Yi Ting led Xin Yan to a cafe.
After following them inside, Xin Ye sat in an empty seat nearby, staring longingly at the lemonade on the table before them.
“Sister Ting…”
“Don’t you start acting familiar with me yet,” Yi Ting said, setting her bag aside and pulling the menu toward her. “Before we talk, we need to get three things straight.”
“First, I’m an exception because we’ve met before. If any other stranger claiming to be a web novel editor asks to meet you in person, you are absolutely not allowed to agree. Do you understand?”
Xin Yan tried to protest, but she cut him off with a sharp, “You’re a minor.”
Seeing the person who had tricked him so many times finally get shut down, Xin Ye couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Second, don’t slouch when you’re typing. It’s bad for your eyes and your posture. If you really want to make writing your career, don’t pick up bad habits at such a young age…”
Being reminded of his age again felt like a physical blow; Xin Ye could almost see the metaphorical arrows sticking out of Xin Yan’s chest.
“Third, next time you go out to eat with a girl, remember to offer to pay. I’ll let it slide this time—the adult treats the kid.”
Yi Ting listed three points, and every single one emphasized that Xin Yan was just a child.
Xin Yan was clearly displeased, but since he needed her help, he didn’t dare talk back. His entire face turned a deep shade of crimson from the suppressed frustration.
Having successfully rattled the high schooler, Yi Ting’s mood improved. She ordered a coffee and then looked at him. “Alright, speak up. Why were you so persistent? You even went as far as camping outside our site’s headquarters. I offered to add you on Q, but you refused and insisted on meeting in person.”
…
Yi Ting was a novice editor at a small website. Unlike her more experienced colleagues, she had a softer heart.
The site was small and had few signed authors. She and her colleagues spent most of their time trying to poach authors from other platforms, and they were generally lenient with the applications they received.
However, even her leniency had limits.
Over the four months since winter break began, she had received multiple submissions from a minor. After rejecting him several times, she took a closer look and realized he was a high school junior with the college entrance exams looming in a year and a half.
A colleague who had also received his applications told Yi Ting to just ignore him and keep rejecting. But considering his age, she couldn't bring herself to be that cold. In one of her rejection notices, she added a few extra lines:
*The setting is too complex and the opening is too wordy. I suggest reading more of other people's work and trying again after revising! If you’re still in school, focus on your studies. Writing is much more enjoyable as a hobby!*
In the next application, Yi Ting saw that the boy had added a sentence to his genre introduction:
*But if I don’t make this my profession, if I don’t think about making money, I feel like I won’t be able to hold on much longer.*
Yi Ting froze at her computer. A colleague happened to walk by, glanced at the screen, and kept going.
“That’s why you’re still a rookie, Xiao Ting. That kind of talk is just meant to trick soft-hearted editors like you. Just give him a cold rejection and let’s get off work.”
She listened to her colleague, but she didn't reject the application this time.
The weight of not knowing whether he was telling the truth left her feeling uneasy. In her mind, there was a ninety-nine percent chance it was a lie, but if that one percent chance was real, she would be haunted by it for the rest of her life.
After a night of insomnia, she included her contact information in her reply the next day.
*If the path of writing doesn't work out, there are many other paths in the world. If something is weighing on your mind, find someone to talk to.*
She gave him her private number, not her professional account.
Yi Ting waited all day, but the student never added her. By the time she finished work, she had reached a conclusion.
*As expected, it was a lie.*
*Even if he’s a little liar, at least it means no kid is in actual trouble,* she comforted herself. But as she stepped out of the office building, she saw a boy standing there.
He was tall and thin, his backpack looking incredibly heavy. He had a handsome face, though it was marred by an expression that looked as if he were at death's door.
Their eyes met by chance. The moment she saw him, Yi Ting had a gut feeling that hit her like a bolt of lightning.
This brat was Xin Yan, the one who had applied eight hundred times and never got signed.
She went up to ask.
Sure enough, it was him.
…
“So why did it have to be offline? You definitely have a phone on you today, right? Is it really that hard to add me?”
The coffee arrived quickly. Yi Ting thanked the server and began stirring her cup with a small golden spoon.
Xin Yan kept his head low. “I didn't bring a phone.”
“Psh! Stop lying. Nowadays, unless a high schooler is incredibly self-disciplined or has parents who are strict as hell… oh, wait, that’s you, isn’t it?” Yi Ting’s confident remark faltered as she realized the situation. “Do your parents know you’re out today?”
“No dad. They’re divorced. Mom thinks I’m out doing homework,” Xin Yan answered honestly and mechanically.
Hearing this, Xin Ye felt another metaphorical arrow hit home.
Yi Ting had bitten her lip so hard her lipstick was smudged. She wiped it clean with a napkin and asked, “You took the bus here? Then you used a bus card, not a phone… If you don’t bring it, how do you usually add people?”
“I’m in the school and class groups, but my mom checks my accounts once a day… I usually wear a smartwatch to school, but I didn't bring it today because it has GPS tracking.”
Hearing about the GPS tracking on the watch, Xin Ye felt a sense of dazed recognition.
*So that’s where it came from.*
Yi Ting fell silent.
Xin Yan’s face grew even redder. “Please don't ask about that anymore. I really can't add you. Registering a new social media account requires a phone number, and my mom would find out. It’s just not possible…”
“What about the signing process? Your account on our site?”
