“See that couple over there?”

“Is that a maid outfit? The color’s so ethereal—I feel like I’ve seen something similar online before.”

“That’s Rem. My nephew’s obsessed with her. He’s been bugging his dad nonstop to buy the new Rem spin-off figure—over 700 yuan each. Crazy expensive.”

“Lucky kid, hehe.”

“…”

As I walked toward Shenbin Forest Park’s ticket booth with Liang Zhiming, pretending to be the clingy, sweet girlfriend, whispers about us swirled nonstop around us.

No wonder. My outfit was *way* too eye-catching.

All in blue, white thigh-high socks hugging long legs—visiting a forest park this early? Anyone’d think it was some weird task from a strange master.

Xiangcao City, a top-tier metropolis of the Skyflame Nation, had high tolerance for otaku culture and cosplay.

Especially after the city switched girls’ school uniforms five years ago to sailor-style short skirts resembling those in domestic anime. Gradually, more girls wore short skirts with over-the-knee socks on the streets. With the booming domestic anime industry and capital inflow, conventions and otaku culture slowly entered mainstream view.

Though the Skyflame Nation differed from the “Yanhuang” nation of my past life in many ways, its history and development mirrored it almost exactly. From memory and recent online research, I learned this country was also slipping into a “low-desire society.”

Surveys showed this generation of youth lacked drive: no desire to buy homes, marry, or date—just drifting along.

If Saturday meant overtime? Fine. But after work or on Sundays? Don’t bother me. Sleep in, game, watch anime, stream movies… Order takeout when hungry. When lonely? Queue up a four-player PUBG squad to banter with teammates, or sip bubble tea alone while pulling gacha cards, praying for that SSR. Pure bliss.

For most, the thrill of pulling a gold card in a ten-roll far outweighed dreaming of buying a house.

Because everyone knew: without family wealth or a miracle, homeownership was nearly impossible.

But gacha? Probability was equal for all. Anyone could become ultra-lucky.

In this climate, the anime industry flourished. More viewers meant bigger, more profitable conventions.

A plain white cap cost 3 yuan. Add “Platelet” printed on the brim for a few *mao*? Price jumps to over 30.

Capitalists noticed: otaku wallets were easy targets. As low-desire society swelled the otaku pool, the cake grew. Big brands and physical stores jumped into cosplay apparel. Wang Lei’s family shop was a textbook case.

Take Liang Zhiming’s outfit: regular clothing stores bought it as “Autumn Bestseller” for 50 yuan. But “Absolute Territory Otaku” specialty shops labeled it “Subaru Natsuki Cosplay,” “Official Re:Zero Costume,” “Cuddle with Rem!” and sold it for 200. Who wouldn’t sign with *that* store?

Same reason the “Hua Li Mao” app thrived. More youths found dating exhausting yet craved connection. Solution? Pay a little. Get a perfectly attentive boyfriend or girlfriend experience.

After all, dating costs money anyway—and if you’re the guy, you’re usually footing the bill. Why not rent someone who never gets mad, obeys your every wish, and delivers peak “romance simulation”?

Worried a rental girlfriend won’t become your wife? Honestly, how many guys can promise the girl they chased for years will end up with them forever?

“What should we eat for breakfast?”

At the park entrance, Liang Zhiming scanned nearby breakfast stalls and food carts. “Xiao Xue, you pick!”

“Hmm…”

I glanced around, then pointed to a stall with a cute sign: “Guo Guo Breakfast.” “That shop name’s so adorable. Let’s go there?”

Truth was, I wasn’t hungry.

I’d already eaten at school: two buns, a cup of warm milk—standard fare.

Asking him to treat me again served two purposes: playful “compensation” for starting the rental gig 30 minutes early (to ease his guilt), and… I’d learned my lesson.

I’d never forget hiking the park with Wang Lei two days ago—starving all afternoon, dizzy yet forcing a smile.

No betting on whether Liang Zhiming would forget meals like Wang Lei did.

“Guo Guo Breakfast? Yeah, super cute. Let’s go!”

The boy hesitated slightly, then studied my face. “Wait… your voice and tone feel a little different today.”

“Huh?” I tilted my head curiously. “Different?”

