I forced a smile. "I knew you wouldn’t hurt an innocent."
I wanted to say more, but a thousand words got stuck in my throat and turned into one line: "Sorry for getting your shirt dirty."
I felt life slipping out of me bit by bit until I couldn’t even lift an eyelid.
Water dripped on my forehead—warm, like his embrace.
… "Finally finished."
I kicked my legs straight and stretched.
This was the first chapter I’d serialized on QuillNet—an over-the-top, melodramatic trunk of a story where the leads had national hatred and family vendettas between them, plus a horde of mindless plot devices. It was juicy and trashy. I ended it by having the heroine drink a poisoned cup and die—which, frankly, was the perfect heartbreaking finish for that kind of tragic romance.
Satisfied, I closed my laptop and pried open a twenty-one-year-old Coca-Cola. Pure bliss, folks.
1
I woke up.
Single for years has its perks: you notice the small things. Today my little room—under 300 square feet—felt different.
I quietly peeled back the covers. There was a man under them—long dark hair, a strong nose… okay, clearly not awake yet.
I wiped my mouth and pulled the covers back over him.
Before I could close my eyes, the handsome guy suddenly sprang up and clamped his hand around my neck. "Who are you… Hazel?"
Me: "Jumping right to kissing isn’t exactly proper, is it?"
He cupped my face and, from excitement, squeezed like he was handling a giant walnut.
Me: "Big brother, stop squeezing, she’s the original model."
He blinked like waking from a dream, then hugged me tight and said hoarsely, "Hazel, it’s really you! You’re alive!"
Hazel… Hazel Bennett?
Isn’t that the heroine’s name from my book?
Police, please!
Someone who read my web novel had cosplay-delusion and broke into my life.
His iron arm tightened until I almost vomited last night’s takeout.
"Finally found you, Hazel."
I tested him. "Big brother, who are you?"
He clutched my shoulder. "I’m Nathan Blake. Hazel, don’t you recognize me?"
I frowned. "You’re hurting me."
He immediately let go. I snatched my phone off the nightstand, planning to call the police the second I could.
"Nathan, you have the wrong person. I’m not Hazel…"
He looked hurt, then began taking off his clothes. My phone hit the floor with a smack.
Wait—talk first, undress later. I’ve filleted fish for SunMart for ten years; I thought my heart had gone cold as a blade. Then I saw his chest and lost my head.
He had broad shoulders and a scar across his chest. He guided my hand to touch it. "You stabbed me with a dagger, Hazel. My body and my heart—you wounded them."
This old-school melodrama hit full force. Even with no years of internet-novel experience, I could feel how fake it sounded.
Still, I wavered.
I picked at the scar. It was real and looked aged.
If it were fake, he’d have to be clairvoyant and willing to hurt himself.
I studied the half-naked pretty man seriously. He matched my description perfectly.
Nathan asked, "Well? Recognize me now?"
Me: "Not quite. Unless I get a better look at your six-pack."
Nathan: "…"
2
Ten minutes later, I finally pried this sticky guy off of me.
Nathan sulked, clutching his sword and sitting cross-legged on my bed while he took in the room.
I kindly poured him a glass of water.
Nathan said, "I desire Spring Breeze Tea steeped with morning dew."
Oh, the spoiled prince. I detoured with the glass and drank it all myself.
Nathan actually smiled. The gray little room lit up.
I considered how to explain: he and Hazel were paper people I invented, and I’d just poisoned Hazel on a propitious plot day—left him to spend the rest of his life in remorse. With his temperament, if he ever learned the truth, he might stab me first and make the headlines.
I swallowed hard at the thought.
Nathan suddenly said, "I understand now—you aren’t Hazel."
Me: "?"
Nathan: "You’re Hazel’s reincarnation, right?"
I grabbed onto a safe lie. "Maybe. Possibly. Like eighty percent chance."
He half-kneel in front of me, took my hand dramatically. "This time, I won’t let you go."
I forced a laugh. "Oh please. Reincarnation or not, how can Hazel be the same as me?"
Nathan: "I will make you remember."
Then Nathan, with full dramatic feeling, started reciting my book beat by beat, trying to awaken love for him inside me… but his version had the editing skill of a mediocre screenwriter. Except for names and the title, the rest wasn’t identical—it was outright unrelated.
He skipped the national vendettas, the betrayals, then added a manufactured happy ending.
When he finished, he even tacked on an extra: he’d begged at the Buddha’s shrine for thousands of years and, to his surprise, the Buddha answered and delivered him to my door.
I was quiet for a while. "Which deity is that good? Next time ask them for me—a sudden fortune overnight would be great."
Nathan said helplessly, "Hazel, that’s not—"
Not the point. If he wandered outside like this, he’d end up in a psychiatric ward at best, or in prison at worst.
3
For everyone’s safety, I had to let Nathan stay temporarily.
At dinner time, I stared at the wilting greens in the fridge while Nathan lounged on the couch watching me.
He asked, "Did you cook?"
Me: "I ordered it."
I marveled at modern tech while opening my food app. When I saw that delivery from the closest kebab place charged three bucks within a 500-meter radius, I changed my mind. "I’ll go buy it myself."
Nathan grabbed his sword to follow. I waved him off. "It’s just downstairs, no need for the prince."
In slippers, I ran downstairs, passing a dim alley.
There was someone crouched at the mouth of the alley. She saw me and rose—no, floated up—toward me.
After years of single-life survival training, I screamed loudly, then bolted.
She still chased me. My shoulder went heavy, and I fell hard—faceplant. My knees screamed on the concrete.
She climbed onto my waist, peeled up my pajama pants, and leaned toward my bleeding knee like she planned to bite it.
I flailed: "Miss! Miss! I eat junk food, keep terrible hours, I’m into secondhand smoke, and in my last life I was poisoned—my blood’s full of toxins. If you eat me, you’ll get sick."
She licked my knee. "So sweet."
Me: "…"
Me: "Thanks for the compliment."
4
It felt like being paralyzed by a nightmare—my limbs heavy, voice gone.
I prayed silently to every god I could name: Avalokiteśvara, Jesus, God—finally thinking of Nathan, begging he’d fall from the sky like the book hero in a rescue scene. Even if I’m not the real heroine, a little bonded-parent-child fate would be nice!!!
A flash in the dark. Nathan’s sword severed her head. The head rolled and stopped right in front of me. We stared at each other.
Feeling came back slowly. I scrambled behind Nathan.
The body was still groping around the ground, hand searching.
Nathan, a male lead from classical historical romance, had never seen anything like this. He wore the "if I look fierce enough, no one will see I’m terrified" face and stood with sword raised.
I couldn’t help gripping his shaking arm from behind. "Your sword is vibrating so hard it’s making ghosts, bro."
"Stop!"
