I’m Allergic to Pheromones - Chapter 25

“It’s me. Is the director not in today?”

Outside Angel Orphanage, a red sports car was parked by a wall. Nan Ju sat inside gripping her phone, most of her body hidden in shadow.

She had impulsively decided to secretly check on White Tea, never expecting the orphanage director to coincidentally be absent. The other staff didn’t recognize her, so while they could still receive her, Nan Ju didn’t want to make a scene and reveal her identity.

If she accidentally ran into White Tea, it would mean she’d broken her promise. Instinctively, Nan Ju felt that wouldn’t be right.

That wild kitten had a temper—she might just cut ties with her.

“No need to trouble yourselves. Since the director isn’t here, I’ll visit another day.” Her pink fingertips tapped lightly on the steering wheel as Nan Ju considered her options before deciding to return in a couple of days. Still, she couldn’t shake her concern for her kitten and asked,

“Did the children like the clothes donated last time?”

That little one was so frail, and every time they met, none of the clothes or shoes she wore fit properly. Nan Ju had previously sent over some gender-neutral outfits, deliberately selecting a range of sizes to avoid any obvious favoritism.

White Tea hadn’t presented yet, so preferences couldn’t be guessed just by appearance. In this world, there were six genders—boys might like pink, girls might prefer minimalist styles. Once, while out, Nan Ju had even seen a little boy with a purple plush bear backpack and tiny pigtails heading to kindergarten.

“They loved them. All the children received clothes fairly, and they’re all curious about who ‘Little Orange’ is.”

Nan Ju smiled faintly, glancing at the familiar red-brick wall before stepping out of the car.

“I’m glad they liked them. I have a friend who’s interested in charity work and recently wanted to collaborate with an orphanage for a donation-themed project. If you’re willing, I could help arrange it…”

The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the lush starfruit tree, its slender branches swaying beyond the wall, casting dancing shadows on the ground.

After hanging up, Nan Ju looked up at the thriving tree, imagining how it would be covered in tiny pink blossoms by summer—so dense there’d hardly be a good spot to perch.

“Silly cat, let’s see how you climb this then.”

Having come with inexplicable emotions, Nan Ju had cautiously gathered information and, reassured that White Tea was safe at the orphanage like the others, drove back.

The trip had begun under clear skies and moonlight, but on the return, a light rain began to fall—fine, misty, and cold, quickly shrouding the sky.

A thunderclap boomed. Inside the orphanage, a thin figure huddled in a corner, knees drawn to their chest.

Wind and rain lashed outside, strange noises rising all around. The door was yanked shut from the outside, the heavy click of the lock unmistakable. A cold, cutting woman’s voice pierced through.

The storm had arrived—swift and relentless.

“White Tea, since you refuse to say where you stole that money from, you’ll stay in the detention room until dawn to reflect on what you’ve done.”

The figure in the corner stirred. Bai Cha glared up at the thick wooden door, resisting like a cornered animal. “I didn’t steal anything.”

“Stubborn till the end!” The tall, gaunt nun administrator with a perpetually sour expression shook her head in frustration, jangling her keys. “If you refuse to admit your mistake, you’ll stay here until the Mother Superior returns. I’ll recommend your expulsion from the orphanage. You’ll regret this.”

The footsteps faded away. Bai Cha clenched her jaw, forcing back tears. The room was pitch black, the storm outside so violent it felt like the floor was shaking.

No crying. Tears would mean surrender. She’d done nothing wrong—why should she apologize?

This was the smallest room on the ground floor, completely bare, filled only with the musty scent of old dust. The heavy rain poured down, streaming noisily into the gutters beneath the eaves—each drop distinct and weighty.

Bai Cha could picture it clearly: raindrops shattering against the hard concrete, splashing violently enough to soak the wooden door, creating dark water stains. The damp wood would emit that faint, unpleasant odor of rot.

Each heavy raindrop hitting the puddles would bloom into transparent flowers of varying sizes, only to vanish into the shadows of the corner drains.

No one understood the punishment of the dark room better than her.