“Yeah. I saw posts in QQ groups—you were selling douhua with your grandma while mimicking Rem’s speech. It… really moved me.” He gazed into my blue contact lenses. “Did you practice it… because I mentioned liking Rem?”

*As if!* Are you dense?

I practiced purely because Rem attracts more otaku customers. More repeat clients = faster loan payoff = financial freedom.

“Hehe… I just had free time, so…”

Internally sighing, I feigned shyness—neither confirming nor denying. “Does Brother Zhiming… not like this way of speaking?”

“No, no! It’s perfect. I absolutely love it.” He waved his hands hastily. “You’re a divine cos now—not just looks, figure, outfit… even your voice and tone match Rem. Just keep it like this. It’s like… breaking the dimensional barrier! Amazing!”

*Slightly cringey…*

“Ah… sorry, I blurted something weird again. Don’t mind me.”

“Let’s go see what they have.”

“Guo Guo Breakfast” near the ticket booth felt cozy, with at least a decade of history.

Two customers—a couple in their twenties—sat at tiny outdoor tables.

“Welcome! What would you like?” A pastry-chef-uniformed server set down her work, brought menus, and guided us to two small chairs. “Everything’s ready except the beef buns.”

The chairs were low. As I sat, I mentally repeated three times:

*Legs together. Let the skirt settle first. No safety shorts today—don’t sit directly.*

“Xiao Xue, you order.” Liang Zhiming skimmed the menu and passed it to me.

“Ah… then… let’s see…”

Pretending to ponder happily, I scanned the menu. “Two slices of milky millet cake, one shrimp dumpling, a soy milk… What about you, Brother Zhiming?”

He seemed lost in the moment of sitting across from me. “You pick for me.”

“Okay… two soup dumplings, two siu mai… and—oh! This mustard green and pork congee!”

“Do girls think all guys eat this much?” He took the menu back after the server left. “That congee’s 8 yuan. Must be a huge portion.”

“Eat well in the morning for energy all day.” I clasped my hands under my chin and smiled. “After all… today’s a special date between Brother Zhiming and Xiao Xue, right?”

Congee needs slow cooking.

Which means?

Slow service.

Plus, it’s scalding hot—requires blowing on each spoonful. Finishing one bowl easily takes half an hour.

Why order congee for him? Simple: stall time.

Call it… workplace slacking.

Let him focus on sipping hot congee while I smile watching him eat. Perfect time-killer.

“Your millet cakes, shrimp dumpling, soy milk, buns, and siu mai.”

Soon, the server placed most items on the table.

“The congee will be a few more minutes.”

As she left, the nearby couple finished eating and stood to leave.

“This place sucks. Don’t bring me here again.”

“Yanyan, don’t be mad! If you dislike it, we’ll try somewhere else next time…”

“Heh. ‘Next time’? You kept staring at that little sister just now. Don’t think I didn’t notice!”

“…”

I watched them walk off, picked up chopsticks, and tried a shrimp dumpling.

“Delicious!”

Then I lifted a soup dumpling toward Liang Zhiming.

“Ah—”

“Ah? Oh, right.”

He blinked, then took a bite. “Xiao Xue… you know? That couple just now… reminded me of Wang Qian.”

“Huh?” I set down my chopsticks.

*Bringing up your ex in front of your current girlfriend? Your EQ’s really something, Liang Zhiming.*

“When I took her out, I’d always ask what she wanted. She’d just say ‘whatever.’ No matter how I asked. Then whether I suggested hotpot, spicy hotchpotch, fast food, or ramen—she’d refuse instantly, annoyed. ‘Dieting,’ ‘too spicy,’ ‘afraid of breakouts’… But when I pressed what she *actually* wanted? Still just ‘whatever.’”

Chewing the dumpling, he looked genuinely happy. “When I asked you just now… I was *so* scared you’d say ‘whatever.’”

“Xiao Xue would never say ‘whatever’~”

I set down my chopsticks, casually picked up the soy milk cup. “A date is a serious matter. It deserves full attention.”

“Yeah… that’s why I was moved.”

After swallowing, he paused, then lifted another dumpling with his chopsticks. “Wang Lei and Wang Qian broke up last night.”

His voice carried quiet melancholy—or resignation.

“He… confessed everything to me. Only last night did I learn it was all staged by that group of ‘brothers.’"