As the sky softened to fish-belly white, I sat up in bed just like the past few days, roused by my phone’s faint vibration.

Ugh… My whole body ached.

Before I could even straighten my back, a wave of soreness pulled a wry smile onto my face.

Pedaling a tricycle, standing motionless all morning, plus two full hours of volleyball—it was utterly draining.

My body felt like it had come apart at the seams. And since there were no classes tomorrow, those wild girls had stayed up till nearly 1 a.m., chattering about all sorts of suggestive topics.

I shifted my numb legs on the narrow bed, stretched with a huge yawn, then climbed down to freshen up.

As usual, the dorm girls slept in wildly unladylike poses. Jiang Yuqing—the most carefree of us all—had even stuck her left foot through the railing, dangling it mid-air, hair in disarray. I wasn’t sure whether to call our class president “Sleeping Beauty” or an “upside-down ghost.”

“Today, I’m another tough guy.”

After washing up and checking myself in the mirror, I changed into sportswear and sneakers, closed the door softly, and stepped out.

Compared to Saturday, Sunday’s sports field at seven was even quieter. Basketball and soccer courts stood empty; only faint silhouettes moved along the track—three guys in tank tops jogging slowly.

After a quick warm-up, I gritted my teeth through the leg pain and joined them.

Five laps later, sweaty and panting, I returned to the grassy patch beside the bushes. I massaged my throbbing calves and thighs to prevent unsightly muscle buildup, then moved on to core work:

Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Stretching…

With time to spare after the workout, I opened the HualiMao app.

[You have 7 reservation messages. Please check.]

Front and center on the homepage, the main rotating banner displayed my photos.

Five total. Three showed me in Rem’s cosplay from yesterday, helping Grandma sell douhua on the street. The other two were artistic shots Bi Xinxue had uploaded earlier.

All professionally edited, paired with cute lolita-font slogans. The girl in the images looked effortlessly lovely—a city sprite untouched by dust. Even I felt a little charmed.

Tapping through to my rental profile:

Username: Ji Xiaoxue (HualiMao Platinum Contracted User)

Life Photos: [Image] [Image] [Image]

Original Voice Sample: [Audio]

Multi-Voice Demo: [Audio]

Intro Video: [Video]

Gender: Female

Zodiac: Capricorn

Height: 163 cm

Weight: 48 kg

Occupation: College Student

[Ji Xiaoxue] More details → [Click to expand]

Specialties: All

Price: 50 yuan/hour

Staring at “50 yuan/hour,” I opened Price Settings, tapped the number, and deleted it.

Paused. Didn’t type a new one. Instead, I switched to QQ and pulled up Chen Xiaorui’s messages from yesterday.

Just like the class group forwards, her note ended with:

“A friend dug up that this cutie’s a Platinum member on HualiMao.”

“Her rate’s 50 yuan an hour—just 50 yuan to have her as your girlfriend for sixty minutes!”

I switched back to HualiMao and canceled the edit.

Clear now: after my Rem cosplay went viral, HualiMao’s ops team smelled opportunity. They deliberately seeded lines like “my friend found her on HualiMao” into forwards—to promote the app.

Newly launched and scaling fast, they’re signing up students left and right. That’s why the service fee stays low.

For me: earning 150 yuan costs only 3 yuan fee—roughly 2%.

Think about it: even if I worked 24/7 and made 1,200 yuan, the platform earns just 24 yuan. Not enough to cover one staffer’s coffee.

Conclusion? HualiMao’s in expansion mode—operating at a loss.

What they need isn’t money. It’s traffic. Reputation. Trust.

Giving me homepage placement and quietly pushing me via QQ groups isn’t about squeezing higher fees.

The real hook? Every forwarded message stressed: “Only 50 yuan for an hour with her.”

If ads scream “50 yuan!” but the store says “Now 100!”, what do people feel?

Psychologically: bait-and-switch. They’ll distrust the brand—and the product.

Even if the ad wasn’t *from* the store, the damage sticks. “If it sold for 50, cost must be low—why hike it?”

Some businesses even plant fake complaints against rivals: “Why’d this jump from 98 to 118?” to poison public perception.

Sure, raising my price now might spike short-term earnings (“App’s downloaded anyway…”). But my contract lasts three years. Smart move? Keep the price. Ride the ops team’s momentum. Help HualiMao gain users, goodwill, word-of-mouth.

Let newcomers feel the service is fair—so they tell friends. Not rant online: “This app jacks prices last minute. Never again.”

Back in my past life writing web novels, I learned these social nuances.

When an editor says, “You’re on homepage tomorrow—don’t skip updates,” doing the bare minimum is wrong. You *over*-deliver. Flood readers with extra chapters. Make them think, “This site updates crazy fast!” That’s what the editor *really* wants.

“I’ll raise the price after this wave passes.”

I closed Price Settings, clicked Specialties, deleted the lazy “All,” and typed:

[Familiar with otaku culture, gaming, and most fandoms. I can be your ideal girlfriend, maid, sports buddy, or gaming partner. For special requests (cosplay dates, yandere/tsundere/chuunibyou roles, etc.), please specify in your message. No excessively intimate contact. Small business—basic respect appreciated.]

“Aren’t you running more?”

Just as I pocketed my phone to head to the cafeteria, one jogger slowed beside me.

“Saw you clock just over five laps.”

Around 175 cm, clean-faced, smooth skin, decent features. Pleasant-looking.

If I had to sum him up? Sunny.

“Got a part-time shift today. Light exercise is enough.”

Too awkward to admit my stamina sucked, I stood up. “If that’s all, I’ll…”

“Seen you here daily. Interested in joining Martial Arts Club?” He cut in. “I run the Sanda division. Third-year. You’re a freshman, right?”

“Huh? Yeah.” I blinked, then smiled. “First-year. Hi, senior.”

He pulled a form from his pocket. “Recruitment sheet. Fill it if you like.”

“I’m not joining clubs right now. Sorry.”

“Keep it. A girl like you’d crush it in Sanda. We’re not Taekwondo show-offs—one trained properly can handle three average guys.”

He shoved the form into my hand and grinned. Morning light slanted his shadow across me. “By the way, I coach at Shenbin Martial Arts Gym—big place on North Minzhu Road. Ten years in Sanda. We’ve got a promo: two daily classes under 15 yuan.”

Ah. A sales pitch.

To avoid further delay, I took the sheet. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

Without glancing back, I turned and walked toward the cafeteria.

…

After breakfast, back in the dorm, I sighed and pulled yesterday’s unwashed Rem cosplay from the wardrobe. Carefully, I sniffed it—a faint trace of sweat mixed with my own uncertain “scent.”

After a moment’s thought, I opened HualiMao and messaged Liang Zhiming:

“Should I wear the cosplay when I come to you, or bring it and change on-site?”