Children who committed serious offenses at the orphanage were locked inside to reflect on their mistakes—only released once they confessed.

This was Bai Cha’s second time.

Last time, it was because her hair hadn’t been properly tied during morning prayers, deemed “disrespectfully unkempt” by the strict nuns. They’d caned her palms with bamboo strips and locked her in the dark room for a full day and night.

It had been wintered then. Snow weighed heavily on the branches outside, and the dim moonlight filtering through the grimy transom window cast only a feeble, ghostly beam—so faint it seemed it might disappear any moment.

Bai Cha remembered the unbearable cold. Her thin clothes provided no protection against the damp chill that crept up from the soles of her feet to her spine, leaving her shivering uncontrollably.

She’d nearly convinced herself she’d become some pitiful flower, trembling under the crushing weight of snow, her back about to snap from the cold.

If the Mother Superior hadn’t arrived in time, she might have died in that desolate winter.

Now, the storm raged on, stripping leaves and twigs from the trees. Bai Cha shifted slightly, leaning against the bare wall as she hugged her knees and closed her eyes. Exhaustion began to overtake her in this miserable place.

She didn’t yet know that two people had already come to blows over her.

“Ow!”

Caught off guard, Mo Chuiliu was shoved into a corner, landing hard on her backside while her shoulder slammed against the wall. Before she could decide whether to rub her bruised bottom or aching shoulder, a small figure pounced on her, raining down punches and kicks.

“Why did you stop me? Why?” Tang Ou’s fists flew as she cried, teeth clenched tight. “What good does it do you if Bai Cha gets thrown out?”

Mo Chuiliu dodged frantically, still taking several hits. When an unexpected punch landed on her nose, she finally fought back, wrapping her arms tightly around the furious little attacker.

“Stop it! Do you want to bring the nuns down on us and get locked up too?”

Tang Ou was held tightly like a little frog, and at those words, she felt fire rush to her forehead. Struggling violently, she screamed with a thick sob in her voice, “Fine, I’ll go! It should have been mine in the first place!”

Slap!

A sharp, resounding slap rang out. The heated argument and physical clash were drowned by the unprecedented downpour, tears hidden within the rain like broken strings of pearls.

Tang Ou sat slumped on the ground, clutching her cheek, her expression a mix of fury and confusion—as if the slap had stunned her senseless, leaving her dazed and unresponsive.

Mo Chuilui winced as she rubbed her shoulder, then hauled the girl up from the ground.

“Don’t sit there—you’ll catch a cold.”

Tang Ou numbly let herself be pulled up, her reaction delayed by several beats before she suddenly retaliated with a slap of her own. “Don’t pretend to care!”

The back of Mo Chuilui’s hand turned red from the impact. She hissed in pain, then forced a bitter smile. “If I said I wasn’t the one who snitched, would you believe me?”

“No one else knew our secret except you.”

The girl standing opposite her, puffed up like an angry little bird, wore disbelief all over her face, leaving Mo Chuilui at a loss for words…

Yeah, who would believe it? Just yesterday, she had admitted knowing that Bai Cha sneaked out on weekends to work odd jobs, and today, the nuns raided the dorm, flipping over the money hidden under the bed boards and catching her red-handed. If she claimed innocence, who’d buy it?

The glare Bai Cha shot her before leaving was downright venomous—she must have thought it was Mo Chuilui’s doing too.

The thought made Mo Chuilui feel even more wronged. Her tall frame slumped, dark clouds practically hanging over her head.

She mumbled a few times before whispering, “I really didn’t tell on you.”

Tang Ou, of course, didn’t believe her.

Seething with anger and limited by her meager vocabulary, she could only repeat the same few curses over and over until tears spilled down her cheeks again.

“Don’t follow me, you jerk!”

The rain was pouring too hard, and the detention room had nothing inside—even the healthiest person wouldn’t fare well in there. She had to find Bai Cha.

“Wait.” Mo Chuilui hastily grabbed her. “Without the key, going there is pointless. The nuns must’ve locked the door.”

“I have a key.”

