My name is Zhou Fangting. Right now, I’m sitting alone in a café.

The café sits near University Road—quiet, nearly empty. Not many people have that kind of old-school charm these days. Most prefer chatting over QQ, WeChat, or other apps. Face-to-face talk feels like a chore. So even on a busy street, the place stays hollow.

The man across from me probably thinks the same. Head down, thumbs scrolling his phone.

He has a weird name. Surname Lu. Lu Ren.

I think he should’ve been named Gou Bi—surname Gou, given name Bi. Fits his personality. Fits what he does. But the world’s full of regrets. He’s not Gou Bi. He’s Lu Ren.

Ever since I finally tracked him down and seriously demanded he take responsibility, he’s just nodded along dismissively. Even after I dragged him here—pleading, reasoning—he still wears that careless look.

It’s infuriating. Makes you want to tear his face off.

But me? I’m gentle. All I want is to slice him into a thousand paper-thin pieces, drop them in a hot pot, and watch them cook in one swirl.

I flash a charming smile, extend my pale, slender hand, and wave it gently before his face. “Hey.”

No reply. He glances up, sighs, returns to his screen—treating me like air. Or a lunatic.

Either thought stirs murder in my heart.

“Lu Ren,” I say, “fuck your mother.”

He raises an eyebrow. Finally looks up.

“Why would you want to fuck my mother?”

“Because of you, I have nowhere to live! What am I supposed to do?”

Lu Ren sighs softly. “Miss, I don’t even know where you came from. How is your housing my problem?”

I grit my teeth. Stubborn man.

But I have no way out.

I *will* crash at his place. Eat his food. Sleep under his roof. No choice.

He ignores me. I look down, fiddling with my hands—pale as spring onions. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling window, glinting off my skin like polished jade. Anyone would sigh, “What beautiful hands.”

Including me.

(Though I’m not usually vain.)

This whole mess began a month ago.

Before that? Let me talk about my childhood. No reason. Just because I want to.

Back in high school, I was a guy with few friends and zero standout traits.

Yes—*guy*.

Skip the details. I was a pathetic virgin. Like most loser-underdog stories, I had a goddess who looked down on me. Stunningly pretty—the influencer type. But unlike those stories? She didn’t just ignore me. Zero chance to sneak in. The moment I approached, she dodged me like a cockroach. Deeply hurtful.

Men are like this: after enough rejections, anger brews. You quietly knock her off her pedestal.

My first love? Never had one. How could a shut-in? Just a long, silent crush.

Nothing good ever happened to me. Not since birth.

Like meeting Lu Ren—that was pure bad luck.

I’m the type who gets shoved off a narrow bridge. Forgotten. A speck of dust. Street sweepers notice floating trash before they notice me.

Later, suffocating at home, I took a part-time job. Truth? I’d rather die indoors. If I can lie down, I won’t stand. That’s my dignity.

Why work? Parents forced me. Said I wasted food and oxygen. My grades were trash. When relatives visited, they bragged about their kids. My parents had nothing.

Boast about what? That I’m a hopeless shut-in?

Sometimes I wonder why Mom was so… fertile.

I’m the only son. No talents. My one “asset”? The manhood they gave me—burdened with continuing the family line. They worry I’ll never find a wife. They get sad.

Sometimes I feel sad too. Like I’m not even theirs.

Growing up surrounded by sisters and cousins, neglected for having no merits—that’s how my loner self began.

Childhood left me terrified of loneliness. Of emptiness. Of cold.

Maybe I just lacked love.

Standing before the ice cream stall, I sigh and tug my branded cap brim.

Actually—I’m working it. And trouble found me.

Sell two hundred ice creams. But vending’s banned at the school gate.

The old guard there? Infuriating. The second I sneak my cart close, he storms over in his security uniform, fan waving, yelling for me to scram—like some hot-tempered enforcer.

