Chaos began at exactly 3:00 AM, when the penthouse doorbell rang like an emergency alarm.
Lin Xie, who had been quietly researching wine etiquette and seafood allergy symptoms from the couch, barely blinked. Shen Rui, still in his robe with a coffee mug in hand, frowned.
The doorbell rang again. Then came knocking. Rhythmic. Enthusiastic.
"I'll get it," she said flatly, standing.
"You're not—" he started, but she'd already opened the door.
And found herself face to face with what appeared to be an entire glam team.
Five people stood in a line. One held a collapsible light ring, another had three garment bags slung over his arm, and a third had a makeup kit so large it could've been a bomb in disguise. At the front, a tall man with glittery sunglasses beamed.
"Good morning! We're here for Miss Lin!" he chirped. "Courtesy of Mr. Shen. Time to get you ready for the banquet!"
Lin Xie turned slowly to Shen Rui.
He sipped his coffee and said absolutely nothing.
"You hired these people," she stated.
"I did."
"For disguise purposes?"
He set the mug down. "For aesthetic reinforcement."
Her eyes narrowed. "Cosmetic camouflage."
"Sure."
The stylist team didn't wait. With the speed of trained mercenaries, they entered the penthouse and began unpacking chaos.
Within five minutes, the living room looked like a backstage fashion week war zone. Hair tools hissed, clothes exploded from zipped bags, someone was plugging curling irons into every outlet in sight. Another person was laying out jewelry like they were prepping for auction. The glittery team leader was already analyzing Lin Xie's bone structure like it offended him.
"She's got model cheekbones," he declared. "Like cut-a-man sharp."
"I have not cut a man with them," Lin Xie said.
"Not yet," the stylist said ominously, then clapped his hands. "Let's begin!"
Shen Rui had barely escaped to the kitchen before she was whisked away into one of the guest rooms.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Shen Rui was not spared.
The moment he sat back down with his laptop, someone shrieked from the hallway, "MR. SHEN, WE NEED YOUR OPINION ON EYELINER!"
He froze. "Why?"
"She's a makeup virgin and keeps blinking like a surveillance drone!"
"I don't know anything about eyeliner."
"JUST COME HERE!"
Moments later, he found himself standing in a room where three people were simultaneously trying to curl Lin Xie's hair, apply blush, and zip her into a dress.
Lin Xie sat still as stone, expression blank, while one makeup artist dabbed foundation with reverence.
"She's not reacting," the makeup artist whispered.
"She doesn't understand why glitter is applied to cheeks," Shen Rui muttered.
Lin Xie, unbothered, was reciting national tax percentages under her breath while someone brushed eyeshadow across her lids.
"This is inefficient," she mumbled. "We should be optimizing this process with military precision."
"You mean blending?" the stylist asked, horrified.
She blinked at him, then asked Shen Rui: "Will this reduce enemy perception or increase?"
"There are no enemies."
"Then this is recreational disguise."
"…Sure."
They tried eight dresses. The third one made her look like royalty, but she declared it "movement restrictive." The fifth one had so much tulle she got tangled inside and asked if she was "being contained." The seventh dress—deep velvet, midnight blue—made even Shen Rui pause when she stepped out of the room.
He blinked. Once.
Then a second time.
Lin Xie tilted her head. "Do I resemble an appropriate romantic decoy now?"
He coughed into his fist. "Yeah. That'll do."
The glam team lost their collective minds.
She was her usual self—elegant, unreadable, and a little terrifying—but now with eyeliner and lipstick. One of the stylists fanned himself and whispered, "She looks like she could assassinate someone at a gala and still win best dressed."
"She could," Shen Rui muttered.
At some point, someone tried to hand her heels.
She stared at them like they were weapons.
"These are unstable platforms."
"They're stilettos," the assistant said.
"They have zero balance support and are made of dental pick material. Why."
"It's for fashion, babe."
"I'd rather run barefoot."
"She's not like other girls," the stylist sighed dreamily.
By the time they were done, the penthouse looked like a luxury tornado had passed through. Glitter on the floor. Foundation on the couch. Jewelry boxes open. A curling wand still buzzing on the counter.
Lin Xie emerged from the guest room like a fully assembled threat. Cold. Gorgeous. Alien.
"Mission attire complete," she said flatly.
Shen Rui just held out her clutch wordlessly.
She accepted it, examining it like it might explode.
"I will simulate warmth," she told him. "To reinforce narrative."
"Please don't smile like a robot."
"I have files on six expressions," she said. "I'll rotate them."
"…Great."
