Chapter 1: This is my crystal ball as an adult, so I’m determined to wind this spring!

Just before descending the escalator and preparing to enter security, Jiang Huan quietly slipped the iron canister from her bag into her coat. She crossed her arms and passed her bag through the checkpoint, then swiftly returned the canister to her bag. Her movements were smooth and practiced. That evening, after work, she planned to play with the snow spray by the artificial lake—surely no one would notice. On the subway, Jiang Huan inhaled the musty air, surrounded by passengers who mostly looked ashen-faced. With consumerism no longer worshipped, fewer people flaunted their appearances on the subway. Everyone seemed apathetic and numb, their eyes reflecting a lifeless exhaustion. Simply breathing in this atmosphere felt suffocating.

A man approached two young women wearing short skirts. What caught Jiang Huan’s attention was something swaying. The girls stood close together, chatting and laughing, completely unaware that something—or someone—was inching toward them.

In a few quick strides, Jiang Huan positioned herself in front of the man. She pulled the snow spray from her bag, stood a meter away from the older man, pushed aside those around her, and pressed the nozzle without expression. As the sound drew everyone’s attention, her actions flowed seamlessly. After spraying the pervert, she quickly redirected the snow toward the platform, creating a romantic scene of artificial snowfall in the subway station.

The man finally stumbled to his feet, cursing in an incomprehensible dialect. The girls didn’t understand him either. A gust of wind lifted Jiang Huan’s dry, yellowed hair, while the man tried—and failed—to zip up his pants, now covered in fake snow foam that stubbornly refused to come off. Station staff rushed downstairs, and Jiang Huan hastily shoved the snow spray into her pocket just as the subway doors opened. She slipped onto the train, and the crowd jammed the doors shut, leaving the pervert stuck outside. Jiang Huan wondered if someone was actually manipulating the air to hold him in place.

The last image she saw before the train departed was the man cursing and awkwardly shuffling away. The station staff confronted him, noticing the white foam covering his crotch and his disheveled appearance, dragging him away. Another staff member was still searching for the person with the snow spray, but the train had already entered the tunnel within half a second of her panicked hesitation.

To some extent, Jiang Huan felt quite satisfied with how her morning had gone. Exiting the station, she greeted the rising sun, crossed the overpass toward her office, and tossed the snow spray into a trash bin. She initially felt heroic, but recalling that she had sprayed the pervert—and glimpsed his exposed organ—she decided she didn’t want to see snow again for a while. Shanghai rarely saw real snow anyway, and the joy of artificial snow shouldn’t always be tied to creepy men on the subway. There had to be hope, aspirations for beauty; otherwise, there’d be no point in going to work.

She clocked in, glancing at her face through the time-tracking camera. The screen was smudged with dirt—a perfect reflection of her mood. Entering the office felt like stepping into a morgue.

No sooner had she sat down than she heard the video of the subway snow spray playing nearby. A colleague looked up and asked, “Jiang Huan, was that you?”

“No, I took a taxi.” Though she had thrown away the canister, she didn’t want to waste time gossiping. Rising abruptly, she bumped her leg against the table corner and winced in pain. Predictably, a piece of printer paper sliced her finger later while typing documents. It wasn’t serious, but these small annoyances kept piling up. In the meeting room, Jiang Huan touched the bruised spot on her leg—it hurt. Unsurprisingly, another bruise had formed.

Jiang Huan, a girl who regularly exercised and even paid for jiu-jitsu lessons, was nicknamed “Fragile Shark.” Fragile yet hard to defeat. She once flipped her instructor during a jiu-jitsu class, but after returning home to handle personal matters, her platelet count dropped below 10, landing her in the ICU and terrifying the doctors. Similarly, when testing games, she never allocated points to health, focusing instead on attack and skills. The result? Massive damage output but instant death.

There was a legend about Jiang Huan: despite being fragile, she possessed formidable combat power. She worked tirelessly, sometimes clashing with colleagues over projects. If she believed she was right, she argued until her opponents were left speechless. But her most impressive feat occurred when she single-handedly confronted her former producer. Their standoff led to Jiang Huan being reassigned to the UI design team for six months. Still, she clung to labor laws, refusing to back down or resign. Ultimately, it was the producer who left. An email exposing the producer’s misconduct and corruption reached every inbox, proving that ethical issues couldn’t save him in the gaming industry.

Jiang Huan denied responsibility, claiming she wasn’t clever enough to orchestrate such a scheme.

Currently, her project was similarly stagnant. Despite not smoking, drinking, maintaining a strict fitness routine, and eating healthily, Jiang Huan found herself increasingly prone to allergies. Every day, her hands were covered in bandages—if she skipped even one day, her allergies spiraled out of control. Recalling advice from an early colleague—that stress and fatigue weakened her immune system—she realized she had already controlled all possible variables. Yet fragility seemed beyond her grasp, as though fate awaited the day to claim her entirely.