Old age isn’t the issue. It’s the arrogance. Try reasoning? He’ll fake a fall. Makes your teeth itch. Powerless.

Gritting my teeth, I tug my cap again and look up.

Two people wait by my stall.

Ignore the guy. Focus on the girl.

Cigarette dangling. Delinquent vibe. Staring straight at me, impatient.

Bleached, messy hair swaying in the breeze. Gem-red eyes gleaming wine-colored in sunlight.

And cooler still—a deep brown scar slashes diagonally across her right eye. An old knife mark. Gives her a seriously badass edge.

My pulse jumps. One wrong move, and she’ll flip my stall.

“Done spacing out?” she asks, eyes locked on me.

She looks trouble—but she’s beautiful. No one picks fights with beauty.

I force a warm smile, open the freezer. “Ah, sorry—I didn’t see you… Check out our newest—”

“I asked if you’re *done* spacing out,” she says, taking a drag, gem-eyes narrowed lazily.

I freeze. Recognizing her practiced troublemaker opener, I start to apologize—

*Flick.* The man beside her taps her forehead. She winces, clutching her head, glaring up at him. But her height ruins it. From his angle? Adorably cute upward glance.

He sighs, pats her head gently. She doesn’t protest—just shoots him a look, stubs her cigarette underfoot.

Only now do I notice: she tiptoes to reach the stall.

Probably around 150 centimeters tall.

I blink, force another smile. “See… this is Nidas… premium ice cream, made with milk—uh, cows from England, uh, milk from Italy…”

Their odd stares hit me. Smile stays. Sweat beads at my temples.

Truth? Day one, I knew—I’m not cut out for sales.

Nothing suits me but being a shut-in. If you can even call that a job.

Luckily, the short, cute delinquent doesn’t mind. She pats the man.

“Two. Lu Ren, pay up.”

“You’re damn shameless…” he mutters, sighing. Digs out his wallet, hands me a ten-yuan bill.

I glance at this sigh-prone man.

They walk off, leaning close, laughing. She’s lively—smile flashing two tiny fangs, chattering excitedly. He just smiles, bites his ice pop, gazes down the street.

Watching them fade, sadness washes over me.

Yeah. I’m really not cut out for this.

Task today: sell two hundred ice creams.

Total sold: two.

Home. I collapse onto bed, stretch, exhale a heavy sigh.

Silence. Parents in the next room—Dad reading, Mom knitting that same old sweater for my sister. She’s been knitting it since I was little. I never expected it.

She only loves my perfect sister. Me? Just a good-for-nothing shut-in.

Remembering my boss’s scowl, I curse silently. Sit up. Dash to lock the door. Crawl back. Reach under the bed.

Another world waits there.

I will forever love 2D girls.

Greeting my waifus is my happiest moment. Door locked. No intruders. This time is mine.

Afterward, tired, I chug Nutri-Speed.

Room stays quiet. Curtains drawn tight. Sunlight filters through, bathing everything in warm gold.

I stare at the ceiling.

When did I become this pathetic? Lying here. Doing nothing. Staring blankly.

Days drag. No hope for the future. Almost twenty. This can’t go on…

The ceiling shimmers.

The world collapses, reshapes—freezes into an eternal image on a black hole’s edge.

I’m on a swing. My body small. A child’s body.

Distant sunset bleeds. Fiery clouds burn like a sky-city ablaze.

My heart grows quiet. Sad. A child’s pure, transparent sorrow.

No boss. No perfect sister. No cold neglect. Just sadness. Clean. Ordinary. Like a child who lost a toy.

*Caw. Caw.* Crows pierce the silence.

A tiny hand taps my shoulder.

I turn. A quiet little boy. Eyes downcast. No child’s gaze is this still.

Sunset flickers deep in his eyes—like a quiet flame smoldering within.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he whispers. Voice tender. Young.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

My voice was just as childish. A wave of sadness rose in my chest. I sniffled, feeling like I might cry.

