Both of Mu Ning’s parents were teachers. They lived in a small prefecture-level city in her hometown, Chu City, which wasn’t a provincial capital. Her father taught high school history, while her mother taught middle school mathematics.
They were exactly the kind of teachers people stereotypically imagined: serious, old-fashioned, dedicated to their work, and, of course, extremely conservative.
Even now, they weren’t very supportive of Mu Ning working in the gaming industry. Since she had majored in English, they believed the safest career path was to return to Chu City and take the civil service examination. Her second-best option was to obtain a teaching certificate and become an English teacher like them. If that didn’t work out, she could at least join one of the tutoring institutions that had survived the industry’s devastating crackdown and were now barely hanging on.
At the very least, she could follow the example of Xia Li, a senior from her high school whom her father had once taught. Xia Li had also majored in English and eventually found a job in international business operations.
Otherwise, what had been the point of struggling through six years of English studies?
Of course, Mu Ning wouldn’t dare talk back.
So I can play any game that doesn’t have a Chinese language option without any difficulty!
That was what she wanted to say.
In the family group chat, her parents would occasionally share articles from official media accounts without saying anything. The articles might discuss the government’s tightening of game licensing approvals, hundreds of game startups closing in a certain city, state media once again criticizing a game for sexually suggestive content that supposedly harmed young people’s physical and mental health, or experts claiming that the gaming industry’s golden age was over.
In short, they had been holding on to one simple wish for a very long time: they hoped the so-called “electronic opium” industry would eventually be shut down in one sweeping move, just like the private tutoring industry. Then Mu Ning would have no choice but to return to her hometown and take the civil service or teaching examinations.
Mengmeng burst out laughing.
“What do you expect me to say? I’m from Shandong! I’ve already been disowned by my own family!”
On Sunday, the two went out for a meal at a Yunnan-Guizhou-Sichuan-style bistro.
Mu Ning thought there was something strangely bizarre about putting the words “Yunnan-Guizhou-Sichuan” and “bistro” together, but Mengmeng was the kind of person whose curiosity about unusual foods always got the better of her.
As it turned out, the disastrous culinary experience Mu Ning had anticipated never happened. In fact, several dishes were surprisingly delicious.
Perhaps much of life was simply a process of forming prejudices, reinforcing them, or eventually overturning them.
Mu Ning took another bite of the grilled milk fan cheese topped with rose sauce and continued talking.
“Once, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I posted a statistical report in the family group to argue against them. The report said China’s gaming industry was worth more than one trillion yuan, and a single leading game company alone contributed fifteen billion yuan in taxes.”
“What happened next? How did your parents respond?”
“My mom waited six hours before replying. Then she asked me, ‘How many billions of yuan was the real estate industry’s market size a few years ago, before it completely collapsed?'”
Mengmeng burst into laughter.
Mu Ning sighed. “Why did I even bother humiliating myself like that?”
“Are they not even a little curious about what you actually do at work?”
“No. Before and after our game entered open beta, we released lots of promotional videos. My dad watched them and said the dialogue was way too suggestive. He asked whether I’d written it and told me that, as a girl, I shouldn’t create that kind of content.”
“Oh my God.”
Mu Ning shrugged.
“Then imagine what would happen if they found out their future son-in-law also works in the gaming industry. They’d probably disown you as their daughter.”
“…Wait a second! Who’s my future son-in-law?”
“Jing Xuan, obviously.”
“Shh!” Mu Ning glanced around guiltily, as though she were doing something illegal. “…We only just added each other on WeChat!”
“With your irresistible charm, it’s only a matter of time,” Mengmeng said with a grin.
“Stop exaggerating and messing with my head.”
“Any normal man would admit I’m just stating the obvious.”
Mu Ning couldn’t help smiling at the flattery.
Mengmeng asked, “Any progress these past few days?”
“No.”
“But you already have his WeChat. Haven’t you talked?”
“…No.”
Mengmeng looked at her with an expression full of doubt, as though she could hardly believe that someone who had written a viral storyline for an otome game could be so hopeless at romance in real life.
“He’s a real person, not a character I created…”
“And all that sweet talk you’re so good at is completely useless?”
“…Completely.”
“Just ask him out for a meal.”
“…That would make my intentions way too obvious. If he rejected me, I’d be so embarrassed.”
“If you don’t message him soon, you’ll end up as just another forgotten contact on his list.”
Mu Ning sighed.
After finishing their meal, she and Mengmeng watched a movie, then wandered around MINISO and a variety store, buying a pile of cheap, unnecessary little things that nevertheless made them feel happier. Afterward, they each took a taxi home.
After showering, Mu Ning lay on her bed and did some quick editing on the photos she’d taken of their beautiful meal. She selected six pictures and posted them to WeChat Moments with the caption:
“From now on, I’ll believe that any two things that seem completely unrelated can be paired together perfectly.”
This was around the time when people were most active on social media. Her post received several likes almost immediately.
She pulled down to refresh the page, and a comment appeared.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
X: “Is it spicy?”
Mu Ning tapped the comment, intending to reply, but then backed out and opened her private chat with Jing Xuan instead.
morning: [Photo]
morning: “I took pictures of this restaurant’s menu. You can use them as a reference next time~ They have lots of non-spicy dishes~”
Almost immediately, the words The other person is typing… appeared at the top of the chat.
