Chapter 56

"That would make you the one with the problem." Song Qingre really knew how to play her cards. Yan Qingqiu knew she couldn't slow down the marriage track anymore, so she retreated to her own seat.

She didn't dare look at Song Qingre and phoned her assistant to bring in some tea.

Yan Qingqiu asked herself honestly—the way she looked at Song Qingre was off. Had her mindset shifted? Sure, maybe it wasn't a huge change in her thinking, but she was utterly entranced by desire.

Song Qingre smelled wonderful. Being with her felt like walking through a rain-soaked, intoxicating night—irresistibly drawn to her, wanting to get drenched alongside her.

Yan Qingqiu held a cup in one hand while the assistant's tea scalded the other. She grabbed another cup and started pouring back and forth, cooling the liquid.

White steam curled upward as the temperature slowly dropped.

"Hiss." She lowered her head and dabbed at a trickle of water near her thumb with a tissue, her mind wandering off in a daze.

Was this the aftermath of a crush? Back in her original world, Yan Qingqiu had never loved anyone, never felt a spark... No, wait—she remembered one moment of flutter. It was when she was selling those viral balloon toys on a street corner. Freshly laid off, she barely had money to spare; every day, interviews meant waiting an hour or two for her turn. She never bothered to schmooze early like the others to get noticed.

She knew jobs weren't won by face time—they were won by credentials. In the real world, nobody looked kindly on anybody.

She ran around every day, paying for the commute until it wasn't worth it, so she started selling balloons and plush dolls nearby.

Once, on a pedestrian bridge, she caught a glimpse of someone's profile. She didn't know what came over her—head rushing, she grabbed a doll and chased right after them.

A voice inside kept saying: Go see, be brave once.

It was a huge disappointment. The profile was gorgeous, but when they turned around, she felt a sudden letdown.

She thought back on it and laughed at herself. At least her sales that day were pretty good, which patched the hole in her heart. She never did something that stupid again.

Her mind felt like it had a leak, and all sorts of wild ideas flooded in. Was this world even real? Could it be some kind of game world, too? How did the System have this much power? Why did it just snatch her up out of nowhere?

She was a proper, respectable person. A person who respected science, mind you.

Weird.

She thought for a while but couldn't figure it out.

This time, she was a little smarter. She decided to write it down; the System would secretly delete memories.

Yan Qingqiu had a strong sense of self. She figured she was a smart cookie and that the System had messed with her head, which was why she couldn't reason through a lot of things.

That thought cheered her up. She hummed happily, finished writing, and flopped onto the desk to play with her phone.

Song Qingre finished with the package and turned to see her sprawled on the desk, grinning like a silly fool. The winter light was pale and cold, yet it made her hair look golden.

A little sun in winter, asleep in the crook of her own arm. She seemed to have thought of something amusing—a small dimple appeared on her cheek. Then she turned over to the other side.

Song Qingre watched as she fiddled with this, poked at that, until the girl noticed the stare. Song Qingre met her eyes.

"What are you staring at me for?"

"Because you're beautiful."

Yan Qingqiu lit up for a moment. Then she sat up and asked, "You only like the surface?"

Song Qingre said, "Soul and surface, both. Entranced by your beauty, devoted to your soul."

"Hmph."

Yan Qingqiu thought smugly: You have no idea how fun my soul is.

"Song Qingre, I have a question." Yan Qingqiu curled a finger, beckoning her over. When Song Qingre came closer, she pointed to the spot beside her. The woman stood tall next to her, and Yan Qingqiu said, "So, back when I was blind, glued to Fu Ye like I was possessed—did you like me back then?"

Even asking was a little embarrassing.

She'd never been in love, had no experience. If they got together, this would be their first love.

How thrilling.

She waited for Song Qingre's answer, curious what she'd say. Song Qingre stood there and replied, "No. At first I just didn't understand why you liked him, and I kept hoping you'd change your mind. Later, when I knew you truly loved him, it started to... turn. So I decided to go abroad."

Yan Qingqiu looked up at her, not entirely understanding. Song Qingre, not in the least annoyed, added, "That's the part of me that hated you, subtracted from the love."

Her fingers brushed Yan Qingqiu's cheek. An artist, which meant she could sketch the girl's face with precision. "I still like this face," she said.

