So sleepy.

I yawned and struggled out of bed. Glancing at the clock, disbelief hit me:

"2 a.m.?"

"Hmm, I thought you were awake," An Li said, a hint of apology in her voice. "After all, you're a night owl."

Honestly, I felt a little embarrassed too. I couldn't pin down my own body clock. If I were normal, why was I sometimes wide awake at night? But if I were a night owl, why would drowsiness knock me out before midnight?

Bottom line: wake up when awake, sleep when sleepy.

...Which, now that I think about it, is basically an otaku's holiday schedule.

"I'm fully refreshed—I went to bed super early last night. So go ahead, tell me what intel you gathered."

"O-oh, right!" Hearing it was serious business, I snapped awake. "Let me splash some water on my face first."

I needed cold water to shake the fog from my brain.

Five minutes later, we sat on the sofa. Wiping cool droplets from my face, I murmured, "Let me think... where to start..."

...

Not a single moment in this world ever stays still. Night is the perfect hour for some to move. And for the non-human—it's open season.

That night, evil spirits stirred multiple incidents across the city. All official supernatural-response units had withdrawn. Only an adult-and-child pair remained on duty, plus one unaffiliated civilian.

Lin Zhengde intercepted one attack—a single entity in an inflatable costume. Yet that one costume alone left over a dozen dead.

The crime scene lay silent. Everyone had fled. He stood alone, staring at the deflated, sweat-stained plastic shell on the ground.

Then—an idea sparked.

Damaged costumes were always vanished afterward. No one knew how or when. But he'd quietly retrieved the remnants of its "tentacles" every time.

From the wide sleeve of his Taoist master's robe, Lin Zhengde pulled a small notebook and flipped to a marked page.

The spirit's origin traced back to Wang Cai—a young man who arrived in Wuzhou City three months ago seeking work.

He'd only toiled in remote areas before, earning little. Lured by higher pay, he came to this bustling district. But lacking education and skills, stable work eluded him.

Summer break changed things. Crowds flooded businesses; temp hires were urgently needed. Most roles required minimal training—"any able-bodied person" could handle them. Positions went to students or jobless like Wang Cai.

He landed a mascot gig: wearing an inflatable plastic costume, wandering the plaza.

Few took summer mascot jobs. Sweltering heat. Zero airflow. Suffocating.

His boss was kind, offering high hourly pay. "Wear it as long as you can," he said. "I pay per hour—even thirty-one minutes counts as a full hour."

Everyone aimed for short shifts. Only Wang Cai asked, "Is there a maximum time limit?"

The rate was unreal. One hour here beat a full day's old wages.

Wang Cai, a small-town migrant, let greed widen his eyes. He lacked his hometown peers' grit—but craved money more.

Greed blinded him to the job's brutality.

The boss chuckled. "Wear it as long as you can. I'll pay for every minute."

So Wang Cai wore it—a full day and night.

Daytime melted into sweat-drenched agony. Movement cramped. Sounds muffled. Vision limited to tiny peepholes centimeters from his eyes.

Exhausted but unwilling to lose pay, he schemed: *Boss said wear it = get paid. Didn't say I had to walk around.*

He ducked into a shaded, hidden corner to kill time.

Vision cut both ways. Unseen by others—he saw nothing either. He missed others stripping off costumes and leaving around 6 p.m. The plaza event ended by dusk.

Wang Cai didn't know. Trapped inside the suit, he scrolled novels on his phone.

Deep into night, summer's chill breeze swept over him. He shivered.

The costume had deflated, clinging damply to his skin.

Unbearable. Cold. He needed help—someone to peel this thing off.