The interviewer stubbed out his cigarette, eyes already gzing past Qin Hong’s face. *"We’ll notify you by Monday."* The words hung in the air—identical to the other three rejections he’d received that day.

  By 6 PM, Qin Hong found himself in Central Park, sucking on cheap green tea and cheaper smoke. The haze blurred his vision, but not his thoughts: *Seven years of academia. For what?* His exhale scattered the cloud before him. Life’s fog wouldn’t dissipate so easily.

  *"Cheer up, boy! Have an ice cream!"*

  A grandmother materialized beside him, thrusting a lemon popsicle into his hand. Her familiarity unnerved him—strangers didn’t act this way in A-tier cities. Yet he accepted without thought, as if muscle memory from a lifetime ago.

  *"Job hunting troubles?"* she asked.

  *"Temporary,"* he muttered, watching the treat melt over his fingers.

  *"Dengbo Avenue’s got postings—30k soles monthly, urgent hire!"* Her voice faded even as she spoke. When he turned, only sticky rivulets remained on the pavement, gleaming under the feverish sunset.

  Then the city turned against him.

  First, the subway closure—*"Maintenance. Use Gate C."* The worker’s holographic barrier erupted from the ground, cutting off his path. Then the rain came early, a biblical downpour that sent crowds sprinting. He barely saved his water-sensitive Weaton earring by tucking it into his shirt.

  At the crosswalk, a schoolgirl’s scream pierced the storm. Qin Hong hauled her up, noting the premium Weaton-School Edition bracelet on her wrist. *"Two stops home!"* she chirped before vanishing into the station.

  That’s when he saw it.

  A waterlogged flyer clung to the asphalt:

  **"URGENT: PERSONAL ASSISTANT** *No experience needed. Physical fitness required.* **30k soles/month. Dengbo Ave, Bldg 4-7."**

  Five minutes ter, drenched and delirious, Qin Hong stood before a weathered oak door. The storm ceased abruptly. Golden light licked the brass knob—which twisted *itself* open.

  A girl with wheat-gold hair and jade-bright eyes blocked the entry, lollipop rolling between her teeth. *"Looking for someone?"*

  *"I’m—here to interview? For the candy—?!"*

  Her ugh was wind chimes in a typhoon. *"Pass the test, earn the sugar."*

  Inside, the corridor defied physics.

  Vaulted ceilings stretched into gloom. Doors lined walls carved with pulsating veins. Archways loomed overhead, shadowed figures frozen mid-reach. The air reeked of bergamot and something *alive*.

  *"Scared?"* the girl teased.

  Qin Hong’s grip tightened on the doorframe. *"Just admiring the… pre-war architecture."*

  They reached a dead end.

  *"Hold still,"* she said, then pressed palms to the wall. With a shout—***"Rotate!"***—the world *spun*.

  Wood groaned. Gravity lied. The corridor became a barrel, rolling until Qin Hong stood perpendicur to reality. His stomach stayed put. His sanity did not.

  When the walls stilled, the exit had become the entrance. The girl smirked at his ashen face. *"Breathe. Interview’s this way."*

  Qin Hong’s animal brain screamed *RUN*, but the corridor had sealed shut behind them. Only the twin sconces remained, their light now a taunt.

  He stepped through the door—

  —and into a mountain range.