A shout came from the alley’s end. A man was shining his phone like a flashlight, walking toward us.
He picked up the head with a plop and snapped it back onto her neck.
Me: "That’s allowed?"
The man with glasses looked very prim. He glanced at Nathan, then at the small monster beside him, and then at me. Nathan stepped to the side to shield me.
He said, "Miss, sorry to intrude—are you QuillNet author Claire Bennett?"
I poked my head from behind Nathan. "How did you know?"
He glanced at Nathan, then at the little monster beside him. "Can we speak privately for a moment?"
5
We made it to the kebab stand. Only after Nathan checked that the area was safe did he reluctantly go to the pharmacy with me. I sat at a shared table eating skewers, clutching Nathan’s sword while the glasses guy and the little monster drank cola.
The man in glasses adjusted his frames, deadpan. "I’m one of the site’s developers. I noticed a tiny bug in our system…"
Me: "Everything’s come to life and you call that a tiny bug?"
He said, "Claire, have you heard of quick-transmigration worlds?"
Me: "Quick-transmigration?"
"Yes. Besides our reality, there are many other worlds—just like the ones in quick-transmigration fiction. They’re frameworks commonly used in fantasy, romance, cultivation genres. It turns out our site’s authors—without knowing—help build these alternate-world frameworks.
After a story finishes, that world can actually form, and its characters gain consciousness and begin to live and reproduce."
I shook my head. "Technology hasn’t reached the point of building new worlds, right?"
The glasses guy smiled knowingly. "Not because of our tech alone. But what if higher civilizations exist? Our world was created by ‘them’ too. Our job has been to help ‘them’ build each alternate world’s framework. ‘They’ supply the flesh and blood until a brand-new world is complete."
Me: "How do you know this?"
He leaned back in the plastic chair, crossed his legs, all smug. "I’m the system administrator they hired—tasked with finding and fixing bugs. Only a select few of us get that honor. You can see my pride is overflowing."
"Wow, you’re amazing." I said sarcastically.
I clapped for him perfunctorily. "So what now?"
Miles touched Milo’s head. "As you can see, the world I built is glitching. You’d better leave Nathan with me. Once I fix the system, we can send them back together."
I glanced at Milo. I didn’t like this loud, conspiratorial approach. "Are you sure she can hear this?"
Miles: "Relax. She’s very obedient."
He looked like he was showing off something he’d created—which, technically, he was.
When Nathan came back after buying the medicine, Miles grabbed Milo and stood. "Come with us."
Nathan cracked his knuckles with a loud pop. Miles immediately backpedaled. "I take that back."
Then he bolted. Milo flashed a creepy grin at me and winked—then vanished.
By the time I caught up, I slammed my hand on the table and yelled, "Wasn’t it your turn to pay?!"
A faint scream drifted behind me. I shot up to look in the direction Miles had run off—too fast—and smacked my hip on the table corner. Pain shot through me.
"Nathan, I think I heard someone scream back there…"
"Do you still have the headspace to care about others?" he snapped.
Nathan was half-kneeling in front of me, holding my ankle. He rolled my pajama cuff up and cleaned the wound. Worry and tenderness softened his features—his sudden, unguarded hands made him shockingly handsome.
He finished dressing the cut and let out a possessive, CEO-like snort: "Hmph."
That grunt dragged my maternal instincts back from the brink.
On the walk home I limped; he didn’t help me. He walked fast, not slowing an inch.
I called after him, "Nathan!"
He stopped and turned. "Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t follow you?"
I knew he couldn’t resist softness, so I tugged his coat like a child begging. "Walk slower. I’m scared."
He crouched and swung me onto his back like it was nothing. I was easily hoisted up.
"Claire," Nathan said, "your heart is racing."
I propped myself up with a hand on my chest—my heart pounding like it was doing a solo set for maternal anxiety and accidental physical contact with an attractive man.
"I know about the bridge effect," I babbled. "Psychologists say—"
He listened to my rambling quietly. Each step was steady. His ponytail brushed my face. His broad back was warm.
For the first time I realized that warmth could be real—just like him.
I woke up to Nathan’s profile in the morning sunlight, dazzling like a star.
As the runaway head of a convent, I had little self-control. Seeing such a pretty "little cabbage"—he looked at me like a treat.
He reached out, brushed my messy bangs aside, and kissed my forehead.
My chest fluttered and every little deer inside my heart lined up to injure themselves.
Nathan nuzzled my head and murmured, "Claire."
Those two syllables were a bucket of cold water, waking me up.
I was the body double.
Other people who become doubles get good food, comfortable housing, a car, paid vacations—basically VIP treatment.
Me? I’m a full-time unpaid parent, catering to the little master for all his needs.
He had tried, in his own way, to be domestic. A few days ago he worked hard in the kitchen to make me a "loving" dinner.
I looked at the dish—dull color, questionable smell. "What is this?"
"Potatoes," Nathan said.
I hoped for the best. No matter how you cooked potatoes, they couldn’t be that bad, right?
What followed can be summed up with a simple Q&A.
Q: How badly can cooking go?
A: Thanks for asking—ICU-bound.
From then on, the kitchen was a no-go zone for Nathan.
His only current talent was using his looks to freeload two tea eggs from Mrs. Thompson at the porridge shop downstairs.
I sipped my bowl of porridge, pale as the dish itself, and said, "Oh, by the way, I’m going out this afternoon."
Nathan: "I’ll go with you."
"No, you don’t need to."
He interrogated me: "With whom? Where? How long?"
"Just a classmate reunion. Old classmates having dinner together."
"Can’t you bring family?"
I studied Nathan—ponytail, meticulous speech—and he looked seriously ill with whatever this was.
"No."
To avoid standing out like a lonely beacon, I caved and brought Nathan along.
We got out in front of the grand estate.
Having never seen so much wealth, I blurted, "Whoa—"
Nathan, who’d once owned several mansions, smirked. "Is that all?"
My good friend Sophie came running over and grabbed me. "Finally! You’ve been gone so long up in your cloud of rich people, it’s giving me altitude sickness. But your shabby vibe? I like it."
"Thanks, that stings," I said.
Sophie elbowed me and asked low, "Who’s the handsome guy with you?"
Nathan started, "I—"
I stepped on his foot. He hurriedly corrected himself, "I’m…her boyfriend."
Sophie squealed and started patting my shoulder like she was a Tasmanian whirlwind, almost making me gag from the enthusiasm. "He’s so handsome! Where did you find him?"
"Online…"
"Online dating? You again…" Sophie began, but I switched subjects. "Why this place? Must’ve cost a fortune."
Sophie raised an eyebrow. "If she wants to show off, fine. She’s not spending our money. Why not?"
I handed Nathan to Sophie for safekeeping and slipped off to the restroom.