Mu Ning often thought that the product manager who had come up with this typing indicator must have understood the secret to making online conversations addictive: leaving people hanging.
Who could see those six little words without anticipating what the other person was about to say?
X: “On a scale of one to ten, how willing would you be to come back here?”
morning: “Nine.”
The typing indicator appeared and disappeared repeatedly. This time, it stayed on the screen much longer than it had before.
Just when she was eagerly waiting for his reply, the black text vanished.
Mu Ning grabbed the cotton plushie of Valerius lying beside her pillow and smacked it several times, trying to suppress her growing frustration.
She waited and waited, but X didn’t send anything else.
Staring blankly at the chat window was ridiculous.
She was just about to switch apps and open Xiaohongshu when a photo suddenly appeared on the left side of the screen.
It showed a cotton plushie leaning against a row of books.
It wore a wizard’s hat and a red scarf, with a potion bottle in its hand.
It was Nova.
morning: “Is this official merchandise? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the official account release it. Or did I just miss it?”
X: “The operations team thought it wouldn’t sell very well, so it was never mass-produced.”
morning: “…Are you showing off to me? poking, poking”
X: “No.”
Then the typing… indicator started flashing again and again.
What on earth was he trying to say that required so much deliberation?
X: “If you like it, I’ll give it to you.”
morning: “Really?!”
morning: “Then I won’t stand on ceremony! cute”
X: “No need to be polite. Nova would be happy to end up in the hands of someone who understands him.”
…Such a formal, perfectly worded response. It was impossible to find a flaw in it.
No wonder he had made it all the way to the position of producer.
X: “What’s the most convenient way to get it to you?”
morning: “You could call a same-day delivery service to send it to me.”
A moment passed before Jing Xuan replied.
X: “Sure. Send me your address.”
morning: “…I was joking.”
X: “I didn’t realize that.”
X: “Then?”
morning: “What’s the most convenient way for you to give it to me?”
Mu Ning wanted to take back every compliment she’d ever given that product manager.
Someone, please start a petition to get rid of this stupid typing… feature!
The heart of an office worker already struggling with poor health couldn’t take this kind of emotional whiplash.
Finally, a message arrived.
X: “Tomorrow at noon? Meet at the entrance of Building F?”
morning: [OK emoji]
X: “See you tomorrow.”
Mu Ning deleted the little tilde she’d originally added to her reply because she didn’t want to make herself seem too eager.
morning: “See you tomorrow.”
Very calm. Very composed. Perfectly appropriate.
That was the end of their conversation for the day.
Mu Ning scrolled through their relatively short chat history from beginning to end and couldn’t help laughing out loud.
After reviewing the conversation, she concluded that she’d done pretty well.
Unfortunately, the good mood that followed her into her dreams came crashing down the next morning the moment she turned off her phone’s Do Not Disturb mode.
At seven in the morning, Jing Xuan had left her two messages.
X: “Sorry. Something unexpected came up, and I have to go on a business trip. Can I give it to you after I get back?”
X: “Alternatively, I can arrange for a colleague to deliver it to you first.”
Mu Ning looked at the carefully selected outfit she’d prepared for the occasion the night before. It was hanging on the IKEA RIGGA clothes rack she’d dragged home and placed beside her door.
She sighed and replied to X.
morning: “It’s okay. We can talk about it after you get back.”
morning: “Hope everything goes smoothly~”
He replied immediately.
X: “I’m really sorry.”
morning: “It’s fine, it’s fine~”
Her anticipation of seeing him had come to nothing, leaving a dark cloud hanging over her head.
Even worse, Sister Gua had once again assigned the task of writing Valerius’s birthday story to someone she’d brought over from another team.
Mu Ning didn’t even bother making a futile attempt to fight for the assignment.
Whatever. Let things turn out however they wanted.
She almost hoped the game’s revenue would plummet and the servers would shut down for good, putting an end to everything.
At noon, she had lunch with another long-suffering colleague from the copywriting team. When she returned to the floor occupied by Lightyear Matrix, the young woman at the reception desk called out to her.
“Your milk tea has arrived.”
The receptionist picked up a takeout bag from a popular tea shop and handed it to Mu Ning.
Mu Ning was surprised.
“I didn’t order any milk tea!”
The receptionist checked the receipt.
“It’s addressed to you. Someone must have ordered it for you.”
Confused, Mu Ning accepted the bag.
The delivery address on the receipt read: “Lightyear Matrix Reception Desk, 23rd Floor, Building C, XX Technology Park.”
The recipient’s name was Mu Ning.
The phone number listed was the company’s reception desk.
The delivery instructions read:
“Please have the receptionist pass this to Mu Ning from the copywriting team.”
Mu Ning was very familiar with this style of writing, in which every sentence ended with proper punctuation.
But she still couldn’t quite believe it was really him.
Back at her desk, Mu Ning took a picture of the bag.
She swiveled around in her office chair and hesitated for a long time before finally opening WeChat on her computer and bringing up her conversation with Jing Xuan.
She sent him the photo.
morning: “I received a cup of milk tea.”
X: “Is thirty percent sugar sweet enough?”