Chapter 29
Chapter 29
The living-room silence that fine sand had conjured felt ten-thousand times more awkward than Shadowmare letting a quiet one rip in the library. Milu’s little face was paper-white; tears pattered soundlessly off her chin while her huge green eyes screamed HELP—CREEPY SAND! Wei Wu’s grin had frozen solid—colder than a Siberian cold front—and his bronze cheeks were now the color of soot. White Xi? Her stare could’ve doubled as an ice-pick, nailed to that flicker-then-play-dead crack in Eternal Dream: Prime Abyss. Those ethereal pupils were doing a full countdown-to-nuke math.
Red Cloud felt foul fire shoot from her soles to her skull. She wanted to cram everything—rabbit-turned-sand, broken bracelet, the whole damn room—into a shredder and stomp the scraps. Crack? Again? She glanced at her right wrist: the crimson-and-indigo ghost-bracelet was having a seizure, strobe-flashing BODY’S DOOMED—BODY’S DOOMED—EVERYONE DIES! while stabbing her with pins.
“F***!” She catapulted off the sofa, nearly punting Xing Dian—who gave a pitiful drone—like a football. “Suffocating! I need air! One more minute and either I blow or this dump becomes fireworks!” She didn’t look at the medicated faces behind her, just jammed her tiny feet into Wei Wu’s aircraft-carrier-sized men’s flip-flops—grabbed at random—slammed the apartment door so hard the wall plaster shivered.
“Redhead, you—” Wei Wu’s soap-opera hand clawed empty air.
“Let her go.” White Xi’s voice had a cold electronic edge. She finally peeled her gaze off the Abyss crack and flicked it to the dented security door. “Her mind’s a pot of boiling oil; slam a lid on it and we get Crack 2: Nuclear Boogaloo. Outside she can vent—maybe uproot a telephone pole.” The worry line between her brows stayed glued on.
Wei Wu yanked at his already thinning crew-cut. “Goddamn! Living like I’m defusing bombs daily!” He turned to Milu, who’d turned into a trembling quail, and forced a smile uglier than crying. “Don’t—don’t worry, little Milu, we’ve got you. That damn bracelet...” He stared at the culprit lying innocent on the coffee table and felt his hairline retreat and his wallet deflate.
Outside, morning sunlight was as fake as a cheating boyfriend. Red Cloud squinted, cursing the glare. She scraped lightning-red hair that stuck out like electrocuted straw, then inhaled a cocktail of car exhaust, gutter-oil breakfast stalls, and old Wang’s dog leftovers.
“Finally—free air.” She tried to bury the living-room fiasco and the crack’s strobing horror show. The ghost-bracelet calmed a notch now that it was away from ground zero, but still flickered like a router about to drop signal.
Where to? Brain blue-screened. Back when she’d been Yun Xi, bad mood meant gym until muscles dissolved or beer-and-skewer marathons with Wei Wu till the stall closed. Now? This soft-girl body in a gym? The lightest barbell would squash her into a manga sticker. She glanced at the curves under the leather jacket—wrong, all wrong—and shuddered. Skewers? The mere smell of oil smoke triggered a split-personality gag reflex.
Her stomach snarled like thunder. Since last night she’d had only that ant-killing milk tea. A DNA-deep craving kicked in—nicotine! caffeine! double! A soul transfusion, now!
“Right—smokes! And a real man’s drink—something that punches!” Her eyes pinged open. Good Neighbor Convenience, 24-hour beacon by the gate. Target locked. She stalked off, aircraft-carrier flip-flops clapping like an angry Godzilla; pedestrians bailed.
She underestimated the nuclear optics. Flame-red afro haloed by sun. Studded leather jacket flapping over a skull T-shirt. Jean shorts with holes you could wedge a watermelon through. Snow-white legs on full parade. And those tank-sized flip-flops keeping beat—ba-dum, ba-dum—while her face screamed TOUCH ME AND DIE.
Grandpas and grandmas executed serpentine detours five metres wide. Schoolkids sprinted away like Olympic hopefuls. A sunbathing stray cat zipped into the bushes, leaving only an orange blur.
“What’re you staring at, never seen an intergalactic bombshell? Keep staring and I’ll invoice you!” She snarled. Instant vacuum for ten metres around. Last time, in Yun Xi’s grandpa-vest and shorts, the cashier had only rolled her eyes. Now? All thanks to dream-avatar Meng Yun Xi and her cursed fashion RNG.
Invisible Xing Dian tailed her, indigo orb peppered with anxious red freckles; every time it popped out of her hair it added to the bird-nest apocalypse.
At last—Good Neighbor! Automatic doors slid apart like pearly gates. The smell of oden and grilled sausages hit her like homecoming. She stepped inside, survivor-style—
—and walked straight into today’s first psychic nuke.