Even the hallway was foreign—two lanes wide. The toilet seat automatically played Bach when you sat down. I left the bathroom and bumped into someone.
He was handsome in a disheveled way, with sharp features and a face that looked a little more world-weary than before. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. When he saw me he crooked his mouth, a cigarette half in it, half-broken. Ash drifted down in little specks.
Years ago I would’ve been all over that roguish vibe. Now, all I wanted to do was slap him for blowing secondhand smoke at me.
His name was Ethan Cross. In high school he’d apparently fallen for the homecoming queen at first sight and asked around for her number. Whatever negotiation went down, he ended up with my number instead—someone with the same name as the homecoming queen.
Think about it: someone like Ethan, with that look? He’d never like plain old me. But I was deep in Mary Sue fantasies back then and never questioned it. We plunged into a dramatic online romance—sharing daily minutiae, swapping goodnights like devout worshipers.
"Goodnight, Claire."
Those four words had once sent me twisting with excitement under my blanket.
Ethan went to a private school across the street from mine, but our school was strict. Except for monthly breaks, we were basically locked in. Back then that rule—oppressive as it was—protected my love life. The principal thought he was doing me a favor.
He texted a question mark; I counted the days. May coincided with "520"—a romantic date. He promised me a surprise.
But his "surprise" turned into a nightmare.
"520."
That day Ethan strolled up with a bouquet and said, "Excuse me, make way."
He handed the flowers to the other Claire—the actual homecoming queen. She took them, blushing and confused.
I cracked.
In a bathroom stall I sobbed so hard snot bubbled out my nose. "I was ready to take the flowers! Waaaah—"
Sophie tried to comfort me. "It’s just flowers. One day they’ll be on your grave, too," she said, trying to be funny.
My meltdown echoed down the hallway and became premium gossip fodder.
Rather than wait to be abandoned, I decided to abandon first. Bruised ego and all, I deleted every contact for Ethan.
The blow left me with PTSD around the name "Claire."
My dad insisted my name was chosen by a fortune-teller and changing it would ruin my luck, but I tinkered—changing the second character slightly so it looked similar. Then I immediately told Sophie.
Sophie: "Claire Bennett?"
Me: "Uh!"
Sophie: "TV?"
Me: "Darn!"
Knowing Sophie’s mouth, I ran like my life depended on it.
Ethan grabbed me with that slimy, serial-playboy sound. "Hey—it’s been years—are you still avoiding me?"
"No, man. You got the wrong idea."
Then the real Claire—the homecoming queen—popped up and called out his name in a shrill, cutting tone. Every head turned.
Nathan lifted his head from a massive slice of strawberry cake. If he’d been carrying a sword he would’ve committed a felony right then.
Ethan squinted at Nathan, sizing him up. "Is that—your hired thug?"
I: "…"
Nathan grabbed my other arm possessively. "I’m her boyfriend."
I helpfully warned Ethan, "He’s got a serious violent streak."
Ethan looked at me with faux sympathy. "I see. You haven’t been well."
"What do you see? You see what? He doesn’t—"
Ethan pressed a finger to my lips. "Don’t be afraid. If you need help, I’ll help."
Nathan snarled, "Let go!"
I was sandwiched between two lead-male archetypes—the historical tyrant prince and the present-day ruthless CEO.
The prince-king hissed, "I told you to let go."
Contemporary CEO Ethan sneered, "You expect me to let go? Whose territory do you think this is?"
The glamorous homecoming queen, Claire, snapped, "Hah, Claire, it’s you again!"
I, the mistaken extra: "Sis, your man made the first move!"
"Is that your boyfriend?"
Claire looked Nathan up and down. "He kind of looks like Ethan, but in a way where the vibe is just…not even close."
My son—er, boy—was being judged!
Before Nathan could react I stomped, "When did you go blind? My man can write and rule nations and do battle on horseback. What has your guy done besides live off his parents?"
Nathan yanked me toward him hard. "Hear that? This is my woman. Get your filthy hands off!"
Ethan got fired up too. "Why should I let go first? You let go first."
I, caught between two possessive men, was struggling on multiple fronts—grabbing at Hazel’s hairpiece while trying to stop the CEOs from hurting my body. "Stop! I’m a person, not a rope!"
Maybe my scream was too pitiful. They both released at once. The sudden let-go threw me off balance; my body pitched forward and I ended up crashing mouth-first into Hazel as she lunged up to grab my collar.
If I had to sum up the next few seconds in four words, they’d be: orange-faced, orange-spirited, orange-out-of-control, and stuck-orange… I smashed my lips right into Hazel’s.
Silence.
Me: "…"
Hazel: "…"
Nathan: "…"
Ethan: "…"
Sophie, who’d been watching the trainwreck, piped up, "I don’t get it, but I’m utterly stunned."
Nathan stepped over, scooped me up under the arms like a kid, and hoisted me up. "Get up—it’s cold on the ground."
No sooner had he said that than I sneezed so hard my temples went thump-thump with pain.
He shrugged his coat over me, long sleeves tied in front, scolding, "See?"
Hazel got to her feet and stomped on Ethan’s foot hard. "Look at her!"
On the walk home, drunk and fuzzy-headed, my steps unsteady, Nathan just looped an arm around me. "Are you happy?"
"I went to school with Hazel for three years. She’s smart, beautiful, from a well-off family—someone the universe keeps handing advantages to," I leaned into his shoulder and poked my nose. "And me? I’m the one always begging the universe for scraps."
Nathan frowned and mussed my bangs.
"But she envied me today," I went on. "Being envied by her felt so, so, so, so amazing!"
I hopped out of his arms and stood on a planter, dramatic. "Winning with a man—pathetic of me, really… People like me, ordinary and talentless, could work forever and never get what she gets with a flick of her finger. Still, even being envied by her once—that’s something."
Nathan shook his head. "You’re not ordinary. You’re the sparkling Hazel Bennett. You’re the one and only Hazel."
Me: "Only you would think that."
Nathan: "One of me is enough."
Right—of course he centered everything on me. People like him make themselves indispensable.
I couldn’t tell if it was the booze or a real flutter in my chest, so I hooked a hand around his neck and kissed him.
Nathan froze for a beat, then pressed his palm to the back of my head and took the lead—hot breath, frantic, clashing mouths.
When we broke apart, gasping, we smiled at each other and folded back into a tight embrace.
My gaze slid over his shoulder and landed on a face identical to mine not far away. Hazel’s smile was faint, the night wind pinching the corners of her mouth cold.
Hazel walked over, hesitating. "Prince?"
Nathan went blank. "You’re… you’re… Q—Hazel?"
He let go of me. I panicked for a second, reaching to grab his hand and found nothing but cold air drifting through my fingers.
Hazel: "Prince, where are we? Why are you dressed like this?"
