaming bowl solemnly. “Don’t underestimate this ordinary-looking noodle. Boiled in 1982 vintage chilled tap water, paired with hand-pulled dragon-whisker noodles I fought for during supermarket sales—it’s not just ‘I’ll cook for you.’ Its name is… *Brother’s Love*!”

“Huh?! L-L-L-L-Love?!”

Rarely speechless, Xiaoyu’s tired face flushed faintly. Her ethereal voice made it impossible to tell if it was disgusted shock or hopeless pity.

“Silly names disrespect scallion-egg noodles,” she coughed, batting long lashes. Her eyes—stunning, sky-blue, inherited from Mom—glinted. “Smooth talk means trouble. Spit it out.”

Normally, my meme-speak earned an eye-roll and “Sì zhāi zhēng é xīn!” But today? Her mood seemed good. My chance.

I slurped my own noodles. “Your Majesty’s wise! Grandma misses you. She wants us for dinner tonight. Family reunion.”

Xiaoyu’s face darkened. Delicate brows furrowed under storm clouds. “Go alone. She’s not my mom. Her family isn’t mine!”

“Don’t be like this, Xiaoyu…”

I sighed. Our situation was messy. After Dad died of a heart attack—barely keeping his Martial Arts Hall afloat—things got tighter. I’d even quit gaming to help Mom. Her remarriage wasn’t about escaping hardship; it was about giving Xiaoyu and me a better life. Xiaoyu still didn’t get it. She blamed Maseratis and Chanel for stealing our honest, hardworking mother.

Xiaoyu crossed her arms, chopsticks abandoned. “Like what? Huh?”

I drew a deep breath, summoning big-brother authority. “Mom did it for you—”

“Shut up!”

Fury flashed in those inherited sky-blue eyes—eyes I’d never have.

“Yes, ma’am…”

My brief fantasy of standing up to my little sister evaporated. I hunched over my noodles. “Uncle’s nice. His daughters are sweet. Mom just wants us over for jiaozi.”

Xiaoyu slammed her chopsticks down. “Then go! Let your sugar daddy keep you! Why linger at Dad’s Martial Arts Hall? Go back to your new home and game!”

Anyone else saying that would’ve gotten a punch. But her? My lonely little sister Xiaoyu? Only she and Dad had the right to call me a wastrel.

I understood her pain. This wasn’t the age of warrior masters. Dad died quietly, no disciples or fame. If I abandoned her now, she’d have nothing.

An awkward silence hung. Xiaoyu’s eyes reddened. “Tell that woman I have dance practice tonight. No—tutoring. I’m busy. You go alone.”

I nodded, sleep-deprived and slow. Didn’t catch the slip. This was how family dinners always ended: a fight, then silence. Xiaoyu always had a million excuses for weekends. I couldn’t drag her—my rusty kung fu wouldn’t stand a chance against hers anyway.

Xiaoyu always had endless tutoring and dance classes. My meager salary couldn’t support us both. She knew it. Even as a top student heading into sophomore year, she took weekend jobs.

Pride—and Xiaoyu’s threats—kept me from touching Stepdad’s money. We’d scraped by for years. Thank god for free public school…

Xiaoyu smoothed a stray tuft of hair. “Not hungry. Off to school.”

“Wait! Finish breakfast!”

I instinctively reached for her hand. Soft. Warm. My heart skipped—

Then slave-driver trauma crashed back.

Xiaoyu moved like lightning. Flipped my arm. Swept my leg. I crashed to the floor, teeth gritted against the pain.

“Eat my fist!”

“Hmph!” She loomed over me, one slender finger jabbing my nose. “Remember this: you have *one* sister. Say ‘stepsisters’ again, and I’ll cut it off!”

C-cut it off?! Women really were devils!

I clutched my crotch, childhood trauma flooding back like toxic sludge…