A flash of brilliant blue split the dark sky as a few thin wires lay in Mo Chuilui’s palm.

Tang Ou, eyes swollen, voice hoarse, scoffed, “That’s it?”

“Ahem, it’ll do. I picked up a trick or two. Did you really think I could just snatch the key off the nuns?” Mo Chuilui rubbed her nose guiltily, her face burning with shame—thankfully, the poor lighting hid it.

Tang Ou stayed silent for several minutes, only moving when the other girl looked ready to dig a hole and bury herself in mortification.

“Let’s go, then.”

In her daze, Bai Cha heard someone calling her name—as if through thick fog, carried by the cold wind and rain, urgent and persistent.

It annoyed her enough to pry her eyes open, but her head was a dark, muddled mess, every inch of her surroundings feeling like a hard, icy prison.

She was uncomfortable—every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck, which stung as if pricked by needles.

“Bai Cha! Are you in there?”

The door of the detention room was being pounded heavily. Bai Cha heard Tang Ou’s voice outside, crying and shouting for her.

Pushing herself up from the ground, she pinched the nape of her neck, bewildered. A dream? Why else would I hear Tang Ou crying?

“Stop shouting, I’m not dead yet.”

Outside the door, Tang Ou, who had been pounding on it through the wind and rain, froze. Then she immediately pressed her face against the wooden panel, calling out repeatedly, “Bai Cha, was that you just now?”

Bai Cha, who had moved from the corner to lean against the wall by the door while rubbing her half-stiff limbs, replied sluggishly, “If it wasn’t me, then who? A ghost? What are you doing here instead of sleeping?”

Almost instantly, Tang Ou broke down upon hearing the response. She slid from the door to the floor, sitting there and crying, completely ignoring how the rain had already soaked the ground.

The tightly wound thread inside her snapped. Though her sobs couldn’t pierce through the rain, they easily penetrated the thin barrier of the door.

On the other side, Bai Cha pressed a hand to her throbbing temple, forcing patience as she coaxed, “Stop crying.”

Her whole body ached, and Tang Ou’s crying only made it worse.

Tang Ou had always listened to her. The moment she was told to stop, she quickly stifled her tears, though her lips still trembled with hiccups.

“Bai Cha… why… why did you say it was your money?”

The equally frail girl crouched pitifully in front of the door, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Guilt churned inside her like the relentless rain.

Under their shared bed lay over three hundred yuan—Tang Ou’s share of the profits from her long collaboration with Bai Cha. She had hidden it carefully, intending to use it to survive for a while if no one ever adopted her.

The orphanage strictly forbade minors from running away or hoarding money. Violating either rule could get them thrown out onto the streets.

When those bills were held up high, Tang Ou couldn’t remember what she had been thinking—her mind had gone blank, or maybe it was just a tangled mess, like yarn kicked apart by a cat.

All she recalled was the nun’s sharp, eagle-like gaze sweeping over them, her voice icy enough to make one’s legs shake.

She hadn’t dared to move a muscle—but someone else had.

Bai Cha stepped forward and took the blame.

Watching her being led away by the nun, Tang Ou finally snapped out of her dazed terror and tried to chase after them to confess the truth—only for Mo Chuiliu to clamp a hand over her mouth and drag her back.

The well-behaved child who should have been punished now slept soundly in a soft dream, while the troublemaker was locked away in a dark, grim cage.

Tang Ou felt like a despicable thief. She didn’t deserve such a good friend.

Clutching the door like a fool, she sobbed, “It’s all my fault. I—I’ll go confess to the nun. Bai Cha, wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

“No one will believe you.” Mo Chuiliu, who had been standing silently nearby, pinned her down with precision, shifting to shield Tang Ou from the unrelenting wind and rain. “Even if you confess, the nun won’t let Bai Cha out.”

“Why?”

“Because Bai Cha is a ‘bad kid.'”

Behind the damp door, Bai Cha lowered her lashes and, in eerie unison with Mo Chuiliu, murmured the same words.