Nathan: "I… I…"
Hazel: "Who is the girl beside you?"
Nathan: "She… she…"
Oh boy. Our leading man froze, tongue-tied. Looks like I had to improvise the story.
I explained to Hazel that Nathan, like her, had been transported here and was staying at my place for now.
I braced for the classic melodrama: Nathan torn between the original heroine and her substitute, and wondering what would become of the fake me.
Instead, Hazel hooked her arm through mine with bright enthusiasm. "I'm not here to break you up. I'm here to join you."
Nathan: "?"
Me: "?"
Simple, sweet Hazel—bold and shameless in a way Nathan had been at first—made herself right at home.
My apartment is a studio, not a charity for random lookalikes!
Hazel and I, now in loungewear, sat facing each other like mirror images. It was oddly surreal.
Hazel: "If this is reincarnation, that makes me your ancestor, right?"
Me: "You're pushing it. Are you expecting me to build you a shrine?"
"No need," she said. Her dark eyes lit up as she pointed at a soda on the shelf. "I want that."
Before I could answer, Nathan rose and grabbed it for her, pulling the tab with a gentlemanly flourish.
Hazel pointed at the chips beside it. "I want those."
Nathan ripped open the bag and handed it over—more attentive than the best waiter.
I couldn't help feeling off about it. I tossed my bedding onto the couch in a huff. "You two sleep out there."
I flopped on the bed and thought about life. Why did it always come down to the other party saying, "Sorry, wrong person," at the moment things got heated?
Universe: "Just kidding."
Me: "Foul language@#￥%&*…"
I fished my phone out and called Miles, the glasses guy, explained everything, and asked, "Why would characters who are already dead show up in our world?"
Miles answered, "Maybe the system's undergoing maintenance and different time nodes fractured, sending versions of the heroine who were still alive before the ending."
I rubbed my temples. "How many more will come? Can you fix it?"
He chuckled softly. "Don't worry, there won't be more. It should be over soon."
He said "over." The word landed in my chest like a dull ache.
Hazel's own timeline, I figured, must be from after she got lost and fell off a cliff, before the arrow and the poisoning—back when her organs were intact and her spirit was… not broken, but innocent. Naive, really.
She and Nathan were more than friends but not lovers. Hazel burrowed under a blanket and monopolized the whole couch. Nathan slept the night huddled in the tub with a small towel.
I woke up half-asleep on the toilet, pants off, in a Thinker-like pose, contemplating the origins and end of the universe, the arc of communism, and… why there was a man in the tub next to me.
Instant clarity. I screamed, "Pervert!"
Nathan: "I…"
Me: "Weirdo!"
Nathan: "I…"
Me: "Jerk!"
Nathan: "I…"
Me: "What else do you have to say?"
Nathan: "Put your pants on first."
Me: "…You're right."
I yanked my pants up so fast my stomach rimmed with a series of embarrassingly loud farts.
Face flaming every color, social death complete.
Nathan, trying to be comforting: "…They sounded crisp."
Me: "Just shut up."
Nathan: "Wait, I need to tell you something."
I was heading out, and suddenly he grabbed my hand and pulled me back. I tumbled backward into the tub and felt my butt hit something hard.
I slapped a hand over my face. "You're abnormal!"
Nathan, sensing the discomfort, lifted the object. I goggled. "Cough, cough—how is your thing still detachable???"
Curiosity forced one eye open. Nathan held up the shower head. "It hung over my head last night. It scared me, so I unscrewed it."
Me: "…"
He leaned close, nose brushing my cheek, breath warm as a butterfly dropping into my ear. "Seems like you're the weird one."
I lay back across him, feeling like a flatbread frying in oil—his body heat cooking me.
I scrambled to sit up, flailing. The man beneath me tensed and pinched my waist, murmuring, "Don't move, or I really will act weird."
I froze like a statue in his arms.
Nathan then said, "Don't you think that Hazel over there is kind of strange?"
I shook my head. "How so?"
He hesitated. "I can't put my finger on it."
Me: "You have the nerve to talk—when you first arrived…"
We both seemed to remember something at once, sitting bolt upright and reading the same conclusion in each other's eyes: Hazel isn't right.
A person transported here should be wary and curious—if she sees a metal can, how would she know it's a drink?
Unless she wasn't a newcomer, or she'd been here for a while. Where had she been staying? Why did she suddenly appear and claim Nathan?
Hazel was hiding something. To test our suspicions, we decided to probe her in different ways.
Physically, I brewed a steaming bath and, sacrificing my precious orange-scented designer bath salts, invited Hazel to bathe with me—partly to see if she had a red mole on her left butt cheek.
Wrapped in a towel, I played it seductive, swirling the water like some sultry spider: "Come on—pose—there's plenty of time—"
Hazel twitched at the corner of her eye and, claiming the orange-scent salts felt like soaking in pee, flat-out refused.
Nathan poked his head in. "If she won't come, I'll do it."
Me: "Get lost!"
He pouted. "Your Hazel is weird too!"
Mentally probing, Nathan set up a grill on the balcony—meant to loosen Hazel in a cozy, honest setting.
I said, "If upstairs complains, use your pretty-boy charm."
He pictured the upstairs tenant flinging themselves at him for an impromptu kiss and his hands trembled. "Order delivery. Put it on a plate like you grilled it. It's all about the mood."
I turned on the iPad and put on a period romance to melt defenses.
Nathan pulled a beer from the ice bucket and handed it to Hazel, veins popping on his hand like a dramatic weakman. "Hazel, can you help me open this?"
Me: "???"
Dude, could your test be any more obvious? Who asks a girl to open a bottle cap?
Hazel balanced the bottle on her teeth, popped the cap, and—click—opened it.
Me: "…"
Nathan exchanged a look with me: she really did know modern life.
Hazel didn’t notice us, grabbing a skewer of chicken wings as she asked, “Why did the prince suddenly remember to take me out to eat?”
Nathan: “Do I need a reason to take you out to dinner?
If I could, I’d cook for you every day, eat with you every day, make you the happiest woman in the world!”
Hazel, moved by Nathan’s dramatic confession: “Yue!”
I, thinking about the trauma of being subjected to terrible cooking: “Yue!”
Nathan grew serious: “Hazel.”
My heart tightened. That “Hazel” wasn’t meant for me—maybe it never had been.
I’d been playing a part for so long that I’d started to believe it myself.
A sudden downpour added a streak of tragedy to my spiraling thoughts.
Over the roar of the rain, Nathan pointed at a cliff on the screen and got to the point: “Look, doesn’t this look like where we first met?”
Hazel: “What?
Did you forget to turn off the stove?”
Nathan: “Look, doesn’t this look like the sachet you gave me?”
Hazel: “What?
Do you want another piece of naan?”
