Chapter 18: I want to prove that I am a letter?

Nanbo City, Dessert Shop, Second Floor.

“…Who are you?”

“Xiao Yan” exhaled in relief at Liu Wangjiang’s question, her dropped cake fork clattering. She’d feared her disguise was blown.

“I’m Lu Qingqi’s online friend. Here to help him out.”

“Help him by kneeling in front of me in public? Or staging a waterworks show in the garage?” Liu Wangjiang’s tone carried a teasing edge.

The memory of those humiliations flooded back, flushing “Xiao Yan’s” cheeks. She glared. “What’s it to you? I’m a masochist, and I’m fine with it!”

“Funny, I’m an S.” Liu Wangjiang leaned forward. “Come home with me. My basement’s big and spacious.”

He reached for her wrist, but a flash of panic crossed her face, and he raised an eyebrow.

She didn’t lean in—she recoiled.

Is this really the chuunibyou masochist from before?

Her reaction to his “Lu Qingqi” jab—freezing momentarily—hinted at a deeper tie than just “online friends.”

A tomboyish girl, untraceable, questionably masochistic? An unexpected variable.

“Xiao Yan” shifted her chair away, wary. “You say you’re an S? Why should I buy it? What if you’re a trafficker?”

“I’m a masochist with dignity. Not just anyone gets to play!”

Liu Wangjiang gave a soft “Oh,” tapping the table, meeting her gaze. “Prove you’re a masochist, then.”

“Xiao Yan” blinked, stumped.

Prove it? How?

Prepared, Liu Wangjiang pulled a pen from his leather notebook, scribbled a line, and slid it over. “Read it aloud.”

She leaned in, eyes widening at the words. She muttered, “Master, woof woof woof…”

Realizing what she’d said, she slapped the paper, glaring. “You pervert! I’m not that easy!”

She shot up, chair screeching. “If not for Qingqi, I wouldn’t be here! You creep, I’m out!”

Grabbing her shawl, she stormed toward the stairs.

“Ms. Xiao,” Liu Wangjiang’s calm voice followed. “I checked. You’re an illegal immigrant. No record in the Huayuan Federation.”

She kept walking.

“See those two vans outside?”

“My people. Illegal immigrants aren’t protected by law. If you leave—”

He paused, tone heavy with implication. “My basement is very spacious.”

“Xiao Yan” froze at the stairwell, hesitating. Glancing out, she saw two vans under the trees, windows dark, radiating menace.

Cold sweat beaded her back.

She’d thought second-gens like her—indulging in vice, skirting laws—were bad. But Liu Wangjiang?

Damn!

Why’s this “villain” smarter, handsomer, taller?

Where’s the good karma for the chosen one with superpowers?

Grumbling internally, Lu Qingqi didn’t dare move. She knew Liu Wangjiang had a basement.

Returning to her seat, she eyed the note, pleading softly, “Can you change it? It’s too embarrassing.”

Liu Wangjiang, forking a piece of cake, shook his head. Prove it, or the basement.

“Xiao Yan” gritted her teeth, cleared her throat, and shouted, “Everyone, look at me!”

The second floor’s chatter hushed, curious eyes turning her way.

Her cheeks burned under their stares, hand trembling on the note. She couldn’t say it.

Too humiliating. I’m not a real masochist.

But Liu Wangjiang’s gaze signaled waning patience. Delay further, and the basement loomed.

Biting down, Lu Qingqi activated [Mental Domination] on herself.

You’re a female masochist now.

A strange heat surged through her, tension melting into unfamiliar compliance. Resistance faded, replaced by obedience.

Looking at Liu Wangjiang, his profile seemed striking under the light, his deep purple eyes hooking her heart. Calling out… isn’t so bad?

Her lower abdomen warmed, pulse quickening.

“Master, woof woof woof.”

Her voice carried a soft, unaware sweetness.

Shame snapped through the mental control. Her body stiffened, heat pooling beneath her, and she collapsed.

Her mind blanked, dazed, until a warm hand appeared. She looked up.

Liu Wangjiang stood over her, his expression unreadable.

Helping her up, his fingers brushed her wrist, sending an electric jolt through her.

Heart racing, “Xiao Yan” gazed at his close face, voice timid yet eager. “Master, can I… call again?”

Liu Wangjiang paused, silent.

After she left, he returned to his seat, pen in hand, analyzing “Xiao Yan.”

He wasn’t an S—no special kinks.

The coercion was a test. Panic reveals truth.

“Xiao Yan” was odd. Initially a chuunibyou masochist, then a tomboyish disguise, yet her fall—complete with a wet patch—screamed genuine masochism.

A patchwork enigma.

He tapped the table, the sound carrying. “Go back.”

“Triple bonus this month. Forget what you saw.”

“Yes,” came a low reply from the floor.

He hadn’t lied—his people were here, not in the vans, but on the second floor. This shop was his.

His phone buzzed. He answered, expression shifting. “My parents are back?”