Tang Ou’s legs gave out. “Why? It wasn’t Bai Cha’s fault!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

And it truly didn’t. Everyone loved good children—no one loved the bad ones.

If a troublemaker slipped up even once, people would instinctively assume, “It must be that disobedient child again.”

Even if it wasn’t true, it didn’t matter.

This world had never been overflowing with justice or fairness. Life was unfair to everyone.

Bai Cha was probably that bad child who never received any divine favor.

“Don’t worry about me. Just go back and sleep.”

No one would agree to that.

A few knocks sounded on the door, followed by Mo Chuiliu’s voice, slightly distorted.

“Bai Cha, it’s too cold in there. Let me get you out first, and we can all hide in an empty classroom on the second floor until the rain stops. Then, before dawn, you can go back in. The nun won’t notice.”

“You have a key?”

The rain was pouring so heavily that they had to raise their voices just to be heard. Mo Chuiliu sensed the surprise in the other’s tone and calmly pulled out a piece of wire from her pocket. “No,” she said nonchalantly, “but I learned a trick or two from a locksmith before. He had a nickname—China’s Lock King.”

That sounded more like a professional pickpocket than a locksmith. What kind of legitimate locksmith would teach people to pick locks with wire?

Bai Cha fell silent for a moment, deciding to overlook this minor, unimportant issue.

This time was different from before. She really wasn’t feeling well—her head was heavy and foggy. If she had to spend the night here, she might not make it through.

And whether it was her imagination or not, the back of her neck felt like it was burning, painful to the touch.

Bai Cha stood up, rubbing her knees, which ached from the dampness, and leaned against the wall beside the door, breathing heavily.

“Then it’s up to you.”

Mo Chuiliu, who had never once received a kind word or a friendly look from Bai Cha, was instantly thrilled. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably as she nervously muttered, “Leave it to me, I’ll definitely… mess it up…”

Bai Cha’s sharp ears caught the sound of the wire snapping, and her heart skipped a beat with a sense of foreboding.

“Did you get it open?”

The tall girl licked her lips, stammering as she tried to explain, “Well, you see, let me justify—no, let me explain. The thing is, since I’m destined to be an Alpha woman, my grip strength is naturally stronger than most people’s, so, uh, well…”

“She broke the wire inside the lock,” Tang Ou finally recovered enough to step forward and summed it up succinctly.

Bai Cha fell into deep silence.

Why had she trusted Mo Chuiliu, this absolute idiot?

This useless fool!

With the wire stuck in the lock, it couldn’t be pulled out. Even if they got their hands on the real key now, the door wouldn’t open. The only way was to smash the lock entirely.

“What do we do now? Even with a key, it won’t open. Will the headmistress be back tomorrow? Would begging for mercy together work?”

Tang Ou looked at the lock on the door, on the verge of tears, and felt like kneeling before Mo Chuiliu.

Originally, they had just wanted to secretly pick the lock, sneak Bai Cha out, and find shelter from the storm for the night. Then, before dawn, they could lock her back in without anyone noticing. But now, after this mess, their crime was even worse. The three of them might end up reunited in the detention room.

Mo Chuiliu thought about the ambulance that had whisked the headmistress away earlier and hesitated. “Probably not?”

“Then what do you suggest?”

The two of them couldn’t help but start arguing again.

Bai Cha leaned against the wall, somewhat impressed by her own ability to remain calm while listening to the two idiots arguing outside. She tilted her head back and saw the low ceiling, from which hung a large ceiling fan with only one dark green blade left. Spiders had woven webs between the blade and the frame. Light streamed in through the transom window on the door, passing through the fan blade and the cobwebs, casting a small rectangular shadow on the concrete floor.

The light was hazy, revealing dust floating in the air. Bai Cha lowered her gaze to the faint, blurry shadow on the floor, then turned around and took a few steps back. Looking up again, an unprecedented thought surged wildly in her heart.

She desperately wanted to be a free little bird, to escape this cramped and dark cage.

“Mo Chuiliu, go find me a rock.”

“Huh? A rock? What do you need that for?”