Nathan: “Look, don’t these lines sound like what I said to you then?”
Hazel: “What?
Which pot tastes better—the left one or the right?”
Nathan finally turned, suddenly serious: “How long has she been like this?
Why didn’t anyone get her medical help sooner?”
Me: “…”
Our tentative probing failed. The next morning, we met in the bathroom and sighed in unison: “Ugh—”
Nathan pressed his throbbing temple from last night’s hangover. “Let’s keep watching. If she truly is Hazel, that’d be great. If she’s not, she can’t do much harm.”
I said sarcastically, “You’re awfully confident about her.”
Nathan rolled over, eyes bright: “You smell like big-time jealousy.”
I pushed his head away with a flat face. “If she really is Hazel, what would you choose?”
Nathan thought for a few serious seconds. “Only kids make choices…”
Before he could finish, I slammed the door and stormed out. “Men are all big pigs!”
Hazel: “What?
Lunch is pig’s trotters today?”
Me: “…I told Nathan to go buy them.”
After Nathan left, it was just Hazel and me. From years of being the sympathetic older-sister type, I knew women opened up more with no men around. One sentence turned into another, and we could become best friends.
I drifted to the sink and, pretending not to care, said, “Finally, he’s gone.”
Hazel stood behind me, smiling softly. “Yeah, he finally left.”
Before I could parse what she meant, a knife plunged from behind. I looked down and saw thick drops of blood soaking the hem of my clothes, falling to the floor.
“W-why…?” I covered the stabbed area and turned back with difficulty, eyes wide in disbelief—
There was no one behind me.
I split—physically.
It hurt so much I passed out on the spot.
Nathan came back with the trotters and ran up the stairs like a shot, scooping me into his arms and shaking me like a pill. “Claire! Wake up! Claire! Don’t scare me!”
He pressed a hand to my wound. I grimaced—part of me wondered if he was trying to help or finish the job.
Nathan, sobbing theatrically like a tragic hero from an ancient costume drama, screamed volume as if that could cure me: “Claire!!!
I won’t let you die!!!”
He was so loud I almost twisted my foot back from the gates of death.
Determined not to end up half-deaf and living the rest of my life on a hearing aid, I used my last strength. “I think… I can still be saved. Call 911. Get an ambulance.”
“All right, all right. Claire, hold on. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes.”
He did try to dial 911, but his hands shook so badly he hit the wrong keys three times in combinations. When he finally got it through, his voice trembled and the address came out garbled.
He hoisted me and carried me out.
Life felt like it was slipping away with the blood. My life flashed before my eyes.
Leaning on his shoulder, I heard him babble at my ear: “Claire, don’t sleep. I beg you, I beg you.”
“Claire, I’m sorry I left you alone.”
“Claire, pull through. Scold me. Scold me, okay? Don’t leave me like before.”
“Claire, Claire.”
He repeated my name again and again, voice breaking.
It felt good—he was calling my name.
I tried to respond, but the pain made me unable to speak. I could only breathe hard to prove I was still here.
Slowly, Nathan’s voice dulled as if muffled by glass. My consciousness wavered. Pain faded. Then I dropped into endless blackness.
In a usual romance script, the heroine at death’s door has the hero hold her hand, strip off his clothes to keep her warm, and confess passionately until she miraculously recovers… “Zzz—zzzz—zzzz—”
Me: “?”
“Grrr~~~ grr~~~ grr~~~”
I blinked open my eyes. No passionate hero, no grand confession—only Sophie Lane, hair a mess, sleeping like a log beside me, snoring like a winding mountain road.
A vein popped on my forehead. I nudged her awake. “Up. You can sleep so hard when there’s no man next to you?”
Sophie rubbed drool from her mouth, bleary. “You’re alive?
I’ll go call a doctor.”
I grabbed her. “Wait. Where’s Nathan?”
Sophie: “He’s being held at the station.”
Me: “???”
Sophie told me Nathan had been asked to give a statement. The cop asked, “What’s your relationship with the victim?”
Nathan: “I am the prince—cough—my lover.”
The cop: “Describe what happened when you arrived at the scene.”
Nathan, starting to lose patience: “I already told you. I rushed over and she was on the floor, bleeding out… No! I can’t—you won’t let me! I must see her!”
The note-taker gave a look to the officer and typed briskly: “Temperament unstable; possible crime of passion.”
The cop continued, “Young man, don’t get anxious. We’re trying to help your girlfriend. Do you know who attacked her? Has she made enemies recently?”
Nathan, thinking out loud: “It was her past life… or maybe a ghost.”
Click-clack went the keys again: “Witness shows signs of mental abnormality; may have delusions.”
Nathan slammed his hands on the table: “I’ve told you everything! Are you letting me go or not!”
The note-taker added: “Manic behavior.”
Nathan: “Let me out. I’ll stay by her side and watch her wake, let her hit me if she wants.”
Note-taker: “Stockholm syndrome.”
The officer looked like something weird had slipped into the transcript.
Long story short, with Nathan’s clumsy explanations, the romantic tragedy turned into a legal circus, then a paranormal segment, and eventually a human-interest piece about why suspects behave the way they do. He ended up in a holding cell.
Listening to Sophie retell all that, my head and my wound throbbed together. “It really wasn’t him.”
Sophie frowned. “If it wasn’t him, then who? There was no sign of a third person at the scene.”
I froze. How could that be?
Could the “Hazel” we’d been seeing the past two days actually be a ghost?
I rubbed at my pulsing temple. “Can you at least try to get Nathan out?”
Sophie arched a brow. “That’s your plan for asking for help? At least flatter him a little.”
I immediately switched to a respectful tone. “Sophie, your smile isn’t as sweet as the idol’s—”
Sophie: “…Shut up.”
Sophie got Little Red Riding Hood, the trotters vendor, to vouch that Nathan wasn’t there, and managed to pull him out of the station.
After that, Nathan hovered around me day and night, staring like some obsessive would-be killer.
I tried to soothe him. “Go get some sleep.”
Nathan shook his head stubbornly. “No. I need to protect—”
I pulled back the covers. “Then sleep with me.”
Nathan immediately kicked off his shoes and crawled under the blanket. “Okay.”
Me: “…”
Then came the awkward question: where should Nathan put his hands?
He couldn’t rest them over my abdominal wound. Anywhere else… would be a plotline the censors might arrest.
Nathan propped up my head so I could pillow on his arm. Our faces were so close our noses nearly touched; we crossed eyes at each other.
I licked my dry lips and turned away.
Nathan scooted closer. “Claire, you’re shy.”
I muttered, “Mm.”
Nathan obediently rolled a half-turn away.
Me: “?”
Me: “Is that it? You give up after one shy moment?”
