Restlessness had become Xiaohuo's new normal. He tossed and turned every night, unable to shake the unease that had settled deep in his chest since the mysterious box entered his life. Sometimes, the memories of his old, predictable days seemed like another person's life—quiet, ordinary, and safe. Now, each morning felt like waking up in someone else's shoes.
Ever since the black box had been opened, the world around him had changed in strange, silent ways. Mrs. Lin, Su Wan'er, Li Qing… one by one, women who barely paid him special attention before now looked at him as if he was the sun itself. The first time, the power had been intoxicating, almost like a secret thrill he couldn't admit to anyone. It didn't take long for guilt and anxiety to follow, gnawing at him from the inside.
Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder if he was turning into one of those protagonists from the web novels he secretly read—a regular guy who stumbles on some forbidden power, only to spiral out of control. He'd always thought those stories were pure fantasy, never expecting reality to start imitating fiction.
This morning, Xiaohuo lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thoughts swirling like a storm. He finally got up, retrieved the black box from his desk drawer, and sat down at the small table by the window. The box looked harmless enough, its surface smooth and cool under his fingers, but he couldn't ignore the way it seemed to pulse with a quiet, threatening energy.
"What do you really want from me?" he muttered, half to himself, half to the box.
No answer came. The box remained stubbornly silent, as if it had all the time in the world.
With a sigh, he put it away, washed up, and headed downstairs. The familiar smells of brewed tea and fried dough greeted him—his mother was already bustling around the kitchen, humming an old Cantonese tune. His father, apron tied tightly around his waist, was inspecting boxes of fresh vegetables delivered by a local supplier. It could have been any morning in the past ten years, but Xiaohuo felt the gap between himself and his family growing wider by the day.
After breakfast, phone in hand, Xiaohuo scrolled through social media, searching for any sign that others had noticed what he had. Sure enough, scattered across local online forums were odd posts: a popular anchor confessing her willingness to serve a "mysterious master" on livestream, a well-known office worker describing dreams of a glowing figure and an overpowering urge to obey. Most commenters laughed it off, calling it a publicity stunt or a prank. No one took it seriously—except Xiaohuo. He alone understood what those scattered clues meant: the hundred spirits were quietly finding their hosts in this city.
A chill ran down his spine, but curiosity burned just as fiercely. Was this power something he had to accept passively, or could he learn to control it? Was he fated to be a puppet on strings, or could he become the puppet master?
For the first time, Xiaohuo decided he couldn't keep hiding. He needed to understand these spirits, to uncover the rules, to master this force before it mastered him.
Around noon, a familiar customer arrived at the restaurant—a young lawyer named Joy Zheng. She was always the picture of composure, her English crisp, her Mandarin precise, her demeanor cool and a little distant. But today, she greeted Xiaohuo with an easy smile, her tone unexpectedly gentle.
"What do you recommend today?" she asked, settling at her usual table near the window. "Whatever you say is good, I'll take it all."
Xiaohuo's heart skipped a beat. That tone, that look—he recognized it instantly. He decided to push a little.
"We've just added spicy beef noodles to the menu," he said, keeping his voice casual. "It's really hot. Are you sure you want to try it?"
Joy's eyes brightened. "If you say it's good, I know I'll like it. I trust you."
Xiaohuo hid his unease and personally cooked a bowl for her. When he brought it out, he tried to probe, "Rough day at work?"
Joy shook her head, a soft smile on her lips. "No, not really. Just seeing you and hearing your voice makes everything better."
He watched her for a long moment, realization dawning. The power was growing. It was spreading, quietly but inexorably, into every corner of his life.
After she left, Xiaohuo returned to the kitchen, staring at the sink and the glint of water on steel. The decision formed in his mind, sharp and clear: If he couldn't run from this, he had to learn to control it.
He would master himself first—before trying to master the spirits.
After the lunchtime rush, the restaurant slowly emptied out. Sunlight streamed through the big glass windows, painting patterns on the freshly mopped floor. Xiaohuo found himself leaning against the counter, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, eyes drifting out to the street beyond.
Outside, Melbourne's blue sky stretched overhead, the breeze mingling the salty tang of the bay with the scent of eucalyptus. The street was a curious blend: modern glass towers stood side by side with old Victorian terraces, their painted facades faded by decades of southern sun. Nearby, a group of school kids in blazers and knee-high socks giggled while waiting for the tram, their English laced with that lazy, unmistakable Aussie accent. An elderly Greek couple greeted a neighbor in Italian, and a tall, blond man in a business suit ducked into the bakery for a pie.
In moments like these, Xiaohuo was acutely aware of his in-betweenness. He'd grown up here—a Chinese kid in the heart of Australia. His family's little restaurant sat quietly on a side street, serving bowls of wonton noodles and stir-fried greens to locals and homesick students. At home, his parents slipped easily into Cantonese, but with customers, their English was careful, sometimes tinged with their native cadence. The neighbors knew him as "Sam," but his parents still called him "小火" with that soft, familiar affection.
It was a world that always felt like it belonged to someone else. He could talk footy with the Aussies and gossip about Hong Kong TV dramas with the Chinese students, but deep down, he sometimes wondered if he truly belonged anywhere. Since the black box entered his life, even that delicate balance had been disrupted.
As dusk fell, Xiaohuo watched his father scrub down the kitchen while his mother sat by the doorway, chatting in a blend of Mandarin and English with Mrs. Campbell from next door. The air was filled with the clatter of dishes, the low hum of distant traffic, and the soft, homely glow of the restaurant's lights spilling onto the street.
Xiaohuo slipped out the back, heading into the narrow laneway behind the shop. He pulled out a cigarette—he didn't really smoke, but sometimes, just holding one made him feel more in control. The alley was clean, just a few stray leaves and the distant screech of a cockatoo. He stared at the sky, streaked orange by the setting sun, and let the silence settle around him.
"Are you really just going to let fate pull you along like this?" he muttered.
Darkness crept over the city, and the restaurant's windows glowed golden. Determination flickered inside him. Tonight, he would try again—he needed answers from the box, from the spirits, from himself. Even a single clue would be better than the helplessness gnawing at him.
Later, when the city was quiet and the last tram had rattled by, Xiaohuo retreated to his room. He closed the door, sat on his narrow bed, and placed the black box on his lap. This time, he tried something new: closing his eyes, he focused on his breath, letting his thoughts drift. He even spoke in English, hoping—strangely—that maybe the spirits would be more familiar with the language of this country.
"If you can hear me… Please, tell me what you want. Tell me how to control your power…"
No reply. Just the quiet thud of his heart and the faint echo of a distant train. He felt a hint of disappointment, but it was mixed with resolve. The fear that had once paralyzed him was slowly transforming into something else—a cautious curiosity, a willingness to engage rather than run.
He placed the box back into the drawer, stood by the window, and looked out over the sleeping city. The lights shimmered across the bay, and for the first time, he realized that the question of who he was—Chinese, Australian, or something in between—no longer frightened him as much. The spirits, the power, the responsibility: all of it was his to face.
No matter where he was from, or where he was going, Xiaohuo knew one thing—he would not let anyone else write his story for him. He was ready to take control.