“The transom window is latched.” Bai Cha tilted her head up, trying to ignore the lingering heat on the back of her neck, and calmly instructed, “You’re tall. Use the rock to smash the glass for me.”

“Smash the glass?” Mo Chuiliu frowned, not understanding the plan. She took a couple of steps closer to the door and pressed her ear against it. “We’ll get punished for damaging public property. Are you—are you trying to escape?!”

The second half of her words was drowned out by the increasingly heavy downpour. Water gushed into the drainage ditch under the eaves, rushing noisily downhill. Despite the chaotic noise, Mo Chuiliu could clearly hear her own pounding heartbeat.

She thought Bai Cha must have lost her mind.

Before she could say anything to stop this reckless and audacious plan, Tang Ou, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a dripping wet rock and held it up with a spirited shout.

“Bai Cha, move aside! I’m gonna throw it!”

The rock flew in a parabolic arc, hitting the door with a thud before pathetically dropping to the ground.

It didn’t even graze the edge of the transom window.

Tang Ou QAQ

Bai Cha & Mo Chuiliu: “…”

They really shouldn’t have trusted the strength of a weakling.

“Move aside. I’ll do it.” Mo Chuiliu uncovered her eyes, picked up the jagged rock from the ground, and took a few steps back. Lowering her voice, she said, “Bai Cha, stand clear.”

Bai Cha obediently stepped aside. The sharp-edged rock shattered the glass and flew in through the transom window, bringing with it a faint, diffused light.

A few minutes later, Tang Ou stood on the not-so-sturdy wooden frame of the transom window, one hand braced against the wall and one leg dangling outside to press against the door for support. Most of her body leaned into the detention room.

Inside, it was pitch black except for a single beam of light on the floor—cold and dark. Her little friend was trapped inside like a stray kitten, looking up with a pitiful expression.

Tang Ou swallowed back a sob and stretched her hand out as far as she could. “Don’t be scared, Bai Cha. We’re getting you out.”

If it had been just Tang Ou, this would have been impossible. She was too short—struggling just to break the window, let alone climb onto the transom to pull someone up.

Mo Chuiliu stood outside the door, having just lifted Tang Ou up. Now she gripped the hem of Tang Ou’s T-shirt with both hands to keep her from losing her balance and falling.

Her heart pounded wildly as she kept glancing back, terrified someone might show up and catch all three of them in the act. Unable to hold back, she urged, “Hurry up.”

She must have gone mad to join Tang Ou in this crazy scheme of “smuggling” Bai Cha out of the welfare home.

If caught, all three of them would be expelled from the institution.

The confinement room door stood over two meters tall, its smooth walls offering no footholds. Bai Cha glanced around until her fingers found a protruding knob on the wooden door—thank goodness it wasn’t metal.

Looking up, she saw Tang Ou’s red-rimmed eyes brimming with unshed tears, the girl stretching her arms out like a clumsy sparrow flapping with only one working wing.

“Stop crying. When I grab your hand, pull back hard. Don’t be afraid—I’ll hold onto the window. Mo Chuliu, catch Tang Ou below so she doesn’t fall.”

From outside came the earnest assurance of a certain big dummy: “Don’t worry, I’m steady as an old dog.”

Tang Ou sounded nervous: “R-really? I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold onto you.”

“You definitely can.”

Bai Cha stood inside the detention room looking up, then suddenly curved her lips into a faint smile: “I believe in you!”

In the interplay of light and shadow, Tang Ou still felt as panicked as a useless little fool. But she stared unblinkingly at Bai Cha, who stood in the darkness still smiling at her, and gradually her heart calmed, giving rise to an inexplicable confidence.

She would definitely catch Bai Cha’s hand!

Tang Ou would absolutely free Bai Cha from this little dark room!

When Tang Ou lost her grip and tumbled down from the auxiliary window, she didn’t think about whether she’d be smashed to pieces. She strained to keep her eyes open, and the moment she fell into Mo Chuliu’s arms, she finally saw a fuzzy head pop into view.