She felt capable of writing One Hundred Ways Urban Fragile Youth Can Die .

Lori was a renowned game company in Shanghai, having struck gold with three consecutive hit otome games. Its two towering buildings in the northeastern part of the city became pilgrimage sites for players. One of the founders stepped down from shareholder and director roles to pursue holographic interactivity, leading the tech department in exploring new frontiers. The project, named “New World 2028,” aimed to create three open-world 3D environments by 2028, bridging virtual and real-life barriers. Jiang Huan’s team was part of this initiative—an interactive romance otome game called Love Continent . As a standalone app, it allowed users to interact with perfectly designed lovers, complete with intricate storylines and character settings. Users could immerse themselves in the narrative or spend sweet moments with their virtual partners. Male characters responded dynamically to user actions, offering companionship through dialogue and gestures. Though the embrace lacked warmth, emotional care compensated. VR development was underway, aiming for a Ready Player One -style era where reality and virtuality intertwined—reuniting lovers, deceased relatives, and more in Love Continent . However, the project faced numerous setbacks. A previous attempt had failed, and the entire team, including Jiang Huan, was transferred to Love Continent . Three producers later, progress remained stalled at three maps and five male leads, with nothing substantial beyond the introductory video. The overly Westernized male models leaked online once, sparking ridicule and trending hashtags. The fourteenth floor of Lori was shrouded in gloom, the entire production team demoralized. Rumors circulated that if they didn’t produce something fresh soon, the project would be scrapped entirely. After all, Lori’s inability to succeed in female-oriented games had become an industry-wide joke.

Jiang Huan glanced at her family chat group. Only her father posted updates about meals and exercise records daily. Since her mother’s unexpected passing, father and daughter rarely exchanged words beyond these posts. Long story short, her family was fractured, unresolved grief lingering. Her family fell apart, her job drained her soul, and her body frequently betrayed her. Jiang Huan’s life epitomized a total collapse.

In the meeting room, Akira was arguing with the planner, quickly drawing in the technical team. The argument escalated into mutual attacks, with no resolution in sight. Every few days, someone from the technical team quit, either leaving voluntarily or transferring elsewhere. Akira, the lead artist and Jiang Huan’s confidante, joined the fray, targeting the planner. When the planner threw up his hands, exclaiming, “What can I do without a producer? I told you to follow the schedule, but did anyone listen?” everyone exchanged uneasy glances. Jiang Huan, a senior yet invisible member of the writing team, especially after her six-month standoff with the producer, faded further into obscurity. After the meeting dispersed, Akira plopped down beside Jiang Huan, fuming: “If I develop breast problems, it’ll be because of those men stressing me out. They don’t understand our requests, and straight men working on a female-oriented project are clueless. This project is dead.”

“An all-female production team is just an ideal—it’s impossible,” Jiang Huan replied, lacking confidence since her abilities weren’t recognized. But an all-female team had been her original dream. Akira pointed to Jiang Huan’s arm: “How did you get such a big cut?”

“The delivery box was too big, and the door lock latch scratched me.”

“Your knees still haven’t healed, huh? Lingering effects from jiu-jitsu. With injuries like yours, you’re practically a warrior.”

“Yeah, with all these wounds, I should at least achieve something.”

“Then why keep going? You should’ve jumped ship when you were reassigned to UI. There are companies in Shanghai purely focused on female-oriented games.”

“Because the 2028 project is still ongoing—the first female-oriented open-world game. How could I leave?”

“So that’s why you wrote such extensive character profiles?”

“The body remembers. Train your body to love, to write, to stay diligent. Then, when the opportunity arises, you won’t miss it.”

“With your fragile body?”

“Let me put it this way.” Jiang Huan pointed to the gash on her triceps: “Even if I die and am cremated, hearing the call to battle, my ashes will emerge in the pose of Saint Seiya. Turned to dust, I’ll still fight. No one can stop me.”

“At your level of injury, focus on survival first. But if the team really disbands—I at least have a boyfriend. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t mind switching to another game. You’re too attached to Love Continent , but it’s clearly flawed. Look at your eyes—they’ve lost their spark. If things don’t improve—” Akira pushed a business card toward her: “This fortune-teller is very insightful. Give her a visit.”

“I don’t believe in that stuff.”

Akira flicked Jiang Huan’s forehead: “You’re already hopeless. Believe in whatever gives you a lifeline!”

Confused and desperate, Jiang Huan reluctantly booked a tarot and crystal reading session, hoping metaphysics might offer some guidance. Simple crystal and tarot readings wouldn’t fool her, but when she saw the tagline—”AI algorithm-based, synchronized with artificial intelligence, blending science and mysticism”—she paid up, thinking, Why not give it a try? Maybe I’ll hear something new. I’ve tried everything else.

