“I’m heading out,” Qian Dehao said, bidding farewell after eating.
“Alright,” Huang Yijun and Song Wuli waved him off.
Huang Yijun tightened his grip on Song Wuli’s shoulder, preventing escape, his breath reeking of beer.
He stared at Song Wuli’s face: “Why so nervous? What’re you hiding?”
Song Wuli: “Nothing to hide. You’re drunk, Old Huang.”
“Nothing?” Huang Yijun locked eyes: “Fine, then come with us to the milk tea shop. Prove it.”
Crap, exposed?
Song Wuli was sweating bullets.
Reluctantly, he shuffled along, dragged to the milk tea shop down the street.
This was his second time entering as Song Wuli.
A long line stretched outside—dozens of people—but the chubby kid and his crew got in, pulling Huang Yijun and Song Wuli along.
The perks of being a seasoned regular.
Inside, their buddies had snagged seats, and the chubby kid led them to a table.
Fifteen minutes until 9:30 p.m.
Late at night, the shop was packed.
No one was ordering milk tea, but the owner was still churning out drinks—delivery orders.
He looked exhausted yet thrilled. All that cash rolling in.
His joy dimmed slightly upon seeing Song Wuli.
“Boss, one milk tea,” Song Wuli ordered. “No pearls.”
Just a 6-yuan plain milk tea.
The old boss might’ve made it without fuss, but now, flush with cash, he wasn’t fond of Song Wuli.
And Song Wuli had a new trick.
As the boss started the no-pearl tea, Song Wuli stopped him: “Wait, ice is 1 yuan, right?”
The boss felt a bad vibe but nodded: “Yeah.”
Song Wuli: “Then half milk tea, half ice. Half tea is 3 yuan, half ice is 50 cents—3.50 total, right?”
Huh?
The boss froze, pausing to calculate on his fingers.
His math was decent, and he was good at making tea, but math plus tea stumped him.
After some mental gymnastics, he found no issue.
“Boss, you won’t kick me out, right?” Song Wuli preempted.
“No, all customers welcome,” the boss said, eyeing the crowd, unable to shoo him.
Song Wuli: “Then you can handle this tiny request, yeah?”
Boss: “Fine, I’ll make it.”
Huang Yijun was baffled by Song Wuli’s antics—never seen anyone order milk tea like that.
Song Wuli explained: “I’ve been here before. This is how I drink it—full tea’s too sweet.”
Huang Yijun, watching the overly calm Song Wuli, stayed quiet but kept stealing glances, making him uneasy.
9:20 p.m., Song Wuli sipped his tea, acting chill.
His phone buzzed with a message.
9:21 p.m., it buzzed twice more.
9:22 p.m., still buzzing.
Huang Yijun: “Old Song, not checking your phone?”
Song Wuli, still cool: “Just spam.”
Huang Yijun smirked: “Old Song, why not just confess?”
Song Wuli: “Confess what? I’m not hiding anything.”
Huang Yijun: “Those heels you drew the other day—explain that.”
He pulled out his phone, showing a high-res Yinlin photo, zooming in on her legs.
Her dainty feet were wrapped in delicate high heels.
Huang Yijun’s tone turned dead serious: “Only someone obsessed with Yinlin would know those heels. You were drawing those shoes.”
His eyes interrogated, his voice stern, like a cross-examination.
Song Wuli went silent.
Buzz, buzz, buzz—his phone kept vibrating.
At the counter, the boss made tea while texting:
[Xiao Yao, where are you?]
[Reply when you see this.]
[Got an emergency?]
[Need to reschedule?]
[Not coming today?]
Song Wuli wiped his sweat.
Huang Yijun: “What’s up, Old Song? AC’s on—why so hot?”
Song Wuli nodded: “Yeah, it’s warm.”
Suddenly, a 5- or 6-year-old boy approached, holding a small electric fan: “Big brother, this is for you.”
Surprised, Song Wuli turned to the kid.
The next table was a family—mom, dad, and the boy.
A big cake sat on their table, unopened, like they were waiting.
“Thanks,” Song Wuli took the fan, cooling off. “Such a good kid. You guys are celebrating a birthday?”
The dad smiled, nodding: “His 6th birthday.”
Song Wuli: “Not at home?”
The dad: “He loves magical girls, recently obsessed with Yinlin. We heard about this place, so we brought him here for his birthday. Yinlin won’t show, but the cosplayer who looks so much like her should make him happy.”
The boy was thrilled, swinging his legs in his chair, patiently waiting, touching the unopened cake.
Song Wuli: “The cake?”
The dad: “He wants the cosplayer lady to open and cut it.”
Song Wuli: “But she’s not here yet. What if she doesn’t show?”
The dad’s smile turned awkward, patting his son’s head.
“Magical Girl Yinlin will come,” the boy said, not confidently, but full of hope. He held a prop wand—Yinlin’s double-handed staff—pointing at the ceiling, shouting: “Pierce the Star Sea!”
Damn, playing the emotional card, huh?
Song Wuli’s smile grew awkward too.
He sat, fanning himself, but felt like he was on pins and needles.
It wasn’t really his problem, not his duty, especially since he always claimed to be a low-class guy.
So many excuses to brush it off, yet he couldn’t sit still.
9:26 p.m.
His phone vibrated again—a voice call request.
Song Wuli grabbed it, didn’t answer, quietly hung up, but pretended to take the call.
Holding it to his ear: “Hello? Yeah, okay, that’s serious? I’ll be right back.”
He stood: “Old Huang, sorry, gotta go.”
Huang Yijun: “What’s up?”
Song Wuli: “A water pipe burst at home, leaking. Property management called me to hurry back.”
Huang Yijun, still suspicious: “Alright, be careful.”
Song Wuli left the milk tea shop, sprinted down the street, entered a building, and climbed to the rooftop.
Pulling out his wand from his pocket: “Magical Girl, transform!”
Do it for the boy xD