Yan Qingqiu was stunned. The words felt like a hint, or perhaps a warning.

The people around her had all accepted her changes, and each had found reasons to convince themselves the 'new her' was still her.

With what they knew now, no one would think about soul transmigration. If you brought it up, people would just think you were crazy.

Yan Qingqiu wanted to ask but didn't dare. She was too scared—of the System, of accidentally exposing herself, and then losing everything...

She licked her lips. Song Qingre looked at her, crouched down slightly, and said seriously, "I really like the you that's here now."

Song Qingre's confession was so warm and blazing that Yan Qingqiu nearly couldn't take it.

Yan Qingqiu stumbled over her words. "You, uh, got it. Don't have to keep saying it."

"I'm afraid you don't know." Song Qingre smiled.

Song Qingre was about to leave when Yan Qingqiu grabbed the hem of her coat. Still not looking at her, eyes fixed out the window, fingers clutching her sleeve, Yan Qingqiu asked, "How long have you been thinking about marrying me?"

"You want the truth?" Song Qingre asked.

Yan Qingqiu kept staring away and nodded.

Song Qingre sat down in the chair beside her, her tone deeper and distant. "Then... a very, very long time."

She looked outside. Their office floor was high, too high for trees; there was only a view of the building across and a vast blue sky.

"As a kid, you were such a mess. You started calling me your wife in kindergarten. No matter how many times we corrected you, you'd keep doing it. The most vivid memory is when I studied upstairs while you were in the lower class below. You'd grip the railing, press your face against it, and stare at me with such a mournful look—I thought, for the first time, that studying felt like being in prison." Song Qingre chuckled, propping her cheek on her hand. "I loved bringing you to our classroom. You loved coming to find me too. At first there was no empty seat for you, so you'd use my books as a mat and sit on the floor drawing. When you got up, you'd pat the dust off, wipe them clean with a tissue, then hand them back.

"Carefully, diligently, you'd tidy my other textbooks too," Song Qingre said with a smile. "You'd say, 'Song Xiaore, school is so hard. I don't want to study. I think painting is great. I want to be an artist.'"

There was no romance then—neither knew anything. It was just like playing house. I want to marry you; you'll be my bride.

Song Qingre didn't understand either. Whatever Little Qiu looked like, she was adorable to her. Little Qiu would neatly stack her books, pick up her own sketchpad, tuck it under her arm, and say, "Xiaore, I'll come again tomorrow."

"Mm." Song Qingre would walk her out, trudging behind and watching her go. Curiosity got the better of her: "Why don't you call me wife when you're in my class?"

Little Qiu wasn't tall. She'd even crawl down the stairs, her little arms and legs working hard, her little dress getting filthy. She said, "I was thinking... you having a wife in the lower class is a little embarrassing. I shouldn't say it. Wait until I grow up."

Song Qingre nodded hard, impressed by the logic. "Then I'll think hard too. I'll grow up with you."

She saw Little Qiu back to her classroom, dusted off her clothes, then returned upstairs and stood on the balcony. Little Qiu dashed out again and waved up at her.

They were so young, unsure what 'wife' meant. The adults, the teachers—they'd teach them, tell them what 'sister' was, what 'neighbor' was. They kept correcting them until they grew up, and then everyone decided to let them be. They, out of all people, were destined for each other.

Yan Qingqiu slid the teacup toward her. The dark green tea leaves had sunk to the bottom. She tapped the cup, and the leaves drifted up and down, tiny white jasmine petals floating upward. "It's still warm."

The tea had a sweet aftertaste; the jasmine was fragrant.

Yan Qingqiu said, "What's one plus one?"

Song Qingre paused, looking at her. Yan Qingqiu scratched her head, explaining, "A picture flashed through my mind earlier, but I can never remember it after. I just think it's weird."

Song Qingre drank her tea, her lips slightly damp. She spoke softly. "You, me—two people. That's 2. Don't get it wrong."

So when did it start?

It began with Xiao Qiu's 'wife' from all those years ago. There was no love then, just childish mimicry, parroting pretty words from TV.

She thought about growing up; she'd had no clue about romance but was already waiting for adulthood—waiting and waiting—until she understood what love was. And then she knew.

She loved Xiao Qiu.

