The rain had followed Jin Hao home, or maybe it was just the damp cloths that clung to him now, a second skin he couldn't peel off.
His apartment in Tianyuan Housing Complex was a shoebox of despair, tucked into a crumbling block where the city's forgotten came to rot.
"Home sweet hell," he sighed, stepping inside and closing the door with a dull thud.
The walls were peeling, strips of faded yellow paint curling away like dead leaves, exposing the gray concrete beneath.
"Just keeps getting prettier." His fingers brushed the wall absentmindedly, flakes of paint falling like dust.
A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jittery shadows across the room—a lumpy futon shoved against one wall, a rickety table littered with empty beer cans, and a fridge that hummed like it was on its last legs. It smelled of stale soy sauce and regret, the kind of place that swallowed hope whole and spat out apathy instead.
"Ugh," Jin grimaced, waving a hand at the smell. "Should've left a window open. Or just never come back."
Jin slumped onto the futon, still in his soaked hoodie, the velvet ring box gone but its weight still crushing his chest.
"She didn't even look at it," he whispered. "Just… tossed it like trash."
Lin Qian's voice looped in his head, sharp and cold: "You're nothing. A broke, delusional nobody."
He stared at the fridge across the room, its door dented from some long-forgotten tantrum. Inside, a pack of instant noodles sat alone, the cheap kind with the fluorescent orange packet that promised flavor but delivered salt and shame.
"Dinner of champions," he said bitterly. "Bon appétit, loser."
Seven years with her, and this was what he had to show for it—a half-empty fridge and a life that felt like it was leaking out of him, drip by drip. The wall clock ticked above the sink, a chipped relic from a thrift store, its hands creeping toward midnight with a smug, mechanical rhythm. Tick-tock, loser, it seemed to say. Tick-tock, this is all you've got.
"Shut up," he growled at the clock. "Like you know anything."
His phone buzzed on the table, slicing through the silence. He didn't want to look—probably Zhou Lei again, his only friend, the guy who'd stuck around through every mess Jin had made.
"Not tonight, Lei," Jin muttered. "Just… not tonight."
But the screen lit up with an unknown number, and something in his gut twisted. He grabbed it, swiping it open with a thumb still pruned from the rain.
"Hello?" he said cautiously. "This is Jin Hao."
"Jin Hao?" The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, the kind that didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"This is Li Mei from HR at Zhonghai Logistics. I'm sorry to call so late, but we've been trying to reach you. There's been some restructuring—downsizing, you know how it goes. Your position's been cut. Effective immediately. We'll send your final paycheck next week. Any questions, call the office."
"Wait, what? Hold on—" Jin blinked, straightening. "You're firing me? Now?"
The line went dead before he could even process it. He sat there, phone limp in his hand, the words sinking in like stones into mud. Laid off. No job. No warning.
"You've got to be kidding me," he whispered. "Seriously? Right now?"
The warehouse gig wasn't much—long hours, sore backs, and a boss who barked orders like a drill sergeant—but it'd kept the lights on, kept the noodles stocked.
Now? Nothing. No savings, no backup plan, just a big fat zero staring him in the face. He let the phone drop onto the futon, its screen glowing faintly against the stained fabric, and laughed—a hollow, bitter sound that bounced off the walls and died.
"Perfect," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with both hands. "Just fucking perfect. She ditches me, and now the world's kicking me while I'm down. What's next, huh? Roof caves in? Get hit by a bus?"
The clock ticked on, indifferent. He hauled himself up, shuffling to the fridge, and yanked it open. The noodles stared back, mocking him with their crinkly wrapper.
"Damn it... Damn it... Damn it all!" he said.
He grabbed them, ripped the top off, and dumped them into a chipped bowl, not bothering with the seasoning packet.
Plain and dry, just like his life now.
He crunched through them, the sound loud in the empty room, crumbs falling onto his wet jeans. Didn't matter.
Nothing mattered. Lin's voice crept back in: "I'm done slumming it with you."
He chewed harder, trying to drown it out, but it stuck like glue.
His phone buzzed again, insistent this time. Zhou Lei's name flashed on the screen.
Jin glared at it, jaw tight, then swiped it to voicemail. He wasn't in the mood for Lei's pep talks, that gruff optimism the guy wielded like a sledgehammer.
'You'll bounce back, man. Always do.' Bullshit. What was there to bounce back to? He'd been bouncing his whole life—job to job, hope to hope, Lin to nothing—and now he was flat on his ass with nowhere left to land.
"Probably gonna say I just need to get out, get some air," Jin scoffed. "Sure, Lei. I'll get right on that—after I win the lottery and buy back my dignity."