The glam team watched them leave with reverence, still swooning. One whispered to the other, "She's going to make the banquet explode."
Another sighed, "If she kills anyone, I want to borrow her earrings first."
And outside the penthouse, as they stepped into the car together—him adjusting his cufflinks, her sitting like a regal android ready to seduce or destroy—the city lights blinked around them, unaware that tonight's banquet would never recover.
In the car, Lin Xie sat unnaturally still.
Not because she was nervous.
But because she wasn't sure if blinking would smudge the eyeliner.
She didn't even know what eyeliner was until three hours ago. Now her face had contour, highlight, shimmer, and some kind of powder that made her skin glow unnaturally under the car lights.
She reached up and tapped her cheek once. Still intact.
Strange.
This wasn't how she was trained to disguise herself. The last time she wore anything on her face, it was mud, fake blood, and a chip implant on her jawbone.
Not... sparkles.
Shen Rui glanced at her from the driver's seat, one hand steady on the wheel. "You're quiet."
"I am recalibrating."
"Recalibrating?"
She shifted slightly in her seat. "The lashes obstruct vision."
"Just… tilt your head."
"I did. Peripheral vision is compromised. Hostile angles now reduced to 78 percent."
"You're not going to be attacked tonight."
"There are six heiresses attending. Statistically, two are trained in some form of self-defense. I'd prefer not to underestimate them."
He blinked.
"Also," she added calmly, "my heels are not weapons this time."
That caught his full attention. "You've worn heels as weapons before?"
"They had retractable blades," she said casually, looking out the window. "Highly efficient. One stomp, immediate artery breach."
A long pause.
"You know this is a banquet, right? Not an assassination."
She turned to him. "Is there a difference?"
He nearly swerved into the next lane.
From her expression, she wasn't joking.
She leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied her reflection in the tinted glass. The lipstick was still there. Unsmudged. The earrings caught the overhead lights like small signal transmitters. The velvet dress clung to her form like a second skin. It was the first time in her life she'd ever worn something for the purpose of being looked at.
Not hidden.
Not camouflaged.
Not tactical.
This was not for infiltration.
This was... for presence.
Alien concept.
Still, she filed the data: eyeliner = smudgeable. Lipstick = transferable. Earrings = slightly distracting. Velvet = high-friction material, not ideal for sprinting or scaling walls. Note: remove before combat.
And the heels. God, the heels.
She flexed her toes.
"These are non-weaponized heels," she said suddenly.
Shen Rui looked over again. "Yes. That's because you're not here to kill anyone."
"They're inefficient."
"They're... fashion."
"They're fragile."
"Don't stomp too hard."
She stared at him, deadpan. "I will try not to break them by walking."
He chuckled under his breath. "You'll be fine."
She didn't respond. Her eyes returned to the window, but her mind stayed sharp.
Everything felt... loud.
The dress, the makeup, the weight of her earrings, the sticky lip product. She felt like a decorated object.
Decorated.
She had never been decorated before.
Camouflaged, yes. Armed, always. Polished? Never.
The velvet gown wasn't made for concealment. It was made to be noticed. It had a slit up the thigh and an open back and a neckline that exposed her collarbones like delicate glass.
She remembered dressing up before.
She remembered the gloves she wore the night she'd taken out a corrupt official in Berlin—white satin, hiding the injection needle under her wrist.
She remembered the full-length gown sewn with metal threads, used to slice a throat mid-dance in an underground gala in Zurich.
This was different.
This wasn't mission gear.
This wasn't armor.
This was… civilian glamour.
And for the first time, Lin Xie didn't know how to walk into a room.
"Do I need to smile?" she asked abruptly.
Shen Rui smirked. "It's a banquet, not a hostage negotiation."
"Statistically, it might be both."
"You don't need to smile unless you want to."
She nodded, storing the file. She had six preset smiles uploaded in her memory. She would rotate them to maintain social consistency.
They approached the venue. Bright lights. Valets. Photographers. Familiar chaos.
She stared at it, tilting her head again.
The car stopped.
He stepped out first, then moved around to open her door. She hesitated only for a breath, then placed one heel—non-weaponized—on the ground.
Then the other.
Then stood.
And despite the lights, the eyes, the camera shutters—
She didn't flinch.
She walked beside him, robotic grace in heels not meant to kill, in a dress meant to make people stare, face painted with warpaint that smelled like vanilla and chemicals.
And if anyone mistook her for someone soft?
Someone pretty?
Someone fragile?
They'd learn—very quickly—how wrong they were.
Let the banquet begin.