··

Yan Qingqiu took Song Qingre everywhere. For the afternoon runway rehearsal, she deliberately walked ahead of Song Qingre and still felt it wasn't impressive or prestigious enough. She shoved her hands in her pockets, schooling her face into a blank expression.

She brought Song Qingre out to flex and show off. Look at these models. What are you acting so high and mighty for? Do you think I actually care about any of you?

She had her assistant switch her chair to the spot under the stage lights. Sitting there, the two of them—one in white, one in black—couldn't have looked more like a matching pair.

She's an artist, and I'm the capital. If you weren't on Su Xingjie's payroll, I'd have my father use his connections to revoke your endorsements one by one. Let's see how long you can keep up those smiles.

Yan Qingqiu now fully agreed with Su Xingjie: "Even if you hate someone, you've got to lick their boots like a good dog."

With Song Qingre present, nobody dared to speak. They looked down at their phones, clustering together to avoid the awkwardness. They were all pushovers, and after watching Fu Sang take a beating last time—her forehead still bruised—they were terrified.

Song Qingre studied the model stage with curiosity, seated on the left as the other models sat across. She kept proper posture, not a hint of arrogance.

She turned to the opposite side and said, "Those are the ones who cold-shouldered you, who bullied you, huh?"

The models looked embarrassed, humiliated, and within moments they scattered.

Yan Qingqiu was far more brash. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." She narrowed her eyes, almost pointing at Song Qingre and telling them, "See that? See that? That's my wife. We're about to get our certificate. Y'all mess with me again, and she'll wreck you all."

She let out a couple of smug hums and leaned closer to Song Qingre, one step away from wrapping her arms around the woman's neck and planting a kiss.

Song Qingre said, "And they still dare to bully you? None of them look like they could do anything."

"If they were normal, they wouldn't be bullying me," Yan Qingqiu said.

Yan Qingqiu complained for a while. Then Qiang Wei walked in with her assistant. Yan Qingqiu called her over; Qiang Wei spotted her, tilted her neck, and when her gaze landed on Song Qingre, she smiled and walked over. "Miss Song is here too."

"She came with me." Yan Qingqiu stressed the word 'me' hard. Friend or foe, she'd show her off anyway.

Qiang Wei sat down and rubbed on some medicinal oil, handing a bottle to Yan Qingqiu, who took it and applied it the same way.

They sat for a while. Then Fu Sang arrived. The moment she spotted the person next to Yan Qingqiu, her brow throbbed before her steps did. Frowning, she turned around and left.

Qiang Wei caught the whole scene. She bent over, snapped open her high heel's clasp, and pressed her palm to her ankle, massaging in the oil.

The makeup artist came in carrying a case. She smoothed Yan Qingqiu's hair, then moved to shape her eyebrows. Song Qingre reached out, taking the pencil. "Let me do it."

Yan Qingqiu nodded. "Give her a shot. She's an artist—she's really good." She craned her neck forward, trusting the face to Song Qingre.

Song Qingre outlined Yan Qingqiu's brows delicately. Her brows were light, her skin fair, so no heavy strokes were needed. Artists had their own aesthetic; painters understood facial features—brows, lips—on a precise level. When she finished, she dusted her cheeks with powder, then dotted something onto her skin with the pencil. Yan Qingqiu was confused. "What's that for?"

"The princess-style dress you're wearing? A couple of freckles will make it look hot."

"Oh." Yan Qingqiu stared at her. Song Qingre was so close. Her hands were fair with a hint of pink as she meticulously dotted away. Yan Qingqiu couldn't help tilting her head up, golden light spilling overhead. She shut her eyes for a moment. People passing by looked up, unable to resist a glance at such a mesmerizing scene.

When the makeup was done, Yan Qingqiu went to try on new outfits while Song Qingre sat below with her tablet, sketching. Occasionally she offered suggestions—she'd discussed with Su Xingjie before about becoming an art consultant at ER. Her proposals were solid, and the designers marked them down for the next revision.

Yan Qingqiu was on her feet for two hours, and she was beat. The assistant bent to massage her legs, but Yan Qingqiu swung one long leg onto Song Qingre's lap, giving a gentle rub. Song Qingre reached for it, and she yanked it back.

The assistant was stunned. Last time, weren't they still being reserved? Why so bold today?

