The hallway’s sensor light was broken. Darkness swallowed everything. Under the faint, tattered moonlight coming through the skylight, He Zheng rummaged through his suitcase and fished out a key.
The keyhole was badly rusted. As he turned the key, he was already prepared for it to snap inside. His gaze swept past a small sticker on the door that read “Locksmith Auntie — call for service.”
Click. The door opened.
After eight years of vacancy, the place was buried under layers of dust, the air thick with an indescribable, stale stench that rushed into his nose.
He Zheng pulled the suitcase inside, felt along the wall until he found the breaker switch, and pushed it upward. The light flickered for a while before settling into a weak, yellow glow.
Following the source of the odor, he stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge— Rotten meat. Spoiled eggs. Wilted lettuce. A block of tofu riddled with tiny holes from parasites.
“…”
He slammed the fridge door shut and went to open the window for air.
He Zheng never cooked, and if not for the nauseating assault of that smell, he wouldn’t have even thought of the person who used to buy groceries and make meals here.
That memory was from eight years ago—too vague now, like a short, fading dream.
He went around opening every window. The smell gradually thinned. Leaning against the sill, He Zheng lit a cigarette. A long strand of hair fell from behind his ear, almost brushing the flame.
He exhaled a puff of white smoke between his teeth, half-squinting as he scanned the furniture.
Good. Nothing missing. Looks like no one had broken in.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. The caller ID showed his foster mother, He Linlin.
“You’ve arrived?” her soft voice asked. “Why didn’t you call me when you got there?”
“Was just about to,” He Zheng said with a laugh. “You’re even more impatient than I am.”
“There’s something I forgot to tell you this morning,” she said. “Someone sent you a package — just a document envelope. Looks like a letter.”
He Zheng’s hand paused mid-motion, flicking ash. “Don’t open it. Just leave it in the study.”
She murmured an absentminded “okay,” then fell silent. After a while, she took a deep breath and asked tentatively, “Are you… going live tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Do your best,” she said. He Linlin wasn’t good at expressing emotion; she had a lot to say but couldn’t find the words.
He Zheng understood. He chuckled softly, told her to go to bed early, and hung up.
Before twenty-eight, He Zheng’s career had been glamorous. Even though his cross-dressing roles were never widely accepted, he was still, at least, part of the entertainment industry. After twenty-eight—today, to be exact—he’d bowed his head to reality.
The reason was simple: no more roles. He was on the verge of going hungry.
Hearing the news, a few shady “industry brokers” eagerly offered him business cards, claiming that one phone call could turn his luck around. He Zheng looked at the familiar names of directors and hotel addresses printed on them and said, “Forget it. I’ll just stay down.”
In the end, he decided to try livestreaming while continuing to look for acting work.
Comparing the lighting in both bedrooms, he set up his phone stand, spent a minute debating whether to wear a dress, then decided against it. He simply washed his face, took a deep breath — half calm, half nervous — and hit “Start Live.”
A striking face appeared on the screen. His eyes tilted upward at the corners, fox-like, sharp and seductive. His jawline was clean and defined, balancing the femininity of his long hair with a touch of masculine edge.
The viewer count stayed at zero. He Zheng frowned — he’d posted a livestream notice on Weibo yesterday. Surely his ten thousand followers weren’t that indifferent?
No way. Right?
He scrutinized his reflection for a while, wondering if it was because he wasn’t wearing makeup. He turned on the app’s beauty filter, cranked it up to level 5, decided it looked fake, and slid it back down to level 2.
When the viewer count finally rose from 0 to 17, He Zheng sighed in relief. He was just about to greet them when a comment popped up:
“Is your hair extensions?”
“No.” He Zheng tugged on a strand of his hair. “Been growing it since I was a kid.”
Another comment followed:
“Can you tell us which hospital did your nose? It looks amazing.”
“Born with it.”
He Zheng earnestly pressed his finger against his nose, pushing it upward like a pig snout.
That person didn’t reply again. The chat went silent for a few minutes, until someone else typed:
“Haven’t seen you act in a long time. Did you quit the industry?”
“No.” He Zheng’s tone was brief, cutting the topic short.
The viewer count dropped from 17 to 9. He started wondering if he should order takeout after this or go out to eat.
Or maybe just skip dinner. He hadn’t eaten dinner in years — a habit formed when he started playing female roles.
A new comment popped up. The username was DirtyBallMommy:
[Why aren’t you wearing a dress today?]
“If you want to see it,” He Zheng said lightly, “I can change right now. Won’t take long.”
DirtyBallMommy: [Then hurry up~ I’ll wait for you~]
He Zheng stood, rummaged through his suitcase, and picked out a black long dress. He went to the bathroom to change.
He was tall, not slender — the dress fit a little snugly — but after checking himself in the mirror and confirming that he still looked good, he returned to the screen and sat back down.
In less than five minutes, the viewer count had dropped from nine to one. The last comment appeared ten seconds ago.
DirtyBallMommy: [Dirty Ball just started streaming — I’m going to watch him, bye~]
He Zheng: “…”
Only one viewer remained, and they hadn’t spoken a word. He Zheng felt a little sleepy. After admiring his own beauty on the screen for a while, he went to tidy up his luggage, clean the apartment, and wash his hair.
Four hours later—after hitting the platform’s required streaming duration—he came back with a towel on his head, ready to end the stream. Just before logging off, he glanced at the viewer count again—still one.
That person hadn’t left.
Perhaps realizing that he was about to end the stream, the viewer suddenly sent a gift the moment He Zheng reappeared on screen.
It was a hair dryer.
To be precise, a purple, rhinestone-studded hair dryer—with a special effect of wind blowing wildly across the screen, making a loud whooshing noise.
He Zheng raised an eyebrow and let out a faint “Wow,” saying, “Thank you.”
The person still didn’t speak. Then they sent another. And another. Then, as if unsatisfied, they went on a frenzied spree—sending gift after gift until the screen was filled entirely with animated hair dryers, completely covering He Zheng’s face. Only then did it stop.
“Alright, that’s enough,” He Zheng said, unable to hold back a laugh. “Keep blowing and my hair’s gonna split.”
The user’s name had originally been a string of gibberish, but after the gift spree, a golden badge appeared next to it—“Top Supporter.”
Apparently very pleased with their performance, the “top supporter” finally spoke for the first time, their message displayed in bold red letters reserved for top donators:
[Add me on WeChat.]