Stepping out of Shuiming Park with Wang Lei, I saw the sun had fully dipped below the horizon.

An old path, a cool evening breeze, birds winging home to their nests.

Only a faint crimson sliver lingered on the western horizon—a quiet ache of fleeting time, of dusk settling in.

“When I was six or seven, this park had just opened,” Wang Lei began, walking ahead at the gate where the evening chill bit lightly. “Back then, only a Ferris wheel and roller coaster. No tickets. Dad brought me here often to play… and talk life lessons.”

“The investor was a local tycoon,” he continued. “My dad’s generation said he’d done shady things. A Buddhist, he feared karma—so he used a sliver of his wealth to build this park, free 365 days a year. It was Night Pearl Park then. A giant glowing pearl stood at its heart, visible from miles away after dark.”

“Later, his crimes surfaced. He was sentenced. A real estate company bought it, renamed it Shuiming Park, added ticket booths.”

“I see,” I replied from behind him, voice laced with feigned curiosity. “What exactly did he do?”

Truthfully? I didn’t care at all.

Not the park’s history. Not its origins. Not who built it.

All I cared about: would Wang Lei keep his promise?

Tips, cosplay outfits, new clothes—I’d never say no to more.

Maybe this girl-body’s instincts were rubbing off. Back in my past life as a guy who thought “clothes = coverage,” after days in this form, I’d started craving pretty skirts and fresh outfits.

Especially… after trying thigh-highs and pantyhose. Surprisingly comfy. And weirdly confidence-boosting.

“The tycoon was never legit. Jail was inevitable,” Wang Lei said, pleased I’d asked. He turned. “Xiao Xue, know the ‘Fortress Besieged effect’?”

I hesitated. Shook my head. “No.”

(I knew. But I also knew not to say so. Been there. As a guy—especially an inexperienced one—around a girl? Show-off mode activates. Ancient instinct. Peacocks fan feathers. Guys hunt topics to seem smart, leave an impression… even if romance’s impossible. Wang Lei? Textbook case.)

If I were his real girlfriend, or just any girl, I’d’ve brushed it off.

But…

I was hungry.

Starving.

Ravenous.

At this point, I felt I could tackle a tiger and devour it whole.

Trailing him all day—bumper cars, roller coasters, every ride—my legs screamed. Gender difference? His hype-blinded energy? He’d bought me one water bottle. Zero glances at snack stalls.

Lunch at noon. Now past 6 p.m. Six hours moving. Six hours empty.

If he weren’t my boss, and I weren’t clawing for five-star reviews on Huali Mao APP, I’d’ve snapped: “Dude, skip ‘Fortress Besieged’—let’s eat! Yamete, onegai!”

Per Huali Mao’s terms: meals during rental hours fall to the renter. You don’t pay fifty bucks to rent a girl for a reunion dinner, then split a hundred—making her lose money.

“The ‘Fortress Besieged effect’?” Wang Lei led me toward a nearby pedestrian street, still animated. “Those outside want in. Those inside want out. Like bulls and bears locked in stock market tension.”

“After our demolition payout made us ‘rich,’ Liang Zhiming and I drifted. He envies us. But he doesn’t see—I envy *him*. His happy home. Parents who love him. Siblings…”

“Ah… talking too much?” He turned. “Time?”

I checked my phone. “6:43.”

“Dinner! I just realized—we haven’t eaten. Sorry, sorry.”

Finally, dizzy with hunger but forcing calm, I followed him into a nearby hotel restaurant.

“Xiao Xue, you order,” Wang Lei said, seating us downstairs and flagging a waiter.

“Huh? Really? Okay…”

Too hungry to pretend modesty, I took the menu, skimmed it. “Braised beef. Stir-fried hollowheart. That’s it.”

“That’s all?” He snatched the menu. “Add beef offal, lamb hot pot, this soup… and sweet potato leaves.”

“Wait,” I winced. “Too much for two?”

“Leftovers. Better than hungry.” He waved the waiter off, then glanced at me, awkward. “Um… your measurements?”

I set my teacup down. “Measurements?”

“The cosplay tip. My family’s in the business—we’ll send brand-new, top-tier outfits.” He chuckled nervously. “Bust, waist, hips, height, shoe size. I’ll message the factory. Clothes arrive after dinner. You take a taxi back to campus.”

“Huh? Dinner takes two hours?”

“Nah. Leave early. I’ll drop the five-star review at 9. Today’s booking *is* the tip.” Phone in hand. “Mind sharing?”

“Um… Bust 85, waist 57, hips 88. Height 163 cm. Shoe size… around 32 or 33.”

He typed fast. Looked up at “shoe size.” “How much?”

I bent slightly, tapping my shoes. “Uniform styles fit size 32. 33 feels loose—unless straps secure it.”

Girls’ feet run smaller than guys’. Women’s shoes start at 34; men’s at 39. Mine? Petite. Cute, sure—but shopping hell. Size 32 means custom orders (expensive) or kids’ sections.

“Noted. Messaged the manager. Clothes coming soon. Pick what you like.” He pocketed his phone. “What do you think of Liang Zhiming?”

“Huh?” I paused. “He’s… ‘yasashii.’"

*(That go-to otaku word for “kind.”)*

Seriously though—asking your fake girlfriend to rate another guy? Bro. Even as a rental, that’s low.

“After you left yesterday,” Wang Lei swirled his teacup, “Liang—who hadn’t posted in months—updated: ‘I believe in love and anime again.’"

“I bet… he’ll book you again. Until you’re a couple… or he grows up.”

“Personally? I doubt you two end up together.”

I stayed silent. Carefully hiding the flicker of delight.

Inside? *Book me again! Fill every slot!*

Otaku guys? So easy to please.

Why drain cash on a gold-digging girlfriend when a hundred bucks gets Xiao Xue’s otaku-girlfriend service? Cute. Curvy. Hardworking. A total steal.

“Today’s booking was partly a tip,” Wang Lei added softly, “partly… a heads-up. Liang’s naive. We’ve been friends three years. He’s… bluntly? Gullible. Easy prey. But in his way—a good guy.”

“With your situation, you probably don’t own outfits for every anime fantasy. He loves Rem—didn’t he ask for a Rem cosplay at the reunion?”

I hesitated. “Wearing a maid outfit to a class reunion? Weird.”

“Right. Normal girls don’t stock costumes for every otaku whim.” He scratched his head. Just then, the waiter arrived—

“Stir-fried hollowheart, sweet potato leaves, winter melon soup.”

“Let’s eat.” He gestured to the sanitized utensils, clearing his throat.

“Sorry. Forgot—discussing personal matters during rental hours breaks policy.”