Facing the entrance: not the drink coolers or cigarette racks, but an entire wall of ladies’ underwear—rainbow, barely-there, imagination-optional. Lace, cotton, sports, push-up, seamless—sacred white to death-Barbie pink to midnight-sin black. Two schoolgirls were whispering scholarly comparisons.
Red Cloud’s brain detonated: 404 Not Found. She stood scorched-root-stiff, pupils tap-dancing, face wiped blank by what-in-hell am I looking at? Blood whooshed to her ears hot enough to fry eggs. Every instinct screamed self-destruct or teleport.
“Wel- welcome...” The clerk’s voice squeaked from behind the counter, terror level Godzilla-in-lingerie.
The greeting snapped her out. She wrenched her neck with a creak, laser-beamed the far wall’s drink cooler and crab-walked sideways, eyes front, hugging the opposite shelves at a three-metre safety margin. One mis-glance and you turn into a dress, apparently.
Cold air rebooted one percent of her CPU. She ignored pastel kitten-labels, locked onto black cans printed with giant lightning bolts and SUPER X POWER—big, shiny, macho. Bingo. She yanked two cans; the chill soothed her shredded nerves.
Next: cigarettes—nicotine—true currency. She marched (still cotton-footed) to the counter, slapped the glass. “Boss! Pack of Huazi—soft box—move!”
The clerk, eyeing her war-torn punk glamour, swallowed. “M- miss, we... we don’t carry Huazi. How about this XX brand...” He pointed at a modest beige pack.
Miss—?
The thread called Sanity snapped. She almost yanked out another fistful of hair and roared, “Whatever! The strongest! Something that can KO me in one puff! Hurry!” She needed tar to scour her brain.
Trembling, the kid fished out a mint-green box printed with tiny daisies: FRESH MENTHOL, GENTLE ON THROAT—perfect for you... Her murder-glare cut him off.
She stared at the pastel atrocity—air-flavoured, dignity-insulting—then slammed it, the two cans, and her last scrap of patience on the counter. “Ring! Me! Up!”
“F- fifty-eight yuan.” His scanner hand vibrated like a jack-hammer.
She plunged a hand into her jacket—empty. Right: broke-avatar life. She scoured every pocket, finally dredged sweaty, crumpled red 100-yuan notes from her jeans’ Bermuda-triangle back pocket and slapped them down. “Cash!”
Change, cigs, drinks—snatched in one fist; she stormed out, past stifled giggles and the clerk’s asthma-attack exhale.
Social death—ultra edition. Outside, rush-hour noise and staring strangers wrapped her in a prickly blanket. She needed nicotine now. She tore the plastic, pulled a stick-thin white straw, clamped it between teeth, then patted her jacket for her old Zippo—skull-engraved, manly romance—
Nothing. Air.
“F*** f*** f***!” She upended every pocket, even the flip-flop gap—zip. Lighter gone—who lifted it? She almost chewed the unlit cigarette.
A red, dangerous thought detonated: I’m a witch—lighting up is basic. Screw elegance—use magic.
She glared at the filter between her fingers, channelled Yun Xi’s brute stubbornness and every scrap of rage into thumb and forefinger. Burn, damn you—ignite!
“Pfft.”
A puny orange speck, smaller than a cheap lighter-flame, coughed into existence and shivered in the breeze. Success—?
Nope. The speck wobbled, then slithered—guided-missile exact—onto the rebellious red fringe hanging across her lips.
Sssss...
The smell of roasted keratin bloomed, louder than traffic fumes. Forehead hot, strands curled, carbonized, dropped—miniature black fireworks.
She fossilized, mouth an O around the virgin cigarette, watching the singed curls drift past her flip-flop still smoking.
“SON—OF—A—BITCH—IN—HELL—!”
She ripped the unlit stick from her mouth, ground it to pulp under the aircraft-carrier heel, then slapped at the scorched tuft like an electrocuted monkey.
Xing Dian dropped stealth, spun like a disco ball on meth, spraying crimson laughter-bolts: BRRRRR-PPPPFFT—HA-HA-HA! Every gyroscopic wail broadcast You asked for it!
Passers-by froze, watching the street performance: punk girl self-immolates while lighting a smoke, accompanied by hysterical light-show orb—rating: needs censoring.
Red Cloud—now sporting a random shorter, crinkled, lightning-burnt forelock—finally noticed the cans in her fist: pastel pink, cherry blossoms, sparkly hearts, kitty paws, the label Spring Sakura Love Limited Edition. Her face absorbed all light. Under Xing Dian’s unending BRRRRRT laugh-track she began the funeral march back to the apartment, aircraft-carrier flip-flops clapping a doom-drum with every step.
Her retreating silhouette spelled in blood-red capitals: DO NOT ENGAGE. Emoji bonus: (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