Of course, she didn't dare to ask. She just kept massaging. But she couldn't help noticing how restless Yan Qingqiu's eyes were, darting to Song Qingre, winking at her teasingly. The girl's body wasn't even hot, so why was she so damn flirty?

After the eighth outfit, Yan Qingqiu's work was done. She went to change into her own clothes, and Song Qingre said she'd head to the restroom.

Song Qingre handed her tablet to the assistant to hold.

Someone beat her there—those four models from before. Today they'd deliberately avoided Yan Qingqiu, but now that she was away, they couldn't help but mutter.

The sound of water ran alongside their mocking words: "Song Qingre's just a painter... If her parents were still alive, sure, she'd have some standing in our circle. Now she's got nothing. Why all this drama, who's it for?"

Another model turned toward the entrance, shaking water off her fingers. "I've dealt with Yan Qingqiu before—from the whole eighteen models thing. I used to think she was pretty decent, but now she's stirring up too much trouble at the company... Hey, why do I feel like someone's watching us?"

"This is a bathroom, who would spy on you? Don't scare yourself..."

They kept whispering about Yan Qingqiu and Song Qingre, the gossip they'd never dare air to their faces.

Out of nowhere, the mirror shattered. The entire room seemed to warp, as if they'd been crammed into some alien dimension. Their bodies twisted, squeezed, torn, pain crashing them to their knees. They clawed at the counter, but the white porcelain melted at their touch. Their hands clawed at nothing, and their bodies felt like they were wrenched into a pretzel.

Pain—pain down to their bones.

They wanted to die.

What the hell was this? Why did it hurt so bad?

The door swung open, the wood groaning, a long, shrill creak that stabbed their eardrums like a knife. In that piercing sound, there was a clear set of footsteps. Step after step, they approached, until they stopped in the middle of the restroom. The women's skin crawled. They backed away, but looking up, the figure seemed to flicker, a faint purple-red aura blurring her outline, layered shimmering afterimages. Their eyes stung; they couldn't focus, and if they didn't shut them soon, they'd go blind.

They collapsed, some bowing over, some falling flat.

The newcomer wore a long black coat. Her black hair was pulled back with a hairpin, a few loose strands sweeping across her eyes.

She looked down at the bodies strewn on the floor.

Her gaze was contemptuous, the disgust a polished shield. The people at her feet weren't living, breathing things. They were rotting, stinking corpses that might dirty her shoes.

After a moment, she crouched down to speak more easily and murmured, "If you ever do that again, I'll break your bones. You'll never stand again."

It was Song Qingre's voice.

An artist, yet so violent. She was using mental power to retaliate.

But she was an alpha—why did her psychic power affect omegas too?

Before they could ponder it, Song Qingre kicked them aside, went over, and turned on the taps. Water splashed against the white porcelain basin. She washed her hands. The shattered mirror split her reflection into pieces.

She kept her head down, turned off the taps a few seconds later, wiped her fingers with a paper towel, and stepped on someone on the way out.

She paid them no mind. A sharp scream ripped through the room.

Outside, she pressed down on the trash can's latch and dropped the tissue in.

Yan Qingqiu had already changed and came out, asking, "What took you so long?"

Song Qingre said, "Some people got into a fight in there, so I waited to go in."

Yan Qingqiu looked behind her and saw one of the models crawling out in a mess. She tensed up immediately. "You okay? What happened?"

"Mm, they were fighting over some man. Tsk, what a world."

Song Qingre smiled and looked back as well.

The models hadn't recovered. Their vision swam and warped as Song Qingre stood against the spiraling hallway, smiling at them. Behind her stretched a dreamlike, hazy tableau, and it seemed as if they saw her face twist—smiling grotesquely, hideously—like a maddened demon of the dark come to warp their flesh and souls.

They thought they didn't deserve this. They'd just said some nasty things about Yan Qingqiu, that was all. At worst, given her the cold shoulder...

Their heads were splitting.

How was Song Qingre's mental strength so terrifying?

"Let's go." Yan Qingqiu didn't want to stare. "Well, seeing them like this, honestly, I should keep my distance in the future. The floor's a mess; I don't want them coming near."

"Right."

Song Qingre said softly.

At the corner, Yan Qingqiu grabbed her and pulled her closer, not letting Song Qingre stray too far. They were so clingy it was like newlyweds in the honeymoon phase.