Nathan, ever so cooperative, swiveled back like a burrito wrap. “Are you afraid I—”
I jabbed him with my elbow, cheeks flaming, and continued weakly: “My body’s not in a convenient place right now~~~”
“You scared I’ll think you have bad breath?”
Me: “???”
Nathan: “Then you deserve a bad end.”
Having faced death, my alertness peaked. I grabbed Nathan—who’d been messing with me last night—and shoved him down to the floor.
When the morning nurse came to change my dressing and bent to pick up a medicine bottle, she came face to face with Nathan’s wide eyes on the floor and gave the whole ward a soprano wake-up call.
Nathan, half-asleep and with one side of his face puffy, started peeling an apple into one long strip. “Claire, any ideas about this?”
I scrolled my phone without looking up. “Sort of.”
Nathan: “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”
“It’s just my guess,” I said. “I’m an only child—no twins—so whoever that person is, she’s not from this world.”
Nathan frowned. “But didn’t we already know she and I came from another world?”
I shook my head. “Maybe she and you came from different worlds—another world besides the two.”
In other words, a third world—another book, where characters have the ability to change their appearance.
Nathan asked, "Then why would she try to kill you?"
I said, "She must know me."
But why would characters in the book know someone from the real world?
I propped my chin on my hand and sank into thought.
From what Nathan and I knew, book characters only ever know the real world through their author — which meant the author of that book… knew me?
Nathan: "Someone who suspects?"
Me: "Someone who knows other worlds exist, and knows me — who else could it be?"
The knife in his hand hesitated, and a long strip of apple peel fell with a soft plop to the floor.
I was about to answer when the ward door opened. "Claire Bennett, I heard you're hospitalized."
At the mention of a fruit basket, that handsome face appeared, thin lenses catching the bright daylight and throwing back a cold gleam.
Nathan shoved the peeled apple into my hand, then rose to put himself between us.
Miles blinked innocently. "Looks like you were hurt pretty badly. No wonder your prince is so on edge."
I grabbed Nathan's hand and squeezed hard to warn him not to act rashly.
I forced a smile. "You know him — he's always like this."
Miles asked with concern, "Did you offend someone? How did you suddenly get attacked at home?"
To keep him from hearing the tremor in my voice, I loudly chewed the apple. "I don't know. I turned my head and she was gone. Tell me — am I seeing things?"
Miles frowned. "Where would a ghost even come from in this world?"
I blurted, "Aren't there a few right beside you?"
His expression shifted into something loaded. His gaze slid over my cheek. I bit harder into the apple and mumbled, "I mean — could it be something that slipped out from another space? Can your system check?"
Miles pushed his glasses up his high nose. "Okay. I'll go back and check."
I teased like usual. "Your system's a disaster. Fix it. Who knows what'll crawl out next time."
Miles gave the same perfunctory boss-lines. "Right away! Soon! Next time, for sure!"
And I kept crunching away, nerves buzzing: "crunch crunch crunch…"
I had Sophie dig up everything on Ethan Cross: from his home address down to his underwear size.
Sophie asked for a runner's fee.
Me: "I'm flat broke, empty house, no grain in the jar, thief broke in, I weep."
Sophie: "Talk like a human."
Me: "I have no money."
She held up seven fingers and whispered in my ear, "You can't freeload. How about this — have Nathan keep me company seven nights to pay off the debt?"
Am I the kind of awful parent who trades my child's looks for money?
Apparently I am.
I flashed an eight with my fingers to bargain back. "Make it eight nights with Nathan, and you cover my medical bill."
Nathan, nearby, asked, "What are you two talking about?"
Sophie: "Human trafficking."
Me: "Discussing symptoms."
"Seriously! Why the sneaky gestures?"
Nathan toyed with the fruit knife while he spoke, making the hairs on our arms stand up. We were terrified of saying the wrong thing and being erased from this beautiful world on the spot.
Sophie: "Praise for your one-night seven-times performance!"
Me: "Praise for your eight-Pack abs!"
Nathan: "???"
Sophie steered the conversation back. "The Ethan Cross you checked — isn't he a developer for that web fiction platform? Why would he kill you for no reason?"
Nathan nodded. "Yeah, why would he murder you?"
I echoed, "Yeah, why would he murder me?"
A vein twitched at Sophie's temple. "Stop nesting questions."
I put a hand on my heart and swore, "I may typo, miss deadlines, and end things badly, but I'm a good author."
By the way, Ethan Cross is Miles's real name.
Ethan Cross: …That's such a casual name, really.
Ethan Cross: Murder motive +1.
"There’s one more weird thing."
Sophie typed his pen name into the microblog search. His account popped up; his latest post was a month old — the night we met at the barbecue stand. All the comments were fans begging for updates.
I skimmed. He liked discussing plotlines with fans and often posted daily life snippets to keep them engaged.
A lightbulb lit in my head. "Got it!"
Sophie: "Is that the big takeaway?"
The real point — based on his posts and fan replies — was that after the site crashed, he didn't log in to calm fans. He vanished from the internet, stopped updating any social accounts… that wasn't like him.
I asked Sophie, "Can you find the novel Ethan was updating?"
Sophie: "The original site is down. Where am I supposed to find it?"
Me: "Ask your contact list — Cherry, Little Apple, Strawberry. They sell resources."
Sophie scrolled her phone frantically. "Wouldn't you know it, they have it — 18.88 and they’ll include updates."
Me: "Ask if my book's there."
Sophie: "It is, but… your book is non-transferable."
I gave Sophie a shove. "Oh? How embarrassing…"
Sophie: "Because it won't sell. So they include it as a bonus with other authors' works."
Righteous fury filled me. "Damn it! Fighting piracy is everyone's duty. I'm reporting them!"
After Sophie left, I loaded Ethan Cross's latest novel. Authors often mirror their worldview in their characters; I wanted to read Ethan's words to learn about him.
The plot followed familiar male-genre tropes: broke-to-riches, leveling up, vengeance. The male lead arrived on page one having completed the newbie task of losing both parents. To avenge blood debts, he left home and tackled monsters, romances, and hardship.
Unlike sweet, naive heroines in female-focused novels, his protagonist was complex and often achieved thrills by being ruthlessly efficient — killing without leaving a trace. Maybe Ethan himself had a bit of anti-social streak deep down?
I flipped to the first appearance of the female lead, a spirit-child. In the book she was formed from the ghost of an infant who died young, craving sweet porridge and human blood, able to take the form of anyone she had fed on.
So the "Hazel Bennett" I'd seen before was that spirit in disguise.
Suddenly I had questions. If protagonists like the spirit and Nathan had been transported into this world, and Hazel had died in her original space — written dead by me, thus unable to cross over — where was the male lead of that book?
What if he had also come here?
