The two rested on the same bed, dreaming of the same old event.
Years ago, Silver Hammer City witnessed a significant and peculiar social event—a massive protest by the se-x industry.
With countless jobs lost to androids, underground se-x work in Silver Hammer City surged, entering a period of rapid growth.
For many, it was a desperate path to survival.
During that time, a se-x android model codenamed “se-xY” was introduced.
The standard model, with its mass-produced, refined face, offered a pleasurable experience for a modest fee—about half the industry’s usual rate—for those not too picky.
Customized models, tailored to specific tastes, were exorbitantly expensive.
Upon their debut, se-x androids faced unprecedented backlash.
Many had been pushed out of their original jobs by androids, cornered by mortgages and car loans, and reduced to selling their bodies to survive.
Having retreated this far, they now faced se-x androids threatening to steal even this livelihood?
A massive wave of protests erupted.
Heavily made-up male and female se-x workers marched through the streets, holding signs that read:
“Please give me a chance to sell my body.”
“So my wife/husband can survive.”
At the height of the movement, a self-styled “se-x android killer” emerged in Silver Hammer City, reminiscent of Jack the Ripper. They gutted se-x androids returning from clients, stringing their parts on the neon signs of se-x establishments.
Eventually, the se-x android craze faded for several reasons.
First, the novelty wore off quickly. Customers grew tired of sleeping with the same face, feeling less like casual fun and more like taking on an unofficial spouse.
Second, the damage rate was high—clients treated the androids as objects, gleefully subjecting them to every imaginable and unimaginable act.
Third, 99% of clients were human and reluctant to engage with non-humans.
Despite their lifelike appearance and functionality, se-x androids left an uneasy feeling.
The se-x industry regained its former vigor.
Still, some sought out se-x androids for their affordability.
But as they proved unprofitable, se-x androids shifted to a high-end, bespoke service model catering to Silver Hammer City’s uptown elite.
This marked a record: the first time humans fended off androids’ encroachment on an industry.
Ironically, it was the se-x industry—a dark humor indeed.
The dream the two shared took place shortly after the se-x industry’s resurgence.
That year, “Haina” and “Panqiao” had just fought a major battle, both suffering heavy losses.
To recover, they lowered their standards, taking on small jobs they’d usually overlook.
Ning Zhuo’s assignment was simple, with a hefty payout.
“Haina” was tasked with sending someone to pose as a street worker and infiltrate a motel catering to such workers, to steal a confidential chip hidden on a frequent patron, Person A.
The chip was co-developed by the client and A.
After the project ended and the team disbanded, A took the chip and planned to sell it independently, sparking a dispute.
Furious, the client spared no expense to hire someone to steal it back.
It wasn’t just about money—it was about pride.
The client provided key intel: A occasionally “hunted” at this motel.
Posing as a street worker was the stealthiest way to slip into the motel unnoticed and strike when A was distracted and vulnerable.
The client was flexible about the theft’s execution.
He suggested “Haina” send someone to loiter near the motel, and he’d approach to “negotiate a price,” escorting them inside under the pretense of booking a room, allowing them to lurk next door and act when the moment was right.
The only catch: the client specifically requested Ning Zhuo for the role of “street worker.”
It wasn’t meant to insult or challenge Ning Zhuo.
When the client visited to discuss the job, he singled out Ning Zhuo, deeming him the least conspicuous choice.
After all, most of “Haina”’s field mercenaries were burly, fierce-eyed bruisers.
The motel’s owner had a keen eye, and arousing suspicion could lead to being turned away.
“Haina” wasn’t short of candidates who could pass for the role.
But Boss Fu spent his days tending flowers and birds, never meddling in operations.
Min Min didn’t do field work.
Jin Xueshen was tied up with another undercover job.
For the sake of providing for the team, Ning Zhuo grudgingly took the job.
He offered a friendly suggestion: why not just beat A up and take the chip?
The client refused.
He said, “He’s not sturdy, doesn’t handle stress well, and despite his youth, he’s on heart medication… He’s careless, too—might not have refilled his meds.”
Ning Zhuo, watching the chatty client, sensed this was a personal matter.
But money was money.
Days later, the client informed him that A had arrived at the motel with someone. Ning Zhuo promptly dressed and headed to the scene.
He kept it simple: white shirt, black pants, pure and clean like a college student, standing near the motel with a baseball cap and a cheap but eye-catching ankle bracelet.
Leaning against a lamppost, he lightly tapped his foot, the bracelet glinting faintly.
Per the plan, the client, watching nearby, would approach after ten minutes to “discuss the price.”
But Ning Zhuo had barely stood there a minute when someone eagerly approached.
Though their face was unclear, Ning Zhuo’s figure was already a standout on the street.
Under the dim streetlight, the stranger froze upon seeing Ning Zhuo’s face.
His bravado faltered, and he stammered, “Y-You… waiting for someone?”
Ning Zhuo: “Mm.”
The man, intending to ask for a price, was met with Ning Zhuo’s icy glance. After mentally tallying the meager credits in his ID card, his courage fizzled out.
