The Next Morning
Tòumíng woke up with the disoriented confusion of someone who'd gone to bed way too early and slept way too long. Sunlight streamed through his window, bright and accusatory. His phone showed 9:23 AM. He'd slept for over twelve hours.
His body felt stiff, sore from yesterday's mining, but the kind of sore that came with rest rather than injury. The cash still sat on his bedside table, five neat stacks reminding him that yesterday had actually happened and wasn't some fever dream.
He grabbed his phone, scrolled through notifications. The gacha game had sent him three reminders about the limited event. Some social media follows he didn't remember making. A spam message about crypto investment opportunities.
And the photo of the femboy's number, still sitting in his gallery.
Tòumíng stared at it for a long moment, then locked his phone and tossed it aside. Not dealing with that yet. Maybe not ever.
First priority: a bath.
Not a shower. A bath. A long, luxurious, bubble-filled bath in his actual bathtub that worked and had hot water that didn't run out after three minutes.
He'd bought bubble bath soap last week on impulse—a fancy bottle that cost one hundred yuan and promised "aromatherapy relaxation and skin rejuvenation." At the time it had seemed reasonable. Now, looking at it, he realized it was probably the most expensive soap he'd ever purchased in his life.
Tòumíng turned on the tap, adjusted it to scalding hot, and poured in what was probably half the bottle. Bubbles erupted, multiplying rapidly, filling the tub with white foam that smelled like lavender and something called "essence of tranquility."
"You're wasting money," Cupid observed as Tòumíng continued pouring.
"I'm engaging in self-care."
"That's a hundred-yuan bottle of soap. You just used fifty yuan worth in thirty seconds."
"And I'll use the other fifty yuan tomorrow. It's called living, Cupid. Enjoying life. Treating myself." Tòumíng set the nearly empty bottle aside and stripped off his underwear, the only clothing he'd worn to bed.
The water was perfect. Almost too hot, but in the way that felt amazing once you adjusted. He sank into the tub, bubbles rising to his chin, the heat soaking into his sore muscles.
"This is what rich people do," he said contentedly. "Just sit in expensive water and think expensive thoughts."
"Rich people also make smart financial investments and don't blow their savings on gacha games and designer clothes."
"Details."
Tòumíng grabbed his phone from where he'd set it on the edge of the tub—probably not the safest place but whatever—and opened his social media. Time to scroll through some mindless content while soaking in his overpriced bubbles.
A cooking video. Someone's morning routine. A cat. A dance challenge. More cooking. Someone explaining cryptocurrency with way too much confidence.
"You should actually shower," Cupid said after fifteen minutes of this. "Like, with soap and washing. Instead of just sitting there scrolling through reels in bubble water."
"No."
"You're still covered in coal dust from yesterday. I can feel it. There's grime in places that shouldn't have grime."
"I'm soaking. It's loosening the dirt."
"That's not how that works."
"Says you."
Another ten minutes passed. Tòumíng's fingers were starting to prune, the water cooling slightly, but he was committed now. He'd stay in this tub until he'd watched every video the algorithm wanted to show him or until he turned into a raisin, whichever came first.
His thumb scrolled past a video about relationship advice, then paused. Scrolled back. The preview showed text: "Signs You Might Be Bi - A Thread."
He watched it. Then watched three more videos on similar topics. Then a video about femboys in anime. Then one about gender expression versus sexuality. Then one that was just someone doing makeup tutorials.
"You're researching," Cupid observed.
"I'm educating myself."
"About femboys."
"About... contemporary social concepts."
"Right."
The algorithm, sensing blood in the water, immediately pivoted. His feed became a cascade of LGBTQ+ content, femboy appreciation posts, gender fluidity discussions, and several thirst traps that he definitely didn't watch all the way through. Multiple times.
Then, in a moment of impulsive decision-making that he'd probably regret, Tòumíng opened his photo gallery. Found the picture of the number. Stared at it.
"Don't," Cupid said, but there was amusement in his voice, not actual warning.
"I'm just going to ask about the bike."
"Sure you are."
"I am!"
Tòumíng opened his messaging app, created a new contact, and started typing the number in manually. His pruned fingers slipped on the screen twice, forcing him to restart.
Number entered. Contact saved as "Bike Thief" because he wasn't ready to admit anything else.
Now for the message.
He started typing: "Hey, this is the guy from yesterday. You took my bike and I'd like it back please."
Too formal. Delete.
"Yo, where's my bike at?"
Too casual. Delete.
"Hi! So about that bike situation..."
Too friendly. Delete.
"Return my property immediately or I'm calling the police."
Too aggressive and also probably not credible. Delete.
Cupid was laughing now, full-on laughing inside his chest. "You've rewritten that message four times and gotten worse each attempt."
"Shut up, I'm thinking!"
"Just say something. Anything. You're overthinking this."
Fine. Fuck it. No more overthinking.
Tòumíng typed one word: "bike"
His thumb hovered over the send button. This was it. Once he sent this, there was no taking it back. He'd be initiating contact with the femboy who'd flashed him and stolen his electric bike less than twenty-four hours ago.
He pressed send.
"Wow," Cupid's voice dripped with sarcasm. "How poetic. Such a way with words. Really captured the complexity of human emotion in that single lowercase noun."
"It gets the point across!"
"Does it though? Because—"
The phone buzzed.
Tòumíng nearly dropped it in the bathwater, fumbling to catch it, bubbles flying everywhere.
A reply. Already. Instant.
He opened the message.
"Missed me already? 😘"