Chapter 15: You’re Not Taking the Money?  

The woman’s accent felt familiar—could it be “her”?  

Song Wuli recognized the accent, pronouncing “you” as “li.”  

He studied her, comparing height and build.  

Height was hard to judge.  

Song Wuli pretended to drop his wallet, bending to pick it up while sneaking a glance at her legs under the table.  

She wore long, high-heeled boots.  

Hard to estimate height.  

Probably within 15 cm of Huanhong’s height, but that margin made it tough to confirm.  

Her hair was long and black, not red.  

Her figure—waist hidden by layers of clothes.  

Chest seemed larger than Huanhong’s.  

Chance of being the same person… maybe 20%.  

He chuckled at himself—what were the odds of meeting a magical girl in the flesh in a crowd like this?  

He kept eating.  

The woman ordered a milk tea.  

Seeing Song Wuli eating, she asked curiously, “They sell food at a tea shop?”  

“No, it’s takeout from next door,” Song Wuli explained.  

“Duo jie.” 

The woman left for a few minutes and returned.  

Ten minutes later, someone delivered her takeout, placing it in front of her.  

The store manager quickly said, “Hey, miss, no outside food here.”  

She looked at Song Wuli.  

Song Wuli, innocently chewing, swallowed and looked at them both.  

Manager: “Just this once, okay?”  

So, she started eating too.  

Some regular customers chatted with the manager.  

Regular: “Can’t believe business is this good today. Usually so quiet.”  

Manager: “It’s that thing, what’s-her-name. I don’t get it, young people’s stuff.”  

Regular: “That magical girl, Yinlin, I think. Pretty, got a lot of fans.”  

Manager: “Right, Yinlin.”  

Regular: “Super popular. Young folks are wild.”  

“It wasn’t just her, you know,” the woman eating interjected.  

The manager and regular looked at her.  

She realized she’d spoken out of turn but continued, “There were two magical girls that day. Don’t give all the credit to one.”  

Manager: “Oh, right, who was the other one?”  

The regular thought: “Red hair, I think. Don’t know her name.”  

“She’s Huanhong!” the woman’s voice rose. “She’s been around for years, and you don’t even know her name?”  

Her loud voice drew the attention of everyone in the shop.  

She blushed slightly.  

She noticed the man eating across from her, holding chopsticks, staring suspiciously.  

“Why do you know so much about Huanhong?” Song Wuli asked.  

“Every young person knows Huanhong,” she replied.  

“And your look… are you Huanhong…?” Song Wuli ventured.  

She quickly denied, “No, no, you’ve got it wrong.”  

“…her fan?” Song Wuli finished. “You dress kinda like her, and you know so much. You’re her fan, right?”  

“Huh?” She paused, then nodded. “Yeah, I’m her fan.”  

“I knew it. Felt familiar the moment I saw you,” Song Wuli said, relieved he guessed right.  

She wiped sweat with a tissue, forcing a half-smile.  

The manager and regular kept talking about Yinlin—outside was a spectacle, a mix of wrecked streets and vibrant crowds, oddly poetic.  

The manager sighed about high rent and low foot traffic, tempted to move.  

The regular encouraged him, saying it’s a hot area; tweak the business model, and it could boom.  

Look at the neighbors, cashing in on the traffic.  

Regular: “Young folks love that thing, what’s it called, kous-something.”  

Manager: “Kous-what?”  

Regular: “Can’t remember.”  

Another customer chimed in: “Cosplay?”  

Regular, slapping his head: “Yes, that’s it. Young people love it. Do that, and you’ll rake in traffic.”  

Manager: “But… that’s not sustainable.”  

Regular: “You’re handed traffic and don’t grab it? You’re hopeless.”  

Manager: “I’ll think about it. How much does it cost?”  

Regular: “No idea, I heard it’s pricey.”  

Manager: “Is a thousand an hour enough?”  

…  

A thousand an hour?  

Song Wuli choked on his milk tea, coughing hard.  

The woman across from him, eating, perked up her ears.  

Both stopped chatting, fixated on the manager and regular.  

Regular: “They say good-looking or popular ones charge more. Grab this traffic while it’s hot.”  

Manager: “I’ll consider it.”  

Regular: “Stop considering. Hurry, or the traffic’s gone.”  

Song Wuli ate a bit more, then left as time was up.  

Back to work.  

Huang Yijun spotted him and came over: “Old Song, seriously, meet our Lord and Heavenly Father…”  

Song Wuli ignored him, diving into work.  

He was distracted that afternoon.  

He opened his calculator, tallying his salary.  

With 1.5x pay for weekday overtime and 2x for weekends.  

Minus rent, food, and daily expenses.  

He could save 2,000 yuan a month.  

Expenses weren’t cheap.  

Tch… a thousand an hour? It’s impossible not to be jealous.  

He worked until 9 p.m.  

Took a detour to No. 8 Milk Tea Shop—it was still open.  

The pilgrimage crowd lingered, long lines for selfies.  

More people arrived, livestreamers among them.  

Streaming here, singing, or dancing pulled massive traffic.  

They’d cracked the traffic code.  

At the shop’s entrance, Song Wuli saw a new sign.  

Hiring a cosplayer, hourly rate no less than 1,000.  

Holy crap, they’re serious.  

Song Wuli’s heart raced—the pay was too good to ignore, even for a guy.  

He dawdled toward the subway, mind racing.  

Screw it!  

Do this gig, and he’d live large this month.  

Just a bit of dignity to sacrifice—what’s a man if he can’t bend?  

He hit up a women’s store, dropping 200 yuan as an investment.