But that was just the way it had to be. The second Song Qingre left, the System had a habit of popping out to cause trouble. It had just rambled off nonsense a moment ago, and she could barely take it.

Yan Qingqiu said, "Right, I told Xing Xing we'd have dinner together today. I'll bring my assistant—and Qiang Wei."

"Didn't you suspect Qiang Wei last time?"

"Mm." Yan Qingqiu thought about it, then said, "I don't anymore."

"Oh?" Song Qingre was curious.

"The fashion show's at the end of the month, and Xing Xing already got the right to host it. Qiang Wei's prep is just about done—she can go on stage. Fu Sang and Qiang Wei are ER's pillars. Fu Sang's already been disqualified. If the rest keep squabbling, we'll have no capable models left. That's no good for ER. Whatever scores we need to settle, it can wait until after the show."

Song Qingre nodded. "Qiuqiu has a great sense of the big picture."

"I noticed you keep looking at me like I'm a kid. I'm 24, you know." Yan Qingqiu headed toward the office, thinking glumly: Song Qingre, you may have social experience and street smarts, but you've got nothing on me. I toiled away at the bottom rungs of society for years.

"You don't need to understand everything all the time. Just be happy." Song Qingre followed behind her, in that warm, artistically distinct voice. "Know the things that fit your age. Don't be anxious or sad before your time. If today is bound to be miserable, don't worry about tomorrow—today's already sad enough."

Yan Qingqiu glanced back. "That's fair."

They reached the office. She opened the door and waited for Song Qingre to step in. Then she rose on her tiptoes, reached up, and patted Song Qingre's head. "Song Xiaore, you don't need to be an artist every single moment. You've gotta have normal joy sometimes. Otherwise, you'll forget what happiness is and lose it entirely. Got it?"

She tilted her head and nodded firmly at her own advice. "This is the Yan Qingqiu Joy Rule. Learn it."

Song Qingre didn't hold back: "Qiuqiu, you understand everything. Amazing. I'll write this down as soon as I get a chance."

Song Qingre went inside and sat at her desk. She brought up her tablet, opened the drawing app, and wrote the words down, word for word, even adding a dash. She labeled it: "Yan Qingqiu."

Yan Qingqiu said, "Write one more for me."

Song Qingre handed her the stylus. Yan Qingqiu used it for the first time. Fortunately, her handwriting was neat enough, and it didn't look half bad. She wrote: "Song Qingre, always be happy. Happy every day!"

That was the real deal!

Yan Qingqiu handed the stylus back and let her gaze drift down to Song Qingre's legs. They looked long, slender, elegant. Wearing dress pants was a great look on her—sharp, figure-hugging. And today, the black wide-leg pants with the long coat was even better.

Yan Qingqiu peeked covertly. Song Qingre caught it from the corner of her eye. "What is it? Something on my leg?"

Yan Qingqiu shook her head and pulled her gaze away. She shuffled over to the desk and perched on its edge. A moment later, she looked again, torn between playing it cool and being shameless.

"If there's something you want, just say it directly."

Yan Qingqiu said, "Let's just say... I've had this dream since childhood."

Song Qingre tilted her head. "What dream have you had that I don't know about?"

"I'm curious. You know. What it's like for a girl to sit on another girl's lap."

"So you want to sit on mine?"

This woman. Why so blunt? It was embarrassing.

She composed herself. "I don't just wanna sit on some woman's lap. I wanna feel it out. Don't make me sound like some pervert."

Song Qingre stretched her legs out and turned back to her computer, as if to say, sit if you dare. Yan Qingqiu had zero resistance, especially to pretty women. If there was a chance, you took it, and she sure despised women who were indifferent to a little indecency. Look at her—she pounced on the chance. A real upstanding citizen.

And so she went for it. She walked over and sat on Song Qingre's lap. It felt different from the norm—she could feel a soft, fragrant warmth. Song Qingre's legs were on the thinner side. First she sat sideways; then she switched, straddling her, and met her gaze. Her cheeks grew warm. Song Qingre just smiled gently, not making a show of looking at them.

The moment Yan Qingqiu turned away, her lips pressed to Song Qingre's cheek.

"Like it?"