“Temporary ID card. As for the account… my mom reads web novels too…”
Yi Ting was speechless. She felt depressed just listening to this. It felt less like a conversation and more like a documentary on a stifled life.
Seeing that she had nothing to say, Xin Yan spoke up weakly again. “I want to make money… at least enough to buy a phone without a tracker that won't be checked. I know what you want to say. I’ve tried to find other jobs in secret… someone said I have a good face and could be a catalog model. It pays well for very little time, but when I got to the interview, the guy immediately tried to measure my waist…”
“Stop! Stop right there!”
Yi Ting’s voice was so loud it drew stares from the other patrons. She whispered an apology to the room before leaning in close to Xin Yan. “You really aren't a little liar, are you?”
“I realized today that my bus card only has two yuan left, just enough to get back…”
She buried her face in her arms in despair, slumped over the table for a moment, then suddenly sat bolt upright.
Yi Ting: “Even if you say all that, I can't just conjure up a high-paying job with a flexible schedule for you.”
Xin Yan: “I know.”
Yi Ting: “So… let me see that notebook you were writing in just now.”
The boy couldn't help but smile slightly, though he quickly forced his expression back into a cold, stoic mask.
As an editor, Yi Ting had a very sharp eye for manuscripts.
“I can't teach you prose; you’ll have to read more and accumulate that on your own. As for the story itself… this theme is workable,” she said, flipping through the setting notes. Her expression grew more complicated the further she read. “It’s so dark… controlling ability users and using them as power sources? You can't write this.”
Xin Yan took a sip of his free lemonade. “I can't?”
“Not for a newcomer who wants to make quick money,” she said, trying to keep her tone positive. “Without writing experience, it’s very hard to handle a setting like this. I sincerely suggest you cut it. Pure power fantasies have a much larger market.”
Seeing that Xin Yan remained silent, Yi Ting continued. “And then there’s… the character design. The protagonist is named Xin Ye, right? Wow, his personality is so complex. You wrote so much for him…”
Xin Ye watched silently as Yi Ting finished flipping through the dozen or so pages of character notes.
He already knew the outcome.
She closed the notebook and handed it back to the boy. “I can understand the dark background—you want to express emotion through a stifling environment. But why did you want to give the protagonist such a… well, such a multifaceted personality?”
Xin Yan watched a lemon seed sink from the middle of his glass to the bottom before looking up.
“Because in that dark background, that person is me.”
“You think this character design won't work, but doesn't this make him feel more like a real person?”
Xin Ye took a deep breath, waiting for Yi Ting’s answer.
“He isn't a person. Xin Ye is not Xin Yan,” Yi Ting replied. She wanted to sound warm and patient, but she didn't realize how cold her words were. “He is just a character. As a character, he needs to be distinct, not complex. You need to think carefully: do you want to please the readers, or please yourself?”
Xin Yan fell silent once more.
Yi Ting truly believed she was helping the boy.
“Tear it apart, Xin Yan. Tear this character’s settings apart.”
“He isn't a living, breathing human being. To succeed, you have to be a little heartless, okay?”
…
Xin Yan spent the last two yuan on his bus card to head home. Xin Ye continued to follow him like a ghost, hitching a free ride.
He arrived home fairly early, missing the rush hour.
There were plenty of seats on the bus, but Xin Yan didn't pay attention and sat down in a priority seat. Xin Ye stood beside him, holding onto the handrail, watching the changes in the boy’s expression.
Much of his vitality seemed to have vanished.
His pace on the street was no longer light. he dragged his feet back to his building but hesitated to go upstairs. A neighbor returning from walking a dog asked, “Xiao Yan, why aren't you going up?” Xin Yan replied that his bag was heavy and he was tired, saying he’d be home soon.
“Soon.”
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and repeated the word.
It was April, wasn't it? Why was it so cold?
Xin Yan finally opened the door and went upstairs. Xin Ye felt an inexplicable shiver and followed close behind.
He paused again outside the security door. Even though his mother would open it as soon as he knocked, Xin Yan seemed to loathe that moment with every fiber of his being.
Xin Ye stood with him outside the door for another five minutes.
Eventually, Xin Yan raised his hand and knocked. Three times, each softer than the last. The door opened quickly, but the angry face he expected didn't appear.
The woman only mentioned that he should remember to wear his watch next time before letting him in. Xin Yan agreed and moved to go upstairs, but he was suddenly grabbed by his backpack strap from behind.
He had already placed one foot on the stairs. He steadied himself and turned around stiffly. “Mom, what is it?”
The woman looked back at the clock on the wall. “Xiao Yan, today is April 23rd. Tomorrow is your birthday.”
“What do you want for a gift?”
Xin Ye felt as if he had fallen into an ice cellar.
In his own past, when he had told his mother he “didn't want to go to school,” he had been rewarded with a slap… What about Xun Yin?
He saw the boy pull his foot back from the stairs. A flicker of hesitation and hope appeared in his eyes.
Compared to his previous coldness, this was what a boy his age should actually look like.
Xin Yan asked, “…Mom, can we just act like a normal mother and son?”
His mother asked, “What do you mean, normal?”
“Like… stop tracking me every day, stop checking my messages, stop forcing schedules on me…”
Before Xin Yan could finish, his mother slapped him across the face.
She left him with one sentence: “Reflect on yourself.”
Xin Ye went upstairs ahead of him.
It was an inescapable script, after all. No one’s actions were ever a surprise.
***