Mo Chuliu couldn’t hold back—the two little fools excitedly rolled into a heap, their clothes filthy and damp, as if they’d just brawled on a wet floor.

Bai Cha, who’d barely managed to climb up by clinging to the window ledge, nearly lost her grip from the shock…

“So, what exactly are you two staring at me for?”

After successfully jumping down from the window, the tense situation dissolved into an odd silence.

Bai Cha glanced at the two people surrounding her and raised a brow slightly: “Regretting it now?”

Without warning, Mo Chuliu gave her a shove, turning his head away gruffly: “I didn’t see anything. I just came out to pee and now I’m going back to sleep.”

Tang Ou paused, then copied the gesture with a shove of her own: “Me too!”

“You also came out to pee? What a coincidence, let’s go together. The rain’s heavy, so be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah, watch out for broken glass.”

Bai Cha…

What kind of low-budget skit were these two idiots performing?

She should have found it childish and stupid, should have mocked them with the look one gives to fools. But Bai Cha couldn’t help laughing.

In that moment, she was willing to be a ridiculous fool alongside them.

“I’m leaving. We’ll meet again if there’s a chance.”

Bad kids don’t know how to deliver sentimental lines—this was already her limit. Bai Cha pressed her lips together, then turned decisively to stride away through the storm without a backward glance, completely ignoring the two little fools instantly breaking down in tears behind her.

“Run, Bai Cha! Run where no one can catch you!”

That slender white figure gradually disappeared into the curtain of rain as Tang Ou, sniffling, let Mo Chuliu lead her back.

“Come on, let’s go change clothes before we catch cold.”

This time, she didn’t shake off the hand reaching for hers. The two of them charged noisily through the silent corridors and eaves beneath the thunderous sky, setting the caged bird free.

Looking back, in the torrential rain, it seemed a fragile white bird carried spring’s blossoms as it struggled forward, all the way to a distant horizon beyond sight.

Darkness cannot imprison a soul that yearns for freedom. Beneath the storm, there will always be brave creatures who dare face the lightning’s wrath (1).

“Why do I feel so unsettled?”

In the room, Nan Ju, who had been startled awake by a nightmare and couldn’t fall back asleep, pressed a hand to her chest with a slight frown.

It felt strange, as if something bad had happened somewhere beyond her notice, yet she had no memory or clue of what it might be.

The rain had come suddenly and heavily. Standing by the window, she could vaguely make out the once lush and vibrant garden now drenched and disheveled, revealing the poetic white walls and tiled pavilions beneath.

Such heavy rain would surely knock down many crabapple blossoms.

Nan Ju’s thoughts wandered aimlessly until a sharp, needle-like pain pricked her fingertip. She looked down to see a bright red bead of bl00d welling up on her index finger—she had indeed been scratched by a flower branch.

…

Just her luck.

This sudden “bloody misfortune” interrupted her mood. Nan Ju hastily placed the crabapple branch on a small cabinet by the wall and turned to head to the adjacent quiet room for a band-aid.

The night was deep, and the villa’s servants had all retired. Not wanting to disturb anyone over such a trivial matter, Nan Ju fumbled around and found the first-aid kit. After disinfecting and bandaging the wound, just as she was about to close the kit and put it away, her eyes caught on a dark brown bottle.

It was a familiar bottle of medicinal oil. She reached for it and couldn’t help but smile, recalling the odd scene from last time when she had pinned Bai Cha down on the backseat of the car to apply the medicine.

She knew that vigorously rubbing away bruises would hurt—hurt enough to make the little thing tremble in her grasp, letting out weak, kitten-like whimpers. But she hadn’t softened her approach, thoroughly tormenting the girl.

Nan Ju had done it on purpose. She wanted the other to remember the pain, to remember this lesson well, so that in similar situations, she might rein in her indifferent attitude and learn to protect herself.

They had met fewer than three times in total. Logically, Nan Ju shouldn’t have had such expectations or goodwill toward a stranger. Though beautiful, she wasn’t some brainless fool.