This was a rare, high-class find, but he clearly hadn’t brought enough to afford Ning Zhuo’s services.
Would this beauty still be here next time he came?
Should he apply for a quick loan and indulge?
After a fierce internal debate, the man slunk away, dejected.
Ning Zhuo lowered his gaze, calculating the time, waiting for the agreed-upon ten minutes to pass.
The second interruption came swiftly.
A handsome young guy with a sharp, upturned nose—the most popular street worker on this strip—approached with a lively tone: “Hey, little brother, all alone? I’ll give you all my earnings tonight. I’ve got a spot saved for you in the back of my van. You in?”
Ning Zhuo didn’t budge: “How much?”
The guy spread his fingers cheerfully: “Five thousand! Sell some stuff tomorrow, and I’ll toss in another five.”
Ning Zhuo: “Not enough. You’d need to sell for a week to afford me.”
The guy wrinkled his nose: “That’d be rough.”
His tone inexplicably reminded Ning Zhuo of Shan Feibai.
That blend of streetwise charm and coyness made Ning Zhuo want to pull out some cash, tell him to use his wits properly, and go back to school.
After the guy left, sulking, Ning Zhuo sensed trouble.
He was a new face on this street. If people kept approaching and he kept turning them down, it would look suspicious.
This wasn’t some upscale trading hub.
Playing hard-to-get here wouldn’t fly.
Ning Zhuo pulled out his communicator, messaging his client to come a few minutes early.
But then, a pair of elegant, pointed leather shoes approached from the distance, stopping in front of him.
Ning Zhuo’s peripheral glance caught them, and his heart stirred.
Such expensive, refined shoes didn’t belong in this filthy, low-rent red-light district, awash with sewage.
Lifting his head, he locked eyes with Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai’s handsome brows furrowed slightly as he sized Ning Zhuo up.
Ning Zhuo’s skin was naturally luminous, his eyes a deep, gem-like green—a striking contrast.
Looking at him, Shan Feibai recalled an old saying: A face like peach blossoms.
Hiding his tightly clenched fists behind his back, he tilted his head, asking playfully, “What’s our Ning-ge doing here?”
Ning Zhuo, recovering from a fleeting moment of embarrassment, answered smoothly, “Working.”
He couldn’t let personal grudges lead to violently chasing Shan Feibai off and risk derailing the client’s mission.
That was basic mercenary professionalism—and respect for the money.
Shan Feibai nearly choked on the sourness rising in his throat: “Is this… ‘Haina’s’ new line of business?”
Ning Zhuo: “Yeah, thanks to ‘Panqiao’ helping us branch out.”
Shan Feibai forced a smile: “I watched from afar for a while, wasn’t even sure it was you. …Business booming?”
Ning Zhuo shot him a look, finding his cryptic, sour remarks grating, stirring an acidic churn in his own stomach.
When he spoke again, his tone carried a bite: “And you? What are you doing here? Sightseeing?”
Shan Feibai was vague: “Got some business.”
Ning Zhuo: “Business in the red-light district? You here to play my colleague or my client?”
Shan Feibai’s lips tightened, his anger flaring.
He knew Ning Zhuo was here for a job.
But he couldn’t stand seeing lowlifes hit on him, or Ning Zhuo being polite to strangers while giving him nothing but cold sarcasm.
He slung an arm tightly around Ning Zhuo’s waist: “Got some free time now, so I’ll play your client. Let’s go—where’s the mission spot?”
Ning Zhuo held out his hand: “Pay up.”
Shan Feibai made an exaggerated face: “Come on, officer, a good citizen’s helping with your mission, and instead of thanking me, you’re charging?”
Ning Zhuo: “No money, no service. Don’t mess with my work.”
Shan Feibai stood his ground: “Not paying. I’m getting this for free.”
The client, arriving late, watched from a distance as the two bickered shoulder-to-shoulder into the motel, dumbfounded.
Snapping out of it, he hurried after them, his communicator buzzing.
Ning Zhuo sent him two words: “Mission proceeds.”
The client replied anxiously: “I just saw him pull the curtains on the third floor, east side, second window. Don’t forget to book the room next to his.”
…
The motel’s owner doubled as the front desk clerk.
Ning Zhuo produced a pre-arranged “street worker ID”—a small green card proving the worker’s health and cleanliness.
Checked monthly, reissued monthly, ensuring safety for both worker and client.
While reviewing the ID, the owner chatted with Ning Zhuo: “New face?”
Ning Zhuo: “First time.”
The owner clicked his tongue: “With a face like that, you could do anything.”
Ning Zhuo lowered his head, staying silent.
The owner’s gaze flicked between Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai, a hint of innuendo in his expression: “Saw you two tussling outside. Know each other?”
Without exchanging a glance, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai launched into a seamless string of nonsense.
Shan Feibai, with a touch of bravado: “I’m his regular.”
Ning Zhuo: “…Former regular. Last time didn’t work out, we’re done.”
Shan Feibai: “Because I’m broke?”
Ning Zhuo: “No, because you’re lacking.”
