In City A, where high-rise apartments outnumber trees and even stray cats walk with purpose, a single man lay face-up on a creaky twin-sized bed, a damp towel covering half his face.
His name was Hao Hao.
He was 26 years old.
And in this life, the only thing he had achieved consistently… was failure.
The walls of his rented apartment were the color of wet ash. On one side, a metal desk groaned under the weight of instant noodle cups and energy drink cans. On the other, a broken oscillating fan kept trying and failing to turn. His air conditioner had died a year ago, and he never bothered to fix it. The landlord didn't care. Neither did Hao Hao.
He sighed, shifting his arm to check the phone lying on his stomach.
No new messages.
No notifications.
No views.
He opened the author dashboard for his latest webnovel — a genderbent romance about a dominant empress and her male concubine who wanted to conquer her heart.
Zero bookmarks.
Two views. Probably his own.
"Another one that won't make it past chapter 20," he muttered. His voice was hoarse from sleep, or maybe from disappointment that never quite left his throat these days.
He sat up and grabbed a cigarette from the half-crushed pack beside the bed. His lighter was nearly out of fuel, but after three flicks, it caught.
The flame flared briefly, illuminating his face.
Even now, in this lighting, it was obvious he had good bones.
His facial structure was sharp — a straight nose, soft jawline, naturally long eyelashes. He used to be called "too pretty to be a guy" in university. Girls would tease him, pinch his cheeks, or ask him to try on their headbands.
Back then, he used to laugh it off.
Now?
He kept his hair long and greasy, wore thick glasses to dull his sharp eyes, and hunched his shoulders instinctively. Somewhere along the way, he had learned that being "too pretty" didn't help if you were also broke and useless. If anything, it just made people expect things from you.
The more good-looking you were, the more they thought you had potential. The more they were disappointed when they realized you didn't.
Hao Hao let the cigarette burn between his fingers as he stared out the window. His apartment was on the fourth floor. From here, he could see the neighbor's laundry line, the old woman who always hung bras in sets of three.
Below, a couple walked by. The woman was dressed in business casual, confidently striding ahead with a tote bag slung over her shoulder. The man walked half a step behind, carrying her drink.
Even here, in this world, he noticed things like that.
Maybe that was why he liked writing gender role reversal stories. Or stories where the man was the delicate one, cherished and loved, the one being protected for once.
He thought it was just a kink at first.
Then he realized it was a wound.
His phone rang.
It was his older sister — Hao Jie.
He let it ring twice before answering. "What?"
Her voice came through, sharp and clear. "You haven't responded to my WeChat all week. Did something happen?"
"No."
"You're not writing again, are you? Hao Hao, this path—"
"Spare me the lecture." He leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
"I'm not lecturing. I'm worried. You have no savings, no social life. Your friends have moved on, gotten married, and you're still—"
"Still what?" he snapped.
The silence on the other end was deafening.
"Still pretending you can make a living off writing stupid fantasy? Still embarrassing the family name? Say it."
"Hao Hao…"
"I'm hanging up."
"Wait—"
Click.
He stared at the screen. For a moment, he considered calling back. Apologizing. But then what?
She didn't understand. No one did.
He stubbed the cigarette out on an old receipt.
The silence returned.
He walked over to his desk and refreshed the page again. Still two views. No comments. He scrolled down to read what he wrote last night. It was full of typos. He couldn't even remember what the main character's motivation was anymore.
Pathetic.
"Maybe I'm not cut out for this."
His gaze drifted to the posters on his wall — all women. Fierce, dominant, confident. Images he saved from art blogs or gacha games. His favorite one was of a tall general in military boots, holding a fragile boy in her arms like a treasure.
"Must be nice," he muttered. "To be soft. To be wanted. To be treated like you're something rare."
He turned to the mirror.
The man staring back at him looked older than 26. Dark circles under his eyes, skin that had long lost its glow, and lips chapped from neglect. But the foundation was still there.
If he cleaned up, put on a nice shirt, maybe used a little toner...
He looked away.
There was no point.
He reached for his final cigarette. The last one in the pack. He lit it slowly, almost ceremoniously, then walked to the window and opened it.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of rain.
Hao Hao closed his eyes.
"If only I could live in one of those worlds I write about," he said softly. "Where I'm not a failure. Where I'm just… a pretty boy asking to be loved."
The ash on his cigarette grew longer.
He inhaled deeply, let the smoke fill his lungs, then stubbed it out.
The room dimmed.
The world fell quiet.
And somewhere, in that quiet moment… the air trembled.
[Ding—]
System initializing…
"Parasyte System"Booting…
Host compatibility: 97%
Binding process: Complete.