Nothing was without reason or cause. Nan Ju’s willingness to treat Bai Cha kindly, to secretly watch over and help her, stemmed from seeing her own reflection in the girl.

In her childhood, Nan Ju had been just as wild and untamed, bristling with thorns. Young yet incapable of learning innocence or obedience, she had rebelled against the rules set by adults time and again, delighting in it.

But Nan Ju had been far cleverer. She knew how to feign weakness, how to yield. In contrast, that child hadn’t learned—or perhaps refused to learn.

The first time Nan Ju saw Bai Cha, she felt as though she were looking at an exquisitely beautiful little kitten, brimming with untamed wildness and temper, with stunningly beautiful eyes and claws sharpened to points. Such a kitten would never be tamed by foolish humans.

So, she had let her go.

Their second meeting had been on a bitterly cold night. Crouched by the roadside, she had spotted a kitten so cold it was stepping on its own tail.

The other had held a withered rose stem, watching her from afar, fur slightly puffed up as if ready to flee. Nan Ju had stopped her in time and walked away with a free rose.

Roses had thorns, but the kitten had removed every single one.

In that moment, Nan Ju had thought: This kitten is so awkward and adorable—I really want to keep her.

She admired and loved the untamed wildness in Bai Cha that no one had ever tamed, yet was surprised by the soft innocence the other tried hard to conceal but still inadvertently revealed. Bai Cha was like a truly stray wildcat—beautiful, proud, scorning the charity of ordinary people, yet always secretly observing the clumsy, towering humans from a corner. Occasionally, she might even show interest in brightly colored cat teasers or fluffy ball toys, batting at them half-heartedly before darting away.

If she ran too slowly, she might be caught and locked in a cage by humans.

Nan Ju didn’t want to be the villain who caged the cat.

She wanted to wait patiently, so she deliberately didn’t tell Bai Cha her name, only leaving behind her phone number and address, waiting for the cat to seek her out willingly before extending her hand.

Her home was spacious—a 500-square-meter garden villa with natural cat perches, a pond full of koi fish, everything one could want. The little cat could romp and play freely to her heart’s content.

Huh? Why did she keep thinking about that cat tonight?

The cold medicinal oil bottle had warmed in her hands. Nan Ju closed the first-aid kit and, on a whim, decided to paint.

The villa’s soundproofing was decent, but outside, the storm raged wildly, the eerie howling of the wind unsettling. Sitting on a rattan mat, Nan Ju pulled out the brushes and rice paper she had ordered a few days prior, then paused and stood up, stepping out of the quiet room.

When she returned, she held a sprig of crabapple blossoms in her hand.

The vibrant flowers were placed on the rice paper as the dark-haired beauty dipped her brush into pigment, carefully outlining the branches and leaves. Nan Ju painted with deep concentration, her spirit lively and bright.

Just a wall away in the bedroom, a white phone lay buried in the soft bedding, its screen suddenly lighting up as it vibrated persistently, over and over, unanswered.

At a small corner convenience store, Bai Cha clutched the phone, listening to the endless dial tone, her face growing paler by the second.

She stood on the steps, soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her cheeks, shivering uncontrollably in the wind—a pitiful sight.

The store’s owner was an elderly woman, sitting behind the counter in thick reading glasses. Her hearing wasn’t the best, so she asked, “Child, did you get through?”

Bai Cha didn’t answer. She set the receiver down and pushed the landline back inside, fishing out the last two crumpled bills from her pocket. “This is for the call. I’ll leave it here.”

She had dialed many times—maybe two yuan wasn’t even enough.

“That’s good, that’s good.”

The old woman’s eyesight wasn’t great either, and she hadn’t caught Bai Cha’s words. Trembling, she stood up, reaching for something in the nearby cabinet. “It’s raining, child. Come inside and wait. It’s cold out there.”

The convenience store was tiny and shabby, its poverty evident at a glance beyond the counter. The light came from an old-fashioned bulb, the kind that turned on with a pull-string, flickering precariously in the storm as if it might go out at any moment.