Song Qingre swallowed. The gaze that had been on the computer slowly came back, landing on Yan Qingqiu's lips. The latter hadn't even bothered to put on her down jacket properly—zipper open, collar hanging off her shoulders. Her golden hair emphasized the pale skin and ruby lips. She deliberately lifted her shoulder and said, "Can't hold it together, huh? A stunner like me on your lap, the heart racing, aren't you—" She leaned down to murmur in Song Qingre's ear. "Getting a little wet, throat dry, head spinning?"

When she pulled back, Song Qingre was breathing heavier, teeth sinking into her lip.

Yan Qingqiu pressed a finger to that lower lip, gently prying the bite away, rubbing the mouth with soft strokes. "You're breaking my heart, biting so hard. Call me sister, and I'll kiss that lip of yours."

Song Qingre didn't speak. Yan Qingqiu couldn't know what she was thinking, but she deliberately stuck out her tongue, giving a teasing lick. Seductive. Obscene.

She lavished the lower lip that Song Qingre had bitten. Song Qingre's thin lips parted and closed; she was affected. She said, "Sister Qiuqiu."

Yan Qingqiu's nose twitched at a rich, sweet milky scent. The fragrance was cloying, and she glanced at her own chest. "Maybe just call me Mama Qiuqiu instead."

Song Qingre understood. Her hand wrapped around Yan Qingqiu's slim waist, but Yan Qingqiu said it anyway. "I'll let you have some later."

Yan Qingqiu was a bold one. Once she dropped all pretense, she was utterly unruly. She noticed Song Qingre's expression shift, brows knitting. She trailed a finger from Song Qingre's brow down to her nose. "Don't you dare do anything to me in the office. Be a good girl, and you'll get yours when we're home."

Song Qingre's breathing grew heavier. "You're trying to kill me."

Yan Qingqiu arched a brow. "That's my dream, yeah. Sitting on a pretty girl and doing all this. If we didn't have work, I'd go further. Like, maybe mess with your boots. I hate when women wear little leather boots."

"Oh." Song Qingre's hold on her waist tightened. "Qiuqiu, you said the same thing when I wore my pointy-toe heels last time."

Yan Qingqiu could tell she was calling her a slut.

She pressed her forehead to Song Qingre's and pulled out her phone to check messages. Then she shifted again, sitting sideways on the woman's lap, leaning into her chest and inhaling her scent. She looked up weird stuff: 1A1O. How do two women get pregnant? How do two women have babies...

Half of it was on purpose, half out of real curiosity.

While leaning against Song Qingre's chest, she noticed the mask drawing on the tablet screen. "That's awfully lewd," she said.

"You noticed?"

"Two butterflies mating."

Song Qingre wrapped an arm around her, adjusting the image on the tablet. "What can I say? Alphas get their best inspiration when they're in the mood to mate. Which one do you think is the omega butterfly?"

Butterflies join tail to tail during mating. On her tablet, the mask showed two butterflies like that. One was yellow with red wing patterns, the other black with a blazing gold-orange at the wingtips. The lines were stark, the colors lurid. They looked like venomous moths.

Song Qingre's art was twisted. After she found fame, her work had never been warm. Because she was so hot, she'd dragged the current art scene's style toward the macabre.

But in her early career, before commercialization, Song Qingre's art was more tender. She'd never revisited it, though critics claimed that if those pieces ever hit auction, they'd command a fortune.

At the end of the workday, Song Qingre patted her waist to have her rise and went to fetch Su Xingjie for dinner.

Su Xingjie was swamped, having stayed in the office all day. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses sat on her nose, and she squinted with exhaustion.

Song Qingre knocked and entered. Fu Sang's agent was still trying to negotiate, hands gesturing wildly. Song Qingre said, "Coming out to eat?"

"Qiuqiu's waiting for you."

Su Xingjie grabbed her coat and slipped it on. Song Qingre shook her head, tone feather-light. "This business of yours is too complicated. If it were me, I'd send off the painter and assistants, all together, to save you from in-house stabs in the back."

The agent's heart went cold. Song Qingre gave her a sweet smile. "The models are all under your contract, aren't they?"

"They are." Su Xingjie finished dressing, understanding. "You've got a point."

The agent still hadn't found the sense to stop enabling Fu Sang. Su Xingjie wasn't going to pull her; the agent couldn't take her either. If she couldn't read the room, she'd just be going down with the ship. An agent at a fashion house was as good as decoration.

