"Don't let them know you can see!"
"Don't ever let them know you can see!!!"
In a daze, Fang Xiu opened his bleary eyes, only to be met with a ceiling covered in dense, blood-red writing. The words seared into his vision like a brand.
His gaze was unfocused, pupils slightly dilated, his face still slack with sleep. But the next second, his pupils constricted violently, and his entire body jerked upright like a startled bird. He sat up in bed, heart pounding.
"What... what is this...?"
Fang Xiu stared in shock at the crimson scrawl covering the ceiling. The twisted, squirming characters looked as though they had been painstakingly written in fresh blood, each stroke grotesquely alive, writhing like tadpoles.
His mind was blank, unable to process why—after falling asleep in his own home—he’d woken up to find his bedroom ceiling defaced with these nightmarish words. As if someone had bitten their own finger and scrawled them, stroke by stroke.
"What’s going on? Who wrote this on my ceiling?"
"Never... let them... know you can see...?"
Fang Xiu unconsciously read the words aloud.
And then—
The blood-red writing vanished.
Just like that.
As if it had never existed.
Fang Xiu rubbed his eyes in disbelief, then looked again. No matter how hard he stared, the ceiling was now pristine white. No trace of the words remained.
"How is this possible? Was I hallucinating? Did I... overdo it last night? Or was it just a dream?" He clutched his head, heart hammering.
"But it felt so real. Too real."
The sheer strangeness of it sent a chill down his spine. Whether hallucination or reality, Fang Xiu just wanted to get out of this room, to breathe fresh air.
But the moment he moved to leave the bed, his eyes swept across the room—and his body locked up in shock.
"This... isn’t my bedroom."
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"What the hell is happening? Am I still dreaming?"
He stared at the unfamiliar surroundings—the desk, the computer, the wardrobe, the bed—everything was wrong. This wasn’t his room.
"Where am I?!"
He hadn’t been drinking. He hadn’t stumbled into the wrong apartment. He remembered clearly: after working overtime yesterday, he’d gone home, eaten instant noodles, watched some... private entertainment, then fallen asleep exhausted.
But now—
The noodle cup on the nightstand was gone.
The crumpled tissues he’d tossed on the floor were gone.
Everything was unnervingly clean.
And unnervingly foreign.
"What the hell is going on?" Fang Xiu muttered, but before he could process further, a flood of fragmented, unfamiliar memories surged into his mind.
He froze.
Then slowly looked down at his hands.
"Did I... just transmigrate?"
"Into a parallel world similar to my old one?"
His thoughts raced. The unfamiliar memories belonged to this body’s original owner—also named Fang Xiu, also an orphan, with the same face, the same unremarkable features (think Louis Koo levels of plainness).
The only differences were their life paths... and the world itself.
The original Fang Xiu hadn’t been as lucky—no scholarships, no university. He’d dropped out of high school, worked odd jobs, and was now a real estate agent.
The world’s history was similar, yet different in key ways.
"But even if I transmigrated... what were those blood-red words?"
A bad feeling settled in his gut. He combed through the original memories, but found nothing about any supernatural occurrences.
Then—
A soft, feminine voice called from outside the bedroom.
"Honey, breakfast is ready."
Fang Xiu’s heart lurched.
"Honey?!"
Did the original me get married this young? Or was this a girlfriend? Plenty of couples used pet names.
He scrambled to recall memories of a wife—
But his thoughts were cut short as a figure in a white silk nightgown stepped into view.
At the first glimpse of his "wife," Fang Xiu’s breath caught.
He’d seen enough filtered beauties online to think himself immune, but this woman was... stunning.
The kind of beauty that made his brain short-circuit.
Her white silk nightgown clung to her curves, the fabric so thin it left little to the imagination. The hem barely covered her thighs, exposing legs so pale they seemed to glow—smooth as polished jade, with a faint pink undertone.
Cold-white skin. The kind that looked almost porcelain.
Her shoulders were bare save for two delicate straps, her collarbones sharp and elegant.
Even with a mediocre face, that body alone would’ve been enough.
But her face wasn’t mediocre.
If Fang Xiu had to score her, she was a 99—with the missing point only to keep her from getting too proud.
Her features were the epitome of soft, feminine allure.
Eyes like tranquil pools, a smile so tender it could heal wounds.
For a second, Fang Xiu thought, Maybe transmigrating isn’t so bad. I’d never land a wife like this in my old life.
"Honey, you’re awake. Breakfast is ready," she repeated, voice like honey.
Fang Xiu opened his mouth to respond—
But froze.
He didn’t know what to call her.
Name? Nickname? *Baby? Sweetheart?
He frantically searched the original memories for any trace of her.
But the more he dug, the colder his blood ran.
**No name. No memories of dating. No shared history. No... nothing.
In fact—
The original Fang Xiu had never even had a girlfriend.
So...
Who the hell was this woman?!
His throat tightened. Two seconds had passed.
His "wife" was still smiling, patient as ever.
But something was off.
Her smile hadn’t changed. Not a millimeter.
Like a doll’s face, frozen in perfect, unchanging serenity.
Her skin, so pale it looked almost... lifeless.
No breathing. No blinking. No micro-expressions.
Just that same, eerie smile.
The warmth he’d felt earlier curdled into dread.
"You... who are you?" Fang Xiu forced out.
The moment the words left his mouth—
His "wife’s" smile twisted.
Her eyes lit up with manic glee, her lips stretching into an impossibly wide grin.
"You can see me!" she gasped, voice trembling with barely contained excitement.
