Xia Shiyao’s appearance deepened Huang Yijun’s suspicions.
She bore a resemblance to Jinluan, which was already intriguing.
Now, someone who looked like Jinluan was cozying up to someone who looked like Yinlin in the same milk tea shop.
That was odd.
Huang Yijun grabbed his phone, checking for magical girl activity.
The city was quiet—no magical girls were out.
Meaning neither woman had an alibi; they were here when magical girls weren’t.
His face grew serious as he typed and sent a message.
He snapped a photo of the silver-haired girl and sent that too.
He kept watching.
The birthday celebration moved to singing and wishing.
Candles were lit, and the shop owner thoughtfully dimmed the lights, leaving only candlelight.
The boy’s mom started: “Happy birthday to you…”
The dad joined in.
The owner led next, followed by customers, swept up in the moment.
Only two hadn’t sung: Xia Shiyao and Song Wuli.
Song Wuli, a bit shy, softly joined in.
His voice was heavenly, lyrics slightly off but soothing, almost angelic.
Xia Shiyao tuned out others, zeroing in on the silver-haired girl’s voice like unraveling a thread.
Eyes closed, she savored the imperfect lyrics and saintly tone.
Her fingers tapped the air, as if playing a piano.
After the song, her fingers lingered on a few notes, like a finale.
Opening her eyes, she saw the silver-haired girl’s stunning profile in the candlelight.
In that moment, Xia Shiyao felt the world’s beauty, a faint smile creeping onto her face.
But something was off with the silver-haired girl.
Her gaze was deep, beyond her apparent age, lost in thought.
A glint of something reflective shimmered at her eye’s corner—she discreetly wiped it away.
Xia Shiyao frowned, puzzled, unable to read her.
The boy closed his eyes, wishing aloud: “I hope Magical Girl Yinlin comes to my birthday next year!”
An odd wish.
His dad said nothing, just patted his head, smiling: “Blow out the candles.”
The boy inhaled deeply and blew, falling short. The chubby kid nearby helped, puffing out the rest.
Everyone laughed.
Song Wuli’s expression normalized, grabbing the cake knife.
He rolled up his sleeves to avoid smudging the cake.
He cut clumsily, slices uneven—some big, some small.
The largest went to the boy.
He cut more, distributing slowly.
The boy’s mom politely shared with bystanders; the chubby kid got a big slice.
Unexpectedly, Xia Shiyao approached: “I want some too.”
Song Wuli, not thinking much, cut her a piece.
Only a third of the customers got cake.
The owner and Song Wuli each had a slice.
They ate at the counter.
Tonight was memorable. If Song Wuli ever quit the milk tea shop, he wouldn’t forget today.
Good thing he showed up.
At 11 p.m., the happy family left.
The shop stayed packed. By now, the outside queue had filled the seats, and the shop kept running.
The inevitable arrived—Song Wuli delivered milk tea to Huang Yijun.
As he set it down, Huang Yijun stopped him: “You’re the real deal, aren’t you? Magical Girl Yinlin.”
Half-probing, half-certain.
“Big brother’s eyesight is as bad as a pile of crap,” Song Wuli blurted, unable to hold back. Facing a friend, he had to play it up to avoid recognition.
The words stunned the room into silence.
A beautiful girl saying “crap”?
Huang Yijun, unfazed, pressed: “That’s not the right attitude. Being called Yinlin should feel like a compliment. Why rush to deny it?”
Weird—this guy was sharp? Logical? Was this the wisdom of an old man seasoned by life?
Song Wuli smiled, eyes crescent-shaped: “Chatting’s not part of the job.”
Huang Yijun quickly said: “I’ll order another milk tea. Denying it so fast is suspicious, no?”
Song Wuli: “What would the customer like?”
Huang Yijun: “Watermelon juice. You can’t fool me—I’m good at reading people. Your body stats are too close to Yinlin’s.”
Song Wuli wrote down “watermelon juice” and turned to leave.
Huang Yijun added: “Wait, one mango juice too. Your voice, everything—it’s all too much like Yinlin.”
Song Wuli turned back, jotting “mango juice,” and tried to walk away.
Huang Yijun called again: “Not done—add a taro milk tea. I’ve studied Yinlin for ten years. Ten-year fan—you can’t hide from a pro like me.”
Song Wuli scribbled “milk tea” and turned again.
Huang Yijun shouted, dead serious: “Meeting afar, savor the delight!”
His tone and expression were as grave as negotiating salary with HR or presenting at a meeting.
Song Wuli’s head throbbed, returning to the counter to make drinks.
The shop closed at 11:20 p.m.
Customers dispersed, with the last subway still running.
Song Wuli pretended to remove makeup, swapped the silver wig for a black one, and changed into casual clothes.
Leaving the shop, he spotted Huang Yijun waiting outside.
But Xia Shiyao was there too, keeping Huang Yijun from doing anything rash.
“I’ll walk you home,” Xia Shiyao stated, not asking.
“If big sister begs, I’ll consider it,” Song Wuli teased, stirring trouble.
Xia Shiyao: “Please, let me walk you home.”
It was a “plea,” but delivered in a flat, mechanical tone.
Song Wuli: “Fail. No emotion.”
Xia Shiyao took his hand, licked the back of it, and said soulfully: “I’ll walk you.”
Song Wuli jolted, goosebumps rising.
Something was off. A kiss on the hand was a Western custom, right? Kissing, not licking.
He tried to pull back, but Xia Shiyao held firm, her grip rivaling Jinluan’s post-transformation strength—or maybe Yinlin’s form was just too weak compared to Song Wuli’s.
Xia Shiyao looked down at him, her gaze unsettling—not like one for a friend or stranger.
It felt familiar, eerily like Huang Yijun’s fanatic zeal when preaching about his “Lord and Heavenly Father.”
Song Wuli felt a chill, his heart racing with unease.
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Just have MC clap her face for that, like really -_-