Character Card: Su Wanqing

At nine o'clock in the evening, the VIP suite was dimly lit. The wall lamps emitted a warm yellow light, casting a soft, ambiguous glow on the off-white wallpaper. The air was filled with the scent of lavender essential oil, mixed with the smell of disinfectant and the laundry odor of unopened bathrobes. In the corner, an inflatable massage bed was already inflated, its surface covered with a disposable non-woven fabric. On a small cart next to it were three bottles of different colored essential oil lubricants—rose, peppermint, and unscented.

I stood behind the curtain, barefoot on the thick carpet. The carpet's soft fibers tickled the soles of my feet. I looked down at myself: white lace lingerie, semi-transparent, the lace pattern at the chest just covering my vitals, but under the light, everything was faintly visible. Below, I wore a matching white lace thong, with only a thin strap at the back tucked into my buttocks. On my thighs were thin white garter stockings—the straps dangling from the edge of the lace lingerie, fastened to the lace trim of the stockings. The stockings were very thin, revealing the color of my thigh skin, with subtle folds at the knees.

He should be satisfied with this outfit, right?

I reached up and touched my hair. Large, wavy, tea-brown curls cascaded over my shoulders, one side tucked behind my ear, revealing a row of tiny diamond stud earrings—they were real, a New Year's gift from my husband, which I hadn't been willing to sell. My makeup was heavy: my almond-shaped eyes were lined with black eyeliner, the outer corners upturned, and I wore false eyelashes; my lips were coated with a bright orange lip gloss, reflecting the light; blush was applied below my cheekbones, making my face appear smaller.

The manager said this foreign gentleman wasn't very talkative, but he was generous with tips.

If I can handle this order well, I can pay off last month's credit card debt.

My fingers were trembling slightly, not from nervousness—I've been doing this for three months, I've seen all kinds of clients. It was from guilt. Today, when I left home, my husband asked where I was going, and I said, "A get-together with my girlfriends." He believed me, he always does. I hate myself for lying to him, but I hate even more that I can't stop.

The sound of high heels echoed down the hallway outside the door; it was the manager. Her footsteps were heavy, audible even on the carpet. Then came another set of footsteps—heavier and more steady—the sound of men's leather shoes.

They've arrived.

I took a deep breath and straightened my back. The underwire of my white lace bra was so tight I could hardly breathe, and the straps of my stockings stretched at the top of my thighs.

The door opened.

"Mr. Yang, this is the room. Haruko is already waiting for you inside." The manager's voice was sickeningly sweet.

"Hmm." A single word, spoken in a deep male voice.

My heart skipped a beat. That voice… sounded familiar. But I didn’t have time to think, because the manager had already left, and the door closed behind her—with a “click,” the latch sprang into the lock.

The room fell silent.

Through the curtain, I could see a tall figure outside. He stood still, seemingly surveying the room.

Let's talk. Let's talk about something professional.

"Please wait a moment, sir. We're not ready yet. You can change into your bathrobe first. It will be ready soon."

My voice drifted out from behind the curtain, sweet, soft, and with a professional smile—though he couldn't see it through the curtain. As I spoke, I squatted down, pretending to adjust the position of the essential oil bottle. As I squatted down, one strap of my stocking slipped off the edge of my underwear, and I quickly fastened it back on, my fingers a little clumsy.

Her toes curled slightly on the carpet, her toenails painted a nude pink, reflecting a little light in the dim light.

Outside the curtain, he moved. He began to take off his coat.

Don't be nervous. He's just a customer. A customer who gives lots of tips.

I just need to act as usual...

But I felt like I'd heard that voice somewhere before. It was low, steady, and carried an undeniable composure.

No. Impossible.

I shook my head, banishing the absurd thought. Standing up, I added another sentence to the curtain:

"The bathrobe is on the rack to your right. I'll call you when it's ready."

Then I took a deep breath and started squeezing essential oil into my palm.