Chapter 34 - Meet up with the bike theif

"where do you live? 📍"

Every survival instinct Tòumíng had developed over nineteen years of living in the slums started screaming. Red flags. Alarm bells. Sirens blaring in his head.

This was a setup. Had to be. Some elaborate hunting tactic. Maybe Hǔtān had hired the femboy to track him down, find his new address, figure out where he was hiding. Or maybe it was a robbery scheme, lure the target in with flirting and stolen property, get their address, show up with accomplices and take everything.

There was absolutely no way, under any circumstances, that he was going to send his address to someone who'd literally robbed him less than twenty-four hours ago.

No way.

Not happening.

His fingers were already typing.

"401 Prefecture Zing Residence, ground floor unit 11A"

Sent.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Cupid's voice exploded in his chest. "ARE YOU INSANE?!"

"What?" Tòumíng stared at the message he'd just sent, his brain catching up approximately five seconds too late. "Oh. Oh no."

"OH NO? OH NO?! You just gave your HOME ADDRESS to someone who STOLE FROM YOU!"

"I didn't mean to! My fingers just... moved!"

"Your fingers don't have autonomous function! That was your brain! Your actual decision-making process said 'yes, let's invite the bike thief to our apartment!'"

"Maybe it'll be fine?"

"FINE?! What part of this seems fine?!"

"I mean..." Tòumíng tried to rationalize, grasping for any logic that would justify what he'd just done. "What's a femboy going to do to me? I can defend myself now. I'm basically immortal. I've survived gang beatings and mining accidents and—"

"I DON'T KNOW, BRING A GUN?!"

That stopped Tòumíng cold. "Oh. Yeah. Guns exist."

"YES! GUNS EXIST! And knives! And accomplices! And elaborate robbery schemes! You just gave a complete stranger your exact address!"

"But... but I don't think he'd..."

"You DON'T THINK? You've known this person for less than a day! Your entire interaction consists of: got flashed, got robbed, stalked their social media, received one flirty text!"

"Two flirty texts."

"THAT DOESN'T MAKE IT BETTER!"

Tòumíng looked at his phone, at the sent message that couldn't be unsent, at the three dots appearing that meant the femboy was typing a response.

"It'll be fine," he said with absolutely zero conviction. "I'm sure it'll be totally fine."

"We're going to die."

"You literally just explained how I can't die."

"We're going to get ROBBED then. Or beaten. Or drugged. Or—"

"It'll. Be. Fine."

It was absolutely not going to be fine, but Tòumíng had already committed to this course of action through sheer impulsive stupidity, so he might as well see it through.

He looked down at himself. Still wearing the clean clothes he'd changed into after the bath—just basic comfortable stuff, nothing fancy. His apartment was a mess. Clothes everywhere. Empty food containers. The TV still on, paused on some social media video. His bedside table covered in fifty thousand yuan in cash stacks.

Oh god, the cash.

Tòumíng frantically grabbed the money and shoved it into his closet, burying it under a pile of unworn designer clothes. Then he grabbed his dirty clothes from yesterday, still reeking of coal and garbage and threw them into the small washing machine that had come with the apartment.

He'd never actually used it before. Had to spend three minutes figuring out which buttons did what, accidentally started a rinse cycle, stopped it, started an actual wash cycle.

The machine hummed to life. Progress.

Now what? Clean the apartment? No time. Make it look like he wasn't a complete disaster? Impossible with current resources.

Maybe change clothes? Look more... what? Presentable? Intimidating? Casual?

Tòumíng spent five minutes trying on different shirts, settling on one that seemed neutral enough to not send any particular message. Then changed his pants. Then changed his shirt again. Then gave up and went back to the original outfit.

He goofed off for a few more minutes, stress-scrolling through his phone, opening and closing apps randomly, checking his hair in the bathroom mirror, checking it again, wondering if he should have bought better furniture, wondering if his apartment looked poor, wondering what he was even doing.

His phone buzzed.

"i'm outside. let me in 🚪"

Tòumíng's heart—their heart, Schrödinger's quantum uncertainty heart—did something complicated. His mouth went dry. His palms started sweating.

This was it.

The bike thief was outside his apartment.

Right now.

Waiting to be let in.

"Last chance to pretend you're not home," Cupid offered.

"Too late. He knows I'm here. My location services are probably on."

"Then good luck. I'll be here. Literally. In your chest. Unable to leave. Forced to witness whatever disaster you've invited into our home."

"It'll be fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it will be."

Tòumíng walked to his door, hand hovering over the handle.

Deep breath.

Here goes nothing.