If Fu Sang could rise after leaving ER, fine. If not, the agent would only drag herself down.

Song Qingre had come today to carry Yan Qingqiu's bag. Yet she'd been clearing obstacles both openly and subtly: verbal hints out loud, and openly making an example of someone. She'd seen the restroom scene, after all, and she gave Song Qingre a knowing smile.

When Su Xingjie was ready, they went to find Yan Qingqiu. The girl was already out, bag slung across her shoulder, her fingers tracing the pattern on it. "Let's go."

As they came downstairs, they passed the runway. Those models stumbled out, pressed the elevator button, and gasped when they came face-to-face with Song Qingre. They froze, unable to step in. As the door began to close, Song Qingre reached out, pressed the button, and held it open.

Facing them, she looked aside.

"Let's take them along," she said.

Everyone turned to look at her. The models instinctively backed away, expressions saying, "No, please, no."

Song Qingre said, "Don't be shy. You still have to come to work, anyway. Better to clear the air, don't you think?"

The models, who had been plotting revenge in their heads, went silent. Not because they forgave her, but because she terrified them. How could she target them so mercilessly one minute, then smile at them the next?

They were still shaken.

Song Qingre smiled at them. "We're all going to work together nicely, and Qiuqiu is close with your boss, Director Su. You understand, right?"

Understand what? That she'd attacked them with mental powers in the bathroom and left them in such a state?

But none of them had actually seen Song Qingre do it. There were no cameras in the restroom, so they couldn't prove her violence.

Yan Qingqiu was unhappy.

She didn't like this part of Song Qingre. Why did she have to invite them? She didn't care whether she knew them or not. Song Qingre was too soft. Yan Qingqiu never worried what other people thought of her.

Three cars were arranged for the restaurant, mostly because so many models had come. Some sat together in one car. The rest went in another.

Yan Qingqiu pulled Su Xingjie into her own car. Su Xingjie was reviewing drafts on her tablet, focused on the dresses she had designed for Yan Qingqiu. The girl admired how creative designers were. Their minds were so innovative.

At the restaurant, Su Xingjie was still briefing her designer about this year's trends—color schemes, how winter wear shouldn't focus on sexiness, just on silhouette and design. Yan Qingqiu filled her plate a few times while she ate and talked.

Song Qingre spun the lazy Susan for Yan Qingqiu. "We came out for a meal, and it's like sitting in a meeting."

Su Xingjie paused, then nodded. "Right, right." She took off her glasses and blinked a few times. "Eat, eat."

The table wasn't quiet. They chatted about this and that, and occasionally a model would talk with Yan Qingqiu.

At first, unfamiliarity bred prejudice. But as they interacted, it became clear the other person wasn't all bad. The cold-shouldering models, though, were stuck. Their hearts were racing, anxious. If Yan Qingqiu got along fine with everyone else, wouldn't their past behavior just look worse? Wouldn't they be the villains? The odd ones out?

They sat as if on pins and needles, not daring to meet Yan Qingqiu's or Song Qingre's eyes.

They couldn't guess Song Qingre's motives. They'd come expecting to be threatened, but instead, Song Qingre repaid wickedness with wickedness—by making them stew in their own misery.

This artist... she was crazy. And everyone at the table still thought she was gentle and elegant.

So suffocating. So oppressive.

The whole meal was stifling. Song Qingre savored her food slowly, occasionally throwing them a smile.

When she finished, she didn't leave. She sat there making conversation.

For a long, long time. An eternity. Then Yan Qingqiu finally led everyone out, and the few models flopped back in their chairs, drained.

Song Qingre didn't use her mental powers again, but they couldn't take any more.

Yan Qingqiu took them outside, breaking into a jog. The cold wind blew sharp; her cheeks flushed pink. She turned her head, asking, "You know what I'm doing?"

Song Qingre thought a moment. "Jogging?"

"I'm running away with the moon and the stars."

Yan Qingqiu thought: I'm so horny, I must be human. But I've got the best stars and moon in my grasp. So what am I? A blazing sun?

Sometimes, too, she got melancholy. If everyone just never knew she'd crossed worlds, that might be fine.

If she ever went back, she could tell herself over and over: Yan Qingqiu, they never knew you existed. You didn't leave a trace. You can forget them too, and let go sooner.

