She Hung Up on Him Twice

Now, suddenly putting on the airs of a “friend” and recommending this sketchy-sounding “high-pay, easy-work” gig—Sang Jiuning found it nothing short of ironic.

Why did she suddenly have this kind of “connection”? And why was she recommending it at this particular moment? Was it genuine kindness, or was there something else behind it?

A thousand yuan was indeed a tempting offer for someone still working part-time at a milk tea shop to make ends meet. But there was no such thing as a free lunch.

Sang Jiuning’s fingertip hovered above the screen, hesitating to reply.

She stared at the WeChat name “Good Little White Bunny” and found it unbearably grating.

This seemingly harmless little bunny probably had sharp claws hidden beneath its paws.

Fluffy Little Chinchilla: [Thanks for the offer, but I probably won’t have time anytime soon. I’ll pass.]

She didn’t want to get too entangled with Su Qingyan. Who knew whether this gig was a trap in disguise?

Good Little White Bunny: [I see… well, if you ever need anything, feel free to reach out.] Followed by a pitiful little bunny emoji.

Sang Jiuning didn’t reply and put her phone away.

After sitting on Lover’s Hill for a while in a daze, she noticed that the hill was now filled with couples, all cozied up and sweet enough to melt the air around them.

She instinctively hugged her bag closer to herself, feeling like an out-of-place light bulb—entirely superfluous.

So she headed straight back to her dorm. Over the next few days, Wen Zhaoci didn’t send her any WeChat messages, and she didn’t have time to message him either.

On Friday evening, she rummaged through her wardrobe and found two bags with interlocking C’s back to back. They were still in excellent packaging, complete with receipts inside—one bag priced at 26,000 yuan, the other at 32,000.

Searching through the original owner’s memories, she recalled that the original had worn them several times to show off.

The original was such a spendthrift!

She immediately took photos and posted them on Xianyu to see if anyone was interested.

Within five minutes of posting, a girl with a meticulously made-up face and an influencer-style avatar reached out to her.

The other party sent a voice call request directly. After a moment’s hesitation, Sang Jiuning answered.

The girl’s voice came through, saccharine and sweet: “Hey girl, are these bags authentic? They look pretty new—do you have the packaging and receipts?”

Sang Jiuning sent her detailed photos of the bags’ hardware, interiors, and receipts: “Absolutely authentic. Barely worn—you can tell from the condition.”

The girl examined them carefully for a while, then asked: “Can you do any better on the price? You’ve got them listed as 95% new, but the price is a little steep.”

Sang Jiuning did some mental math. The original had definitely paid a lot, but she needed to pay off her credit card and didn’t want to hoard these things: “If you’re serious, take both for 50,000. If you want just one, I’ll knock off 500 each.”

The price she’d quoted was already well below market value, especially since these were both popular models.

The girl seemed tempted. They haggled a bit more and finally settled on 45,000 yuan, agreeing to meet at a café near the school at 7 PM the next evening.

After hanging up, Sang Jiuning let out a long sigh of relief. She hadn’t expected it to go so smoothly. Now she could pay off her credit card in one go and still have some left over.

Her mood lifted slightly. She washed up and went to bed early.

The next evening at 7, Sang Jiuning took the two packaged bags to the agreed café.

The influencer-avatar girl was already there. She looked even prettier in person than in her profile picture, decked out in designer labels with an air of confidence.

She took the bags, inspected them thoroughly, and after confirming everything was in order, transferred the payment via WeChat QR code.

“Pleasure doing business.” The girl smiled at Sang Jiuning, then left with the bags.

Sang Jiuning stared at the 45,000 yuan credited to her account and immediately paid off her credit card bill.

Just as she was about to leave the café, her phone suddenly rang—an unfamiliar number.

She hesitated for a moment, then answered.

“Hello, is this Sang Jiuning?” A male voice came through, sounding rather serious.

Sang Jiuning’s heart gave a lurch: “Speaking. Who is this?”

“I’m Wen Zhaoci’s friend. He’s drunk right now at the ‘Night Color’ club. Could you come pick him up?”

“Where did you get the nerve to scam your grandma? Go to hell!”

Without a second thought, Sang Jiuning hung up and promptly added the number to her block list.

She’d seen this “friend calling to get you to pick up your drunk boyfriend” routine a thousand times in dramas—it was either a trap or a setup for some ambiguous entanglement. She wasn’t about to fall for it.

She put her phone away, grabbed her bag, and walked briskly out of the café.

The evening breeze carried a slight chill, clearing her head.

She’d just solved her immediate credit card crisis—she couldn’t afford any more complications.

But she’d barely taken a few steps out of the café when her phone rang again.

Another unfamiliar number.

Sang Jiuning frowned, a sense of foreboding creeping over her.

She hesitated for a few seconds, then swiped to answer, wanting to hear what they had to say this time.

“Sang Jiuning? It really is you.” The voice on the other end was different—still male, but more composed than the previous one. “I’m Jiang Shangyu, Wen Zhaoci’s friend. He really is at the ‘Night Color’ club right now, completely wasted, muttering your name nonstop. We were at our wits’ end, so we found your number from his phone. If it’s convenient, could you come over? If not, that’s fine too—we’ll figure something else out.”

Jiang Shangyu? The name rang no bells for Sang Jiuning. Was he one of Wen Zhaoci’s circle?

His tone didn’t sound like he was lying, and he’d even offered the option of “if it’s not convenient, that’s fine,” which eased her suspicion slightly.

Still, Sang Jiuning shot back: “Liar’s die a horrible death!”

Then she hung up again.

If they could see my number from Wen Zhaoci’s phone, why didn’t they just call me back using his phone?

Inside a private room on the second floor of the Night Color club in District N, the air was thick with a mix of heavy liquor and cigar smoke.

Jiang Shangyu—dressed in a loud floral-print shirt, shorts, and flip-flops—held up the disconnected phone and shrugged helplessly at Wen Zhaoci on the sofa: “Bro Ci, she doesn’t believe us. She even cursed me to die a horrible death for lying.”

He was one of Wen Zhaoci’s friends. The Jiang family specialized in resort hotels—not just domestically, but with chain hotels overseas too. He was the youngest son of the Jiang family.

Wen Zhaoci sat on the sofa, long legs crossed, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He’d just come from his family’s company when some friends had dragged him here.

His phone screen was still lit, the page open to his chat history with Sang Jiuning.

His mind drifted back to that night under her dormitory building—the way she’d fled into the building in a fluster after he’d kissed her.