Gong Xinyan opened her desk drawer and pulled out a stack of blank manuscript paper. She sat down, took a pair of black-rimmed glasses from the bookshelf, put them on, tapped the desk with a pen, and frowned. "Teacher, why are you standing so far away?"

I walked to the desk. Only one chair existed—and she was already sitting on it. I turned to fetch another from the living room.

"I’ll grab a chair."

"No need." She shot a sideways glance at her bed. "Just sit there."

Her tiny room forced the bed and desk close together. Sitting on her bed would let me see her writing clearly.

But… this was a girl’s bed! I’d never sat on one in my entire life.

I hesitated. "That doesn’t feel right."

She glared. "Stop dawdling, Teacher."

I perched stiffly on the very edge of her bed, half my butt hanging off, far enough to keep distance but close enough to read her notes.

Gong Xinyan held her pen. "Shall we start?"

"Hold on… don’t you use a computer?"

"A computer?" She froze. "Why? What takes ten minutes by hand would take an hour on that thing."

I blinked. "How many words do you write in ten minutes?"

She tilted her head. "Two or three hundred?"

…Normal speed. Just like anyone else.

Which meant—

"Wait. Are you… computer illiterate?"

Her face flushed crimson like I’d exposed a secret. "Wha—! Illiterate?! Teacher, are you asking for a beating?"

I bowed my head instantly. "My apologies. I misspoke."

She huffed, scowling, then gripped the manuscript paper stubbornly. "Is handwriting really that bad?"

"Well… it’s fine. Really."

Only then did she exhale softly. "Good."

She looked up. "So what do I do? Just start writing?"

"That’d be no different from handing me a finished draft." I thought for a moment. "Give me an outline first. And character profiles."

"Oh."

She tilted her head back, chewing the pen cap absently as she brainstormed. Today, she’d let down her usual ponytail. Black hair cascaded like ink down to her waist—stunningly beautiful. Her usual tomboyish aura softened into unexpected serenity. Even the pen-chewing habit looked oddly cute.

She caught me staring. Her cheeks flushed again. She hastily tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, pen hovering over the paper… but no words came.

I stayed quiet. Inspiration couldn’t be rushed.

After a long pause, she finally began writing.

Ten minutes later, she handed me the outline. "Done."

I scanned the two pages—roughly five hundred words. Another youth romance. Standard school love story.

*Too* standard. The same tired trope: cold campus prince falls for ordinary girl.

I shook my head. "This won’t work. It’s overused."

Gong Xinyan snatched it back, dejected, and tossed it aside to rethink.

I nudged gently, "Don’t limit yourself to what you’ve read. Try something fresh. Think bigger…"

"*Tch.*" She snapped, "Quiet while I’m thinking, Teacher!"

Understandable—her hard work had just been rejected.

Over the next hour, she drafted several openings. I rejected every one.

"Too dull!"

"Too many settings!"

"Plot’s too shallow!"

"…"

Truth was, I was tenser than she was. This quiet girl felt like a dormant volcano—any second, she might erupt.

But a bad outline was a bad outline. My conscience as a light novel writer wouldn’t allow it. Her readers deserved better.

I had to fix this before she blew up.

Just as I sat there, heart pounding, watching her chew her pen in thought—

*Click.*

A faint key turned in the front door lock.

"*Eek!*"

Gong Xinyan shot upright like a startled cat, every hair on her body standing on end.

"What’s wrong?" I whispered.

"*Shh!*" She pressed a trembling finger to her lips. Her whole body shook.

I clamped my mouth shut.

Silence filled her room. But muffled voices drifted from the living room.

I couldn’t make them out—but she did. "It’s… it’s Mom and Dad! They were supposed to be on a business trip!"

Panic-stricken, she paced before her desk. "What do I do? What do I do?"

Seeing her terror, my own nerves spiked. "What now?"

She glared at me, then gritted her teeth. "No choice. Teacher, hide!"

"Hide… where?"

I scanned the cramped room. No space under the wooden bed. Nowhere to vanish.

"The closet! Get in the closet!"

"Right."

It was the only option—the large wardrobe beside her desk.

She yanked the closet door open. One glance inside—and I froze.

Her bras and panties hung neatly on matching hangers like a lingerie store display, right in the center. Sleepwear and daily clothes flanked them.

"Why are you hesitating?!" she hissed, shoving me toward it. "Get in! Now!"

"But… this is—"

*Knock knock knock.*

"Xinyan? Are you home?" A gentle woman’s voice—her mother.

Gong Xinyan shoved the hangers aside and *threw* me inside. Her monstrous strength sent me flying.

My face buried straight into a pale pink bra.

A faint floral scent filled my nose…

*Scent my foot!*

My nose smashed against the closet’s backboard. Pain exploded. My nose throbbed—maybe broken. The hanger clattered askew.

*Slam!*

The closet door shut. Darkness swallowed me. Only slivers of light seeped through the louvered slats.

I frantically peeled the bra off my face—but it slipped off its hanger. In the pitch black, I couldn’t find where to rehang it.

Warm wetness dripped under my nose. I touched it. Blood.

I tilted my head back, panic surging.

*Oh no. I’ve bled on her bra. If she finds out, I’m dead.*

A sinister thought flickered: *Steal it. Take the matching panties too—she’ll notice if only one set’s missing.*

I crushed it instantly. *I can’t do that… Besides, my pockets are too small for this thing.*

*Wait—since when does this flat-chested girl wear bras this big?!*

Blood kept flowing. The more I thought about silky fabrics brushing my cheeks—the left side grazed by smooth stockings (were they black?), the right pressed against something tiny and lacy (panties, definitely)—the worse it got.

My hand still clutched the pink bra. Against my will, my fingers squeezed it.

*What are you doing?! Stop it!*

*…I’m a pervert. A total pervert.*

Dizziness washed over me. *Someone… call 120…*