“There’s only one solution to this.”

Jiang Huan narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the fortune-teller’s lips, ready for some earth-shattering revelation. The woman spoke with authority, leaving no room for refusal.

“Pay close attention recently. When your intuition tells you that someone can bring change to your life—”

Jiang Huan’s eyes widened.

“You must rush forward, hug him, and shout, ‘I’ve finally found you!’”

The room fell silent, the eerie glow of the crystal ball the only movement. Seeing Jiang Huan’s lack of reaction, the fortune-teller emphasized: “Remember, you must hug him, and every word of that line must remain unchanged. You must say ‘finally found.’”

“Why must I say that?”

“It’s AI’s directive. The system says it represents a difficult search across universes and time, where two fated individuals finally reunite.”

Suppressing goosebumps, Jiang Huan asked, “Are you serious?”

The fortune-teller nodded. Jiang Huan rubbed her arms nervously: “Too cheesy. Who in real life deserves such a gesture?”

“Don’t you want to rewrite your fate? Aren’t you tired of being fragile? Don’t you want to escape this life of constant injury and exhaustion? A spirited girl should live life to the fullest, right? Besides, in critical situations, he might save your life.”

“Is that what the system says?” Jiang Huan frowned. “You think I’ll actually die?”

“I wish I could believe you. My life feels like a vacuum-sealed bag , drained of air and hope.” Jiang Huan furrowed her brow. “But this is just too unreliable. I can’t possibly believe that someone else will change my life. I’m not driven by romance or relationships—how could I pin my hopes on something like this?”

“Aren’t you the one working on otome games? Maybe it’s a signal from another dimension. Don’t tell me you don’t even believe in your own creations.”

Jiang Huan swallowed hard. “Of course I have faith in them—they’re the best men I’ve ever crafted! But what does that have to do with anything…?”

The fortune-teller offered a polite but rehearsed smile, launching into an explanation laden with jargon that made Jiang Huan sleepy. Suppressing a yawn, she thought to herself: I should probably see a doctor. If there’s an illness, treat it. If not, maybe I need a morale boost. Fortune-telling? Absolutely not reliable.

Since she didn’t believe in it, life would continue its half-dead trajectory. Without a leader, the project team took three steps forward only to retreat three steps. Progress stagnated, and her life felt devoid of ripples. Her willpower resembled Sisyphus pushing his boulder—persistent actions fueled by lingering belief, only for everything to roll back down again. When she saw that a new anime-themed café had opened at Meiluo City, Jiang Huan eagerly booked a spot in line to buy merchandise. However, she realized she wasn’t as familiar with the limited-edition IPs as the other fans. Watching the excited girls around her frantically purchase and unbox collectibles, she felt both envious of their youthful energy and alienated by her own inability to connect. At one point, she had been the first in line, snapping photos with beloved characters, but now fatigue left her unhappy, confused, and out of place. Holding the popular merchandise, she thought, If I don’t like it, it’ll just take up space at home. Maybe I’ll resell it online.

The next moment, she sighed as she stared at her reflection in the glass doors at night—wearing jeans, a gray shirt, and a mask, her outfit screamed “stealth mode.” She couldn’t help but think: Am I just a scalper?

Nothing was more disheartening than the aging of the heart. Thinking about eating KFC in the basement, she felt hungry but had no appetite. Wandering aimlessly from the subway station, she eventually emerged above ground, facing a group of girls taking photos in front of Meiluo City’s spherical LED screen. They jumped excitedly, holding up lightsticks to capture videos, timing their shots to coincide with the appearance of their favorite idols on the screen. When they turned back after seeing their idols, their radiant, glowing smiles were almost blinding, piercing straight into Jiang Huan’s eyes.

“Don’t you think this looks like a crystal ball?” one girl said.

“You mean the sphere at Meiluo City? Hahaha, are you saying it feels like a crystal ball just because it’s playing your favorite video?”

“How unimaginative! For someone whose lover exists in another world, isn’t this my crystal ball?”

“Well, I believe you. Come to think of it, I have my own magical crystal ball moments. Every time I go to Korea for concerts, I stay up all night to get close to the stage. When I reach out to form a heart shape, my idol leans down to complete the other half. Right then, confetti falls—it’s like a crystal ball moment…”

Jiang Huan lingered behind them, her nearly extinguished heart flickering back to life. It was as if invisible hands were searching for the wick inside her, a lighter slowly approaching, attempting to ignite her. The metaphor of the crystal ball was perfect—a spark of inspiration fluttering like a bird shaking its wings, feathers shimmering with ethereal light. Her weary soul, burdened and heavy, suddenly glimpsed brilliance, touched warmth, and recognized talent effortlessly. She stood before the crystal ball, watