“Limited edition? You're fishing for a sugar daddy with a nine-yuan-ninety knockoff, shipping included. Lady, is your dignity made of plastic too?”
Chi Xingran stood at the table in Private Room Eight of Cloudtop Restaurant, dragging a fingernail hard along the bottom seam of the pink designer bag. The sharp scrape rang through the room.
“Since when does full-grain leather stink of cheap industrial plastic? The seams are crooked enough to drive a tractor down. Not even a basic double-wave hand-stitched saddle seam—it's all machine binding! And this clasp? One scratch along the edge exposes the raw iron underneath. You're using this to play an innocent society princess?”
He didn't give her so much as a moment to breathe.
Trapped opposite him, Lin Rourou, the woman in the floral dress, went from red to white to livid. Her fake tears froze on her face.
“Where did you crawl out from, you filthy beggar? Got a death wish?”
Furious, Lin Rourou snatched up her full glass of expensive red wine and flung it at his face.
Chi Xingran had grown up fighting street punks over turf. His danger reflexes were honed to perfection.
His feet slid, his waist twisted nimbly, and the crimson wine skimmed his hoodie hem before splashing all over the tablecloth.
Before Lin Rourou could pull her hand back, he grabbed the heavy tissue box and slapped it straight onto her thickly powdered face.
“Fake couture and two pounds of foundation. Who do you think you're fooling?”
Planting both hands on his hips, Chi Xingran let rip. “How much is Zong Zeyu paying you to work this hard? Two hundred a performance, and he won't even throw an extra chicken leg into your boxed lunch! Go on, keep crying. Squeeze out a couple more tears and dissolve that false-eyelash glue. Save yourself the water taking your makeup off later!”
The tissue box slid off Lin Rourou's face. Tears had smeared her black mascara into streaks, leaving her looking like a drowned ghost.
“Waaah! You're bullying me!”
Her last defenses crumbled. Grabbing her fake bag, Lin Rourou scrambled out of the private room.
Only then did Chi Xingran breathe out. He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the job status as his empty stomach unleashed a chorus of growls.
The order was still displayed in the errand app: [Client Zong Zeyu: Go to Private Room Eight and find any excuse to ruin the blind date. The bigger the scene, the better. Two hundred cash on completion.]
When he kicked the door open earlier, he had brushed a side button. His secondhand knockoff phone had silently started livestreaming. Through a hole in his hoodie pocket, the camera had broadcast the entire spectacle in high definition.
The sparse comments suddenly became a flood. “Holy shit! Where did this god-tier streamer come from? Clocked that fake bag at a glance!”
“Nine ninety with free shipping, I'm dead. Her makeup's turned her into a swamp ghost!”
“Two hundred to ruin a blind date. This guy says everything we're thinking!”
If Chi Xingran failed to get his platform's guaranteed payout next month, the three-thousand-yuan contract penalty would be the death of him.
Without that lifesaving two-hundred-yuan errand fee, he would never have raced all the way here on his battered electric scooter.
A freshly served plate of premium A5 wagyu steak sat steaming temptingly on the table.
The fake socialite was gone. If nobody ate the meat, it would be thrown away, and wasting food was a major crime.
Quick as a flash, Chi Xingran liberated an unused, still-wrapped spare silver fork, speared a piece of steak, and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted so good his eyes nearly popped out.
Still chewing, he turned, and his gaze finally landed on the silent man in black beside him.
The man sat perfectly straight at the head of the table, wearing a handmade black suit without a single logo.
He had pronounced brow bones, a straight nose, and a deathly pale face. A chilling, deathlike stillness radiated from him.
Why wasn't this guy moving?
He hadn't said a word from beginning to end. Had that vicious fake-innocent woman scared him senseless?
And look at his suit—not even a brand label. Such a cold, impersonal style. Probably some cheap rental.
They were both poor working stiffs forced to serve people in this fancy place.
Two wage slaves adrift in the world. Who needed introductions?
Righteous solidarity flared in Chi Xingran's chest. Before he had even swallowed his steak, he strode across and planted himself squarely in front of the man in black like a young rooster guarding its food.
His left hand even caught the sleeve of the man's expensive jacket, crumpling the exquisite fabric in his fist.
“Don't worry, buddy!”
Patting his chest, Chi Xingran announced around his mouthful, “I've got you today! That scheming woman won't touch a hair on your head! Next time, be more careful picking a date. Don't let any old stray come sniffing around!”
The man kept staring at him. Chi Xingran assumed he was starving and too embarrassed to say so.
Without hesitation, he pushed the nearly untouched plate of wagyu toward him and stuffed the clean silver fork into his hand. “Help yourself! I won't fight you for it. This meat's so tender. Once we're full, we'll leave together. I'll give you a lift on my scooter!”
The livestream comments went berserk. “FUCK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Somebody help! That's Zong Wen, the Zong Group's living King of Hell!”
“He grabbed Zong Wen's clothes! He actually shoved a fork into that germaphobic tyrant's hand!”
“Rest in peace, streamer. Be more careful in your next life...”
The room was terrifyingly quiet.
The scent of steak fat and cheap citrus body wash invaded Zong Wen's nostrils without warning.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the pale, well-defined hand on his left arm, clenching his suit fabric.
His bespoke jacket had been pulled out of shape, its sleeve visibly creased.
The temperature around him plummeted.
Zong Wen raised his right hand and pressed his fingertips precisely over Chi Xingran's pulse, using just enough force to restrain rather than crush.
Pain shot through Chi Xingran. The silver fork slipped from his hand and clattered onto the table.
He whipped his head around and met Zong Wen's eyes.
Zong Wen stared at him, his voice seeping up as though from beneath a sheet of ice. “How would you like to die?”