He sighed, patted my shoulder with a maturity beyond his years, and turned to gaze at the distant sunset. I studied his quiet face. I remembered—he was always sighing. That habit set him apart. No other boy sighed quite like him.

“I’m going to a city,” he said. “A very small one.”

“In the Northeast?” I asked.

He turned back. A flicker of amusement lit his dark eyes. Pride swelled in him. He reached out, ruffled my hair. Even the calm light deep in his eyes surged.

“Yes,” he said.

Suddenly, the scene flipped. The little boy had grown. He stood beside a punk girl, sighing as he counted coins in his wallet—had he always sighed like this? Since kindergarten? Wait… since *kindergarten*?

I squinted, trying to see the man’s face, but it kept shifting between boyish and grown. Blurry. I reached out, wanting to touch it.

His face was buried deep in memory.

Years had passed. I could no longer make out his expression.

I jolted awake.

The same familiar ceiling. Outside, my parents’ gentle bickering drifted in. The curtain fluttered slightly in the breeze. Sunlight streamed through—too bright.

I raised a hand, squinting to block the glare.

After lying there a moment, I sighed, sat up, and stared blankly at the floor.

Must’ve been a weird dream.

A strange heaviness pressed on my chest. I rubbed my forehead helplessly. Probably from the boss yelling at me this afternoon. I really wasn’t cut out for *any* kind of part-time work. Any. At. All.

Working part-time? Never. Not in this lifetime.

But this weight didn’t feel emotional. It felt… physical.

I looked down, bewildered, at two soft, rounded mounds on my chest.

What the hell?

I reached out—then froze. Something was off. My hand was slender, soft, supple. Like a girl’s.

*It’s an illusion*, I told myself.

I’d always stayed indoors, avoided heavy labor. Of course my hands were delicate. That made sen—

My fingers brushed the unfamiliar softness.

A strange jolt shot through me. I jiggled them experimentally.

I dropped my hands, glancing around the room in a daze—

Socks still scattered under the bed. The curtain swayed lazily. Warm light filled the space…

Damn it. I’d… *grown breasts*.

Stunned. Despair crept in. I jiggled again, pinched hard—a bizarre sensation made me almost yelp.

Stunned. Again.

Doubly stunned.

“What the fuck…”

A light, melodious voice echoed—and startled me.

I froze.

After a beat, I began vocal drills.

“What the fuck.”

“Fuck your mother.”

“I… fuck.”

“I-I-I… fuck, fuck, what the fuck!”

The voice was sweet. Should’ve been thrilling. Instead, panic tightened my throat.

Every time I thought it was a hallucination, the moment my breath hit my vocal cords—that lovely voice answered, right on cue.

Then, with solemn focus: “Son of a bitch, dog bastard, pig asshole.”

Slowly, painfully, I accepted it.

This was my voice now.

A stray strand tickled my cheek. I brushed it behind my ear—then froze. My hair… it had grown overnight, flowing straight to my waist. Untrimmed. Natural. Silky. I ran my fingers through it. Smooth as silk.

Naturally, I hesitated. Slowly tugged down my sweatpants. Peeked.

I looked up at the sunlit wooden door.

My dick was gone.

MY DICK!!

GONE!!!

The Zhou family’s only son—*little Zhou*, meant to carry on the line—GONE!!!

My mind spun. The strange dream flashed back. A cold premonition surged. My gut was usually right. Met that man today. Had that weird dream. Woke up like *this*…

“Lu Ren…”

My unfamiliar, light voice whispered his name. I leaped out of bed, fumbled into a men’s shirt—tight across the chest. I eyed the straining buttons nervously, then slipped on clean flip-flops.

Damn it—that guy’s name was *Lu Ren*!!

That bastard did this!!

Why so sure??

B-B-Because I’m *guessing*, okay?!

I gritted my teeth, eased the wooden door open.

One cautious glance at my parents’ distant backs—then I fled.

End.