Shan Feibai’s face darkened, as if his pride had been stung, his tone turning genuinely sharp: “…You came all the way here to dodge me, and I still found you. Waiting all this time without taking clients—don’t tell me you weren’t waiting for me?”
Ning Zhuo: “Nope, waiting for a high bidder.”
Shan Feibai: “Ha, wrong place for that. Next time, I’ll hook you up with a better spot.”
Ning Zhuo turned to him: “Forget next time, settle this one first.”
Shan Feibai playfully swatted his outstretched palm: “Didn’t I say? This one’s on the house—room’s on you.”
The owner, amused by their banter, found the pair charming.
He promptly booked Room 312 on the third floor, as Ning Zhuo requested.
The mission went smoothly.
Ning Zhuo had wasted time on Shan Feibai, so by the time they entered the motel, Mr. A had finished his session, dismissed his worker, and was sprawled on the bed, snoring.
With Shan Feibai keeping watch outside, Ning Zhuo effortlessly picked the lock on A’s door and swiped the chip.
Job done, Ning Zhuo was about to leave when Shan Feibai grabbed him from behind.
Shan Feibai played coy: “No way, we’ve barely been here five minutes. What’ll the owner think of me?”
Ning Zhuo shot him a sideways glance, silent, and moved to leave.
Shan Feibai clung to him: “The room’s already booked. Stay and sleep with me. I just finished a job, staked out for days, finally got the chance to take out a serial rapist…”
Yawning, his eyes misted with fatigue: “I’m beat.”
Hearing the real reason for Shan Feibai’s presence in the red-light district, Ning Zhuo’s heart inexplicably eased.
But his mouth stayed sharp: “Can’t you sleep on your own?”
Shan Feibai latched onto him like an octopus, whispering, “I used a dagger. ‘White Shield’ will be here soon, and they’ll lock down the area. Ning-ge doesn’t want to get caught on the way back, right?”
Ning Zhuo fell quiet.
Sure enough, the faint wail of “White Shield” sirens echoed in the silent night.
Shan Feibai’s nonsense held some truth.
Ning Zhuo’s identity wasn’t clean.
If “White Shield” stopped him for a search, he couldn’t explain the chip’s origin.
Botching the job would tarnish “Haina’s” reputation.
Using the key, Ning Zhuo opened Room 312’s door and washed up in the basic bathroom.
The room had one double bed, mediocre quality, its springs palpable when lying down.
Ning Zhuo wasn’t picky about beds. After washing, he slept.
Shan Feibai, with his pampered upbringing, climbed onto the other side, grudgingly lying back-to-back with him.
Silence stretched between them.
Ning Zhuo closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
Shan Feibai, however, couldn’t drift off.
After enduring a stifling quiet, he rolled over, facing Ning Zhuo’s back.
“Ning-ge, I feel awful,” he muttered softly. “The way they looked at you, priced you—I hate it.”
Hearing his grumbling, Ning Zhuo, on the edge of sleep, dismissed it as another of Shan Feibai’s ploys: “If you feel bad, rip your heart out and be done with it.”
Shan Feibai gave a bitter laugh, a touch of grievance in his voice: “If I showed it to you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Ning Zhuo: “Exactly. I don’t believe a word you say.”
Shan Feibai went quiet for a moment, then suddenly scooted closer, burying his face in Ning Zhuo’s back, making his muscles twitch.
Slyly, Shan Feibai said, “Ning-ge, you’re lying. When I said I was here to kill, you believed me. You trust me more than you think.”
Ning Zhuo: “…I’m sleeping. Keep talking, and I’ll cut your tongue out and hand you to ‘White Shield’ next door.”
Amid Shan Feibai’s nonsense and banter, Ning Zhuo drifted into a hazy sleep.
He slept soundly for six hours.
At dawn’s first light, Ning Zhuo jolted upright, scanning the room.
The bed was empty.
Shan Feibai was gone.
But the chip was still safely in his hand.
Getting up, Ning Zhuo noticed a steaming glass of milk and a plate of soft milk toast on the motel’s chipped wooden table.
Next to it was a note.
In Shan Feibai’s flowing, carefree handwriting:
“Ning-ge, I’m heading out. I left the food, no poison.
You trust me, so eat it all!”
…
Ning Zhuo slowly woke from his groggy slumber.
Feeling drained, he knew his fever hadn’t broken.
Shan Feibai was already up, bustling energetically. Seeing Ning Zhuo awake, he leaned in: “I’m about to make breakfast. What does Ning-ge want?”
Without thinking, Ning Zhuo blurted, “Same as back then—milk and bread.”
Shan Feibai blinked, then lit up, practically wagging an imaginary tail: “Back then, did you eat it?”
When he’d left the milk and bread in the motel, Shan Feibai had assumed Ning Zhuo would toss it all out.
Ning Zhuo, uninterested in indulging him, covered half his face and burning forehead with his arm: “…Shut up. I’ll cut your tongue.”
Shan Feibai nodded to himself, grinning.
—That meant he ate it all, right?
