When Su Li casually offered to "shoot a video,"
Ji Jiahang froze.
He glanced at the document open on his laptop—
Interview Outline: Bar Consumers—
then looked back at the girl standing in front of him.
A thought clicked into place.
Wasn't she the perfect interview subject?
If Su Li had leaned just a little closer, she would've noticed that the book Ji Jiahang had been reading moments ago was titled Young Women Who Enter Bars.
It was a sociological study, dense with fieldwork, analyzing why women choose nightlife spaces—bars, clubs, late-night social environments—as sites of consumption, performance, and escape.
Ji Jiahang was a PhD candidate in sociology.
His research focused on how everyday spaces are produced and consumed, and tonight's nightclub was one of his chosen observation sites.
Earlier that night, he'd already conducted several paid interviews.
Everyone had their own reason for walking into a club at three in the morning.
But Su Li—
asking that question, in that tone—
felt different.
She felt… promising.
So he agreed.
"Sure," he said, closing his laptop and setting it aside. "What are we filming? And—can I record the process?"
Su Li blinked. She hadn't expected this level of caution from a student.
"No problem," she said brightly.
"Do you want me to repeat the part where I pay you five hundred yuan?"
That sentence landed like a meteor.
Ji Jiahang had been about to explain the interview, the research, the ethics approval—
but the moment passed.
"…No," he said finally.
"I trust you."
Originally, the video was supposed to feature "Miss Tao Tao"—a rich, carefree socialite—flirting with a "foreign-returned bad boy."
Unfortunately, the bad boy never showed up.
So the role was downgraded.
Foreign-returned bad boy became: Bar Guy.
The script was trimmed accordingly.
Revised Script:
Miss Tao Tao:
"Give me your hand. I'll show you a magic trick."
Bar Guy:
"What kind of magic?"
Miss Tao Tao:
(placing her face softly into his palm, smiling seductively)
"The kind where treasure appears in your hand."
Bar Guy:
(smiling, indulging her)
"Slow down. Drink too much and you won't make it home."
Miss Tao Tao:
"I don't get drunk. Besides—you're handsome. Looking at you sobers me up."
Ji Jiahang stared at the script Su Li sent him.
He wasn't internet-illiterate—
he just found the dialogue aggressively direct.
During rehearsal, Tao Tao delivered her lines effortlessly.
She was a professional.
Ji Jiahang, on the other hand, sounded like a malfunctioning robot.
At first, Su Li tried patience.
"Relax," she coached.
"Feel something. Don't read it like ChatGPT."
They tried again.
This time, the robotic tone was gone—
but the delivery came out restrained, repressed, almost tragic.
It sounded less like flirting
and more like a kidnapped honor student begging for mercy.
The bass pounded.
The noise pressed against Su Li's temples.
At this rate, she thought,
this one-minute video wouldn't be finished by sunrise.
She gave up.
Grabbing a clean glass, she filled it to the brim with liquor and shoved it into Ji Jiahang's hand.
"Drink," she ordered.
"Loosen up. Find the feeling."
Ji Jiahang rarely drank. His instinct was to refuse.
But then he looked at his laptop.
Inside it was everything he owned professionally:
twenty thousand words of interview transcripts, unfinished arguments, no real breakthrough.
And yet—
in the short half hour since Su Li appeared, ideas had been exploding in his head:
Tao Tao's "dominant" persona was still constrained by male desire—a textbook case of gender performance imbalance.
The dynamic between "foreign returnees" and "rich kids" reflected the theatrical production of consumer symbols.
Two women entering a club at 3 a.m. purely for work pointed directly to spatial alienation under digital labor.
The internet really was a massive textbook.
Just like sociology.
He took the glass.
"I'll drink," he said solemnly, like a man heading to execution.
"I'll find the feeling. But after that—can you give me a three-hour interview?"
"Why do you have so many demands?" Su Li snapped.
"I'm paying you five hundred!"
She didn't wait for an answer—
just lifted the glass and physically tipped it toward his mouth.
Liquor spilled, soaking his T-shirt.
The fabric clung to his chest as he breathed, amplifying the air of a man being shamelessly taken advantage of in a nightclub.
Tao Tao, scrolling on her phone nearby, perked up.
"Wait," she whispered to Su Li.
"Was that… him asking you out?"
No response.
Su Li's eyes were locked on Ji Jiahang.
To her, he wasn't a man—
he was usable footage.
By 4:30 a.m., they had enough material.
The script had gone completely off the rails.
In the usable footage, a very drunk Ji Jiahang stared into Su Li's camera, eyes unfocused, smiling tenderly.
"Give me your hand," he murmured.
"I'll show you a magic trick."
Su Li immediately swung the camera toward Tao Tao.
Tao Tao snapped into character.
"What kind of magic?"
Ji Jiahang turned—
and rested his head gently on Su Li's hand instead.
He looked at her with devastating sincerity.
"The kind where treasure appears in your hand."
Wrong person. Minor issue. Fixable in post.
Su Li quickly redirected his head onto Tao Tao's palm.
Tao Tao continued smoothly:
"Drink less. You won't make it home."
Ji Jiahang blanked.
Su Li kicked him under the table.
"Oh—right," he said earnestly.
"I don't get drunk. You're beautiful. Looking at you wakes me up."
"Cut."
Ji Jiahang collapsed onto the sofa.
The kind of collapse that earns respect.
"What should we title this now?" Tao Tao asked.
Su Li didn't hesitate.
"'Spent 50K on a VIP booth and got harassed by a male club model.'"
Tao Tao was in awe.
Moments later, the adrenaline vanished.
Ji Jiahang went completely still—
like a toy whose batteries had been yanked out.
They exchanged a look.
This was blackout drunk.
"I transferred him extra," Su Li said softly.
"One hundred more."
It sounded like an apology—to Tao Tao, and to herself.
"Leaving him here feels… wrong," Tao Tao said.
"He has friends," Su Li replied.
She looked at Weiwei, who had just finished work and slipped a jacket over her bikini.
Under the bright lights, Weiwei looked fresh, clean, striking—perfectly matched to Ji Jiahang.
Then Weiwei jumped onto Jackson.
Su Li's stomach dropped.
…Wait. What?
She glanced back at Ji Jiahang, suddenly impressed.
This man sacrifices a lot for academia, she thought.
Weiwei rushed over.
"Why does he look like that?" she cried.
"Call an ambulance—now!"
"He's just asleep, right?" Su Li tried.
"He didn't even throw up—"
Ji Jiahang answered by vomiting violently onto the floor.
"That's alcohol poisoning," Weiwei snapped.
"He doesn't drink. Who forced him? People go to jail for this!"
Su Li dialed 120 immediately.
When Ji Jiahang woke up, the first thing he felt was relief.
Pure, overwhelming relief.
Being alive feels great, he thought.
He opened his eyes.
Still in yesterday's clothes.
Weird.
He pulled off his shirt and froze—
four cold metal discs stuck to his chest.
Electrodes.
Memory came back in fragments:
vomiting, the ambulance, Su Li asking for his phone password, the hospital gurney—
Then nothing.
A knock.
Su Li stepped in, guilt written all over her face.
"You're awake? Do you feel nauseous? Want some water?"
He stared at her.
"…Is this your place?" he asked.
She nodded.
He tried to sit up—
White-hot pain exploded in his left leg.
A cast.
Nothing about this made sense.
Su Li swallowed hard.
"When we were carrying you out… we were exhausted. I dropped you on the stairs."
"…So I broke my leg?" he asked blankly.
She didn't answer.
Her face said everything.