The days blurred after that. He stopped counting them, stopped caring.
The noodles ran out, replaced by a bag of stale rice he found in the back of a cupboard, cooked in a pot with a handle that wobbled like it might snap.
He ate it plain, spoonfuls of gluey white that sat heavy in his stomach. Showers became a memory—why bother when he wasn't leaving the apartment?
His hair hung greasy, his stubble thickened into a patchy beard, and the smell of unwashed clothes mingled with the damp rot of the walls. Lei kept calling, leaving messages Jin didn't listen to:
"Yo, Jin, pick up, man. You okay? I'm worried."
He ignored them, letting the phone die until the screen stayed black, a silent brick on the table.
The futon became his world, a sagging throne where he sprawled for hours, staring at the ceiling. It was cracked, a jagged line spidering across the plaster like a map of his life—fractured, going nowhere.
He'd lie there, replaying Lin's betrayal, the smug curl of Bai Zhenghao's lip, the way the guards had tossed him out like trash.
"You're a ghost of a man," she'd said. Maybe she was right. Maybe he'd been a ghost all along, drifting through a life that never really started.
She had used him.
She had humiliated him.
And she had thrown him away.
Was he really just going to lay here and rot will she lived happily?
He rolled off the futon, bare feet slapping the cold floor, and shuffled to the kitchenette.
The drawer rattled as he yanked it open, revealing a mess of mismatched utensils and a single knife—dull, chipped, but sharp enough.
He grabbed it, the handle cool against his palm, and held it up, the blade catching the flicker of the dying bulb overhead.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Not the job he'd lost, not the friend he'd ghosted, not the love he'd poured into a woman who'd spat it back in his face.
What was the point? Seven years of grinding, of giving everything, and he was still here—alone, broke, a punchline to a joke he'd never laughed at.
The knife trembled in his hand, his breath hitching as he pressed it against his neck, the metal kissing his skin. One cut. One quick slice, and it'd be over. No more ticking clocks, no more echoes of her voice in his head.
But then her face flashed in his mind—not the soft Qian he'd loved, but the cold, smug stranger who'd watched him get dragged out of La Lumière.
That smile—sharp, triumphant, like she'd won some game he didn't even know they were playing.
She'd stood there, arm looped through Bai Zhenghao's, her eyes glinting with disdain as the guards tossed him into the rain.
"Take your stupid ring and your whining and crawl back to your gutter."
The memory burned, a hot coal in his chest, and he froze, the knife hovering.
"Damn it...."
"Am I really gonna let that bitch get away with it? After everything—every late night, every busted dream, every piece of me I gave her—she just throws me away like trash? Unappreciated, unseen, and I'm just gonna roll over and die? No. No way."
He slammed the knife down onto the counter, the clatter echoing off the walls.
"She doesn't get to win," he growled, his hands curling into fists. "Not like this. I'll make her regret it. I'll make her choke on that smug little smile—I'll show her what she threw away. She'll see."
Just then, a sound ripped through the room—a loud, resonant boom, like a thunderclap trapped in the walls.
〘Ding!〙
Jin flinched, stumbling back, his heart lurching as a semi-translucent blue HUD display flickered into existence in front of him. It hovered there, glowing faintly.
A female voice followed, smooth and sweet, like a professional radio announcer.
〘Conditions met, host found.〙
The HUD shimmered, and an image resolved—a blonde woman in a sleek office suit, her hair pulled back tight, a pair of glasses perched on her nose.
She stared at him through the screen, her lips curling into a smug, knowing smirk that sent a jolt down his spine.
Jin's breath caught, and he tripped backward, crashing against the floor.
"What the hell is this?" he yelped, his voice cracking as he scrambled to his feet, eyes wide.
She spoke again, this time with confidence.
〘System Activation: NTR Tycoon Protocol Initiated.〙
The words flashed across the HUD in bold white text, pulsing like a heartbeat.
〘Objective: Steal the hearts of women who already belong to others.〙
Another line appeared, glowing brighter.
〘Reward: Wealth. Power. Influence.〙
Jin's mouth fell open, his mind reeling.
Before he could process it, the woman seemed to step out of the HUD, her body shimmering into the air above his cracked floor.
She hovered there, a holographic ghost in a pinstriped blazer, her glasses glinting as she crossed her arms and looked down at him.
〘"Time to reach out and grab your dreams, host,"〙 she said, her voice smooth as silk but edged with something dangerous.
〘"The stars are the limit."〙
He stared up at her, his heart hammering, the knife forgotten on the counter.
"Who the fuck are you?"