Bai Cha stood awkwardly on the steps, afraid her wet, muddy state would dirty the small but warm space. She opened her mouth to leave, but the old woman finally retrieved what she had been searching for.

It was a dark-colored blanket.

Bai Cha pursed her lips and lifted her foot to step around and help the elderly person, when a flash of orange darted out from under the cabinet, blocking the doorway with its ears perked up as it hissed at her.

The old woman seemed to hear something and nervously glanced around, calling softly, “Mimi.”

Bai Cha quietly locked eyes with the plump orange tabby and thought to herself: So this is its home, its owner.

Not hers.

She lowered her lashes and deliberately took a step back, exposing her back to the wind and rain. The burning heat at the nape of her neck was doused by the cold rain, a strangely satisfying pain.

She turned and left, unwilling to disturb anyone.

Her white figure dashed through the rain. Bai Cha could hear herself panting heavily, her exhales scorching. She had escaped the orphanage as she wished, but now she had nowhere to go.

She wandered through the corners of the city, luckily avoiding any well-meaning passersby who might recognize her and drag her to the police station.

Finally, she stopped at a crossroads, standing on tiptoe and squinting to read the street sign.

“Tanghua Road ↑”

Drenched and disheveled, she stared fixedly at the sign, her mind filled with thoughts of that stunningly beautiful black-haired Beta who made her feel so inadequate.

“We agreed—I live at No. 1 Tanghua Road. You have to come.”

If she just walked straight, would she find her?

Bai Cha bit down hard on the tender flesh inside her lip, the last flicker of hope in her heart stirring restlessly.

Should she go to her now?

Stubborn pride and crushing self-doubt clashed violently in her chest. Bai Cha wiped the rain from her face, feeling her eyelids and cheeks burning, her bones scorching, some hidden pain festering relentlessly.

She thought, inappropriately, of the last time she had been touched until her bones trembled—hot and aching, but the fingers pressing into her skin had been soft and cool.

She was so miserable now. She wanted those hands to press against her forehead, to caress her face.

She wanted so badly to go to her.

“Where did this filthy beggar come from? Standing in the road trying to scam someone? Get lost!”

“What bad luck!”

The icy, foul-smelling rain fell like knives. Bai Cha stood frozen, staring at the car that had nearly hit her, her eyes filled with the sight of a face twisted in rage and disgust.

The window rolled down, revealing a woman with pearl earrings and immaculate makeup, honking the horn incessantly while spewing curses.

Yes, she was too dirty. She would scare her, wouldn’t she?

The last ridiculous shred of hope shattered. Bai Cha clenched her fists and sprinted into the nearby greenery, disappearing.

The rain never stopped. If she didn’t find shelter soon, the fever would burn her alive.

The kitten didn’t know—this crossroads was less than a kilometer from No. 1 Tanghua Road.

The brushstroke veered off course on its own, turning what should have been a straight branch into something slightly comical. Nan Ju frowned, setting the brush down on the inkstone with a murmur, “Why did it go crooked again?”

She had always had a steady hand when painting, rarely making mistakes. Yet tonight, she kept faltering—a perfectly good crabapple branch requiring countless touch-ups, still unfinished.

After repeated errors, Nan Ju lost all motivation to continue. Rubbing her fingers and wrist, she stood and walked toward the bedroom.

Sinking into the soft blankets, the long-awaited drowsiness crept over her like a fine, damp mist. Nan Ju buried her face deeper into the covers and, with one last compulsive glance, checked her phone.

“Robocalls?”

Someone had called her over a dozen times around 3 a.m.—identical numbers starting with an area code, looking utterly bizarre.

At this hour, it had to be spam calls, right?

Flipping through the missed calls, Nan Ju couldn’t resist calling back.

“Beep, beep, beep…”

The monotonous tone of a landline waiting to connect had an unnerving effect.

After a grueling 56 seconds, no one answered.

She tried again—still nothing.

Exhausted from the sleepless night, her vision blurry with fatigue, Nan Ju failed to grasp the fleeting unease in her heart. Turning off her phone’s vibration mode, she hugged it close and fell into a deep slumber.