Both books were written in first person, and my appearance matched the "me" in the story exactly. If Ethan's male lead were here, he would look like Ethan himself… and that thought sent a chill through me. Everything snapped into place.
The site that never fully came back, the social accounts that cut off before a single update — it all meant that this Ethan Cross right now was a fake.
He didn't know how to fix the website. He didn't know the account passwords.
So why try to kill me?
What threat could a B-list author like me pose to him?
Maybe he knew he was a created character and sought to replace the world’s Ethan Cross, to gain the power to shape spaces.
Or maybe, twisted, he wanted to be an executioner — to kill authors like me who toyed with his life for sport.
The more I thought, the more terrified I became. He embraced a completely different worldview. In his mind, human life was expendable: anyone in his way could be murdered without law or conscience. Because in his book he was the supreme king and all rules served to lift him higher.
"What are you thinking?" Nathan's hand slammed onto my shoulder without warning.
I yelped, clutching the blanket and recoiling, looking at him with nearly fearful eyes.
Nathan's hand froze midair, puzzled and innocent. "Claire, what's wrong?"
If Nathan knew all this, what would he think?
"N-nothing. I'm fine."
I steadied myself and asked carefully, "Nathan, do you resent fate?"
He poured me a cup of warm water. When I reached, his hand covered mine and didn't let go. He thought for a moment. "Resent it? Resent it for putting me in danger over and over, and making the ones I love suffer and die?"
I shuddered.
He continued, "But it's also given me light in dark times, let me regain what was lost and see my wishes fulfilled. So when I think about it, I see heaven's favor and pity on me. I have no right to complain."
His palm was warm, his gaze sincere. Every word felt trustworthy.
On the morning I got my stitches out, Sophie burst into the ward pale as a ghost.
"I actually saw a ghost," she said.
"What?"
"Yesterday, before I left, I drove around Ethan Cross's place and saw 'SOS' written huge on the fogged second-floor window. I rolled down to get a better look and — I saw a woman — she was floating up to the second floor!"
I asked, "She didn't bite you, did she?"
Sophie, terrified, "Do ghosts even bite?"
I immediately backed away and kept my distance, warning, "What nickname did you used to have because you loved grilled cold noodles?"
Sophie: "Cold Noodle Killer."
Me: "Name three things I’m good at."
Sophie: "Sleeping well, big appetite, good digestion."
Me: "…"
Me: "Verified."
Sophie clutched her chest weakly. "So scary. Last night I scrolled through eight hundred handsome abs and it didn't help."
"Maybe you were just exhausted and saw things," I patted her back, but relieved. The real Ethan Cross was still alive. He was the platform admin—he had to have the key to fixing this.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I hesitated, then answered. He said, "Claire, our repairs ran into an issue. I need an author to check some things. Can you come by later?"
He really couldn't wait.
I glanced at Nathan, who was packing my things. He seemed to sense something and added, "If you don't want Nathan to know about those things, don't bring him."
I bit my finger and whispered, "Okay."
I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately. He was in a linen-colored sweater, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, holding a cup of coffee and playing at being an urbane executive. His eyes scanned me as if they were thinking, "The knife's sharp—now where should I stab?"
I followed him inside, feeling like I was marching into a haunted house.
He pretended to be friendly and poured hot water for me. I glanced around, hunting for small talk. "Where's your ghost?"
He paused mid-pour. When he looked up he still had that benign smile plastered on. "I don't think I've ever told you her name."
I didn't have the patience to spar with him—every second here felt like torture. My hand went into my bag and I offered him a false smile. "I know your name too, Gong—"
Gong Juren materialized in front of me in an instant, fingers curling to clamp my throat. "Then I don't need to waste words on you."
"Yanshu—" I screamed.
While he was distracted, I yanked the pepper spray from my bag and blasted it at him. He wore a mask of pain, but his grip didn't loosen an inch.
I wasn't backing down that easily.
I bent my knees and drove my foot up hard into his abdomen—right into his family jewels.
He shrieked and finally let go. I snatched the whistle from my neck and blew it as loud as I could.
Yanshu smashed through a window and landed like a coiled blade. He drew his sword in a single sharp motion.
"Wuhen!"
A sword flashed from the corner and intercepted between Yanshu and Gong Juren, metal clashing with a clear ring.
The summoned-weapon theatrics looked way cooler than Yanshu's bare-metal draw. It was like everyone else was using a smartphone voice-assistant while Yanshu was still tapping numbers on a flip phone—suddenly his swagger felt clipped.
"Is that all you have?" Gong Juren sneered. The sword in his hand filled with spiritual power, blazing gold.
"Yanshu, winter-frog rune!" I blurted. "His magic that does physical damage doesn't work here! Otherwise he'd have just had his ghost stab me outright—no need for theatrics!"
It played out like a movie slow-motion scene with extra effects: impressive-looking but actually harmless.
A few probing moves and Yanshu confirmed, "So it is."
Gong Juren, humiliated, lashed out with brutal speed. The tip of his blade nicked Yanshu's throat. My heart leapt; the two swords slammed together. Yanshu gritted his teeth and shouted, "Jingjing, run!"
I dashed up the stairs with my bag. The ghost lunged. I slapped the talisman Sophie had begged from the monastery onto her face; she howled like something dying.
I barreled through the door at the end of the hallway and into a room.
I had imagined Yan Jingnan's captivity would be bound-and-gagged, enduring torture without losing his will… but the reality was he was slumped on the couch, mouth open, ready to eat instant noodles. "Miss Ye… Miss Claire, want a bite?"
Great. Our rescue had the subtlety of a canceled opt-in.
I slammed my laptop down in front of him like a judge bringing down a verdict. "Clean up your mess. Take all your monsters back into the pages where they belong."
I looked like a vengeful spirit. The real, vulnerable Yan Jingnan—thin, helpless, but very, very human—took the laptop and stammered, "O-okay."
"How long do you need?" I asked.
His nearsighted eyes squinted—his glasses had been swiped by his cosplay-loving son—and he pecked at the keys. "Five minutes."
"Good. We'll buy you time. Hurry!"
I shut the door behind me. The ghost ripped the talisman off her own head and tossed it aside.
I held a paring knife trembling like Parkinson's. "If you come any closer—I'll—I'll stab you!"
The headless ghost lunged. We grappled; her hip pressed against the banister and she grabbed the wrist holding the knife. I bit my lip, trying to leverage it—her weak spot was the left chest. If I could strike her heart—
"Ah—!"
She lurched backwards and we both tumbled over the second-floor railing. In a flash I caught the banister, my body swinging in the air.
She grabbed at my calf, pulling me down. I was about to lose my grip when my ankle tightened—Yanshu's thrown sword pierced her chest. Her body seemed to ignite, belching thick smoke.
Gong Juren lunged forward like he'd woken from a dream, but the ghost had already turned to ash and blown away.