Because they were so good, so wonderful, that sometimes her mind went to darker places.

When she got tired, Yan Qingqiu rubbed her stomach.

They walked along the road. The restaurant was far from home. After forty minutes, they rested on a bench by the curb, looking up at a vast night sky.

A bright crescent moon hung high. Tiny dots of starlight scattered across the heavens, each flickering on its own. The sky was lively; the human world, quiet. Yan Qingqiu held one hand on each side and felt like the luckiest person alive. Best friend... and someone who made her heart race, both in her grip.

Song Qingre crossed her legs and asked, "Do you know where the moon gets its light?"

"Huh?" Yan Qingqiu had long returned her scientific knowledge to the teachers. She pulled out her phone and searched, fingers cold, then pressed the screen to her warm cheek. The answer popped up at once. "The sun!"

The precise answer read: "The moon itself has no light. It shines by reflecting the sun's rays."

She searched stars next. Some were stars in the sense of emitting their own light; others reflected other stars' glow.

Su Xingjie leaned in to look with her. "Ahh." She sounded a bit disappointed, like she might not be special after all. She muttered, "Then which kind am I?"

Yan Qingqiu said, "You're a star. The way I see it, you're the sum of all stars. You shine on your own, and you only borrow light every now and then. You've always been outstanding—really." The praise came out with such sincerity that Su Xingjie's eyes glimmered. The girl continued, "See? I say one nice thing and your eyes get all gorgeous. That just proves how beautiful you are."

She grabbed her phone and snapped a photo for Su Xingjie to see. Su Xingjie swept her hair back, studied it, and nodded. "I really am a natural beauty."

Yan Qingqiu went on. "I used to work a part-time gig at the science museum. The first time I saw the starry sky projection, I thought it was gorgeous and brilliant. Those shining nebulas and luminous constellations made me want to take a galaxy-wide romantic trip."

Su Xingjie could only nod, completely swept off her feet. She sat up to look at the stars again, then remembered the words, and lowered her head. "When did you work there? I never knew."

"Ah..." Slip of the tongue. "It was a long time ago. I was broke, went once."

Yan Qingqiu nudged Song Qingre with her elbow, signaling her to help out. Song Qingre came back to herself and withdrew her gaze from the moon. "Right. A long time ago. She was too embarrassed to tell you."

Since it was embarrassing, Su Xingjie let it go.

The three sat on the bench, sighs turning to white mist in the cold air. Yan Qingqiu rubbed her hands together and said softly, "It's getting cold. Xing Xing, you heading back?"

"Mm. It's late, and I need to get to the office early tomorrow." Lately, Su Xingjie's schedule had been more regular thanks to her. She'd had a drink tonight, so she called her assistant to pick her up. When the car arrived half an hour later, she stood and asked, "What about you two?"

"I've called the driver. You head on back." Yan Qingqiu smiled.

"Okay." Su Xingjie got in and waved out the window.

The car drove off, vanishing into the night.

Yan Qingqiu leaned back and nudged Song Qingre with her elbow. "What's up with you? Why so quiet? That's weird."

Song Qingre said nothing.

"Are you upset that I praised Xing Xing?"

"Or jealous?"

Yan Qingqiu chattered like a little speaker, tilting her head this way and that, a small curl of hair brushing the corner of her eye. Seeing Song Qingre still silent, she raised her hands and cupped the woman's face. Her hands had been in her pockets a long while, so they were much warmer than Song Qingre's wind-chilled skin. "I'm not angry," Song Qingre said.

Yan Qingqiu squeezed her cheeks into every shape imaginable. Then, Song Qingre said, "By nature, the moon cannot live without the sun."

At that moment, Yan Qingqiu suddenly remembered the moon's uneven surface, its pitted craters, and she turned into a Miss Yan who felt other people's ache. Her nose stung at Song Qingre's words. She pressed both hands to either side of Song Qingre's face, squishing her lips into a pout, then closed her eyes and leaned in. "Mwah."

She kissed her. Kissing her uneven surface, her wounded inner core.

Devoted, as if kissing a lonely moon.

Even though what she felt for her was still just a slow +1 +2 trickle of affection, she said, "In my heart... for now... you're special. Unique. No one can surpass you."