He stared at his empty hands and howled, "No—!"
It was the frantic cry of a trapped beast, and it chilled me.
Yanshu caught me as I fell. He was wounded—how badly, I couldn't tell—but he held me steady.
Gong Juren's eyes were bloodshot. In an instant he swept past me, grabbed Yanshu by the throat, slamming him against the wall. "You killed her! You killed her!"
Yanshu had blood at the corner of his mouth. He rasped, "You left me no choice."
"Idiot!" Gong Juren spat, pointing at me. "You really think this woman is the girl you long for? She was manufactured—to make money. All the hardships you think you suffered were curated to please readers. You're spinning around her like a fool! The person you should have killed is her creator!"
Yanshu's expression darkened as he looked at me. I wanted to deny it—words piled up and wouldn't come. I dropped my head in helplessness.
"They play god and claim the right to control fate," Gong Juren snarled. "Then I'll trample those gods under my feet."
He released Yanshu and put a boot on my back, pressure like it could crush my spine. The cool tip of a sword pressed into my skin.
"Yanshu, kill her. Replace her. I can build you hundreds, thousands of Clares."
I lay there like a guilty criminal waiting for sentence. Yanshu took the sword from Gong Juren and I squeezed my eyes shut, trembling.
"Heh. For a second I almost believed you," Yanshu said.
He twisted his wrist; the blade pressed to Gong Juren's throat.
Gong Juren's eyes dimmed. "So you really are her good dog."
"I could never understand why you insisted she had to die. Now I get it," Yanshu said, and his voice turned dangerous. The blade scraped the skin, crimson spilling down. "You said you'd trample him underfoot—but if you kill the Creator, wouldn't the things he made vanish, too? You wouldn't risk that. So instead you come after Ye Jing—you wanted to see if her death would affect me. In the end, we're just your experiments."
Gong Juren arched a brow. "Of course—only you understand me. We're cut from the same cloth."
"Don't lump me with a despicable man like you!" Yanshu shouted. He drove the sword deep into Gong Juren's neck. Blood spat across his pale face. Their eyes looked less human than before.
Gong Juren laughed, unhinged. "You think that can kill me? Don't forget—my setting is immortality—"
His legs suddenly glitched into a string of symbols. His defiant expression cracked. "How… how can this be… No! No! Yan Jingnan! I should have killed you ages ago!!!"
The stream of garbled code crawled up from his legs to his waist like a body-eating worm. It devoured him, shattered him, dissolved him entirely.
Even the blood on Yanshu's face faded, as if the man had never existed.
Only Gong Juren's last words lingered like a nightmare between us: "Yanshu, take a good look—what kind of rights do they think they have…"
The melodrama finally ended.
On the walk home I timidly held one of Yanshu's pinky fingers, but I couldn't meet his eyes.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
My throat tightened. I felt raw. "I'm sorry. When I wrote, I had no idea it would turn out like this. If I'd known it was you… I'd have showered you with the best things in the world. I'd have given you sweetness and love—so much you could never suffer."
Yanshu studied me for a long time and sighed, then pulled me into his arms. "Even so… I still don't know what to do with you."
I tilted my head up from inside his coat. "So you're forgiving me?"
He feigned indifference. "No."
I pleaded, "Then what would it take?"
He rested his chin against my forehead and hugged me tighter. "You said you'd give me lots of sweetness and lots of love."
I jumped and nipped his jaw, afraid he'd change his mind. "That's a promise."
He slipped my hand into his coat pocket. The dim streetlights stretched our silhouettes long. We leaned into each other, whispering and nuzzling.
Christmas came fast. Yanshu left the barber with a neat, ear-length cut that made him look crisp and alive.
I bought a stick of cotton candy to cheer him up. He stood at the storefront window, nervously checking his reflection. "Do I look okay?"
I looped my arm through his. "Handsome! My Yanyan is the most handsome in the world."
He relaxed and took a lick of the cotton candy.
"Sweet?" I asked.
He bent down and kissed me—sweetness flooded my tongue. He smirked at the fluster on my face. "Sweet enough to kill me."
I hooked a finger at him conspiratorially. "I'll tell you a secret."
He leaned in. I bit his ear playfully. "My auntie left—my period's over."
He put on a solemn face. "Please accept my condolences."
"Huh?"
Then he scooped me up horizontally. His voice dropped low, a little hoarse. "Just kidding. I know what you meant."
My cheeks flared. "You—slow down! Don't drop me!"
He jostled me up with a wicked grin. "Don't worry. I'm strong—wait and see."
We were like two stubborn winter plants, tangling together, devouring each other's warmth and nutrients. We scraped and kissed until we nearly tasted blood in each other's mouths.
My hand hung around his neck; I could feel the fine, dense hair at the nape like early-spring grass. The itch in my palm echoed the itch deep inside my body, and only the burn of his heat could soothe it.
I rested my head on his arm and asked, "What do you want to do tomorrow?"
Nathan's voice was lazy. "I want you to go with me to get the buy-one-get-one ice cream downstairs."
I turned and hugged him tight. "Okay."
If you're reading this for sweet romance, you can stop here!
There are knives ahead—run!!!!!
After the extra chapter resolving the Gong Juren mess, Marcus Weller asked to meet me alone.
"I didn't expect that a ghost would betray me with Gong Juren," he said.
He sat in the café and ordered the most expensive drink for me. "Claire, I really owe you a huge favor this time."
I laughed. "Is this where you're going to wire me a fortune?
Come on!
I'm ready!"
"…"
Marcus pushed his glasses up. "We'll talk about payment later. I want to talk to you about Nathan first."
I shifted back in my seat, wary. "You're not planning to take Nathan away, are you?"
Marcus: "I'm not asking your permission. Nathan can't stay in this world."
I sat up, excited and panicked. "Why!"
Marcus looked troubled. "This has attracted attention from above. Once they discover Nathan's existence in this world, they'll delete every piece of data related to him—just like they did with Gong Juren.
Can you bear that outcome?"
I went numb. "…But I really do like him."
Marcus: "Nothing that's destined to be yours will be handed to you on a silver platter, Claire. The world doesn't work that way."
Of course—love that comes easy can be lost just as easily.
I lifted the coffee to my lips and took a sip. Why, even with double sugar, was it still so bitter?
…Again, I rested my head on his arm and asked, "What do you want to do tomorrow?"
Nathan's voice was lazy. "I want you to go with me to get the buy-one-get-one ice cream downstairs."
I turned and hugged him tight. "Okay."
I typed the three words on my keyboard: "Extra chapter complete."
Those three words. Two strawberry ice creams sat quietly melting by my side.
This time, I'll give you the best ending. You'll have so much sweetness and so much love.
Safe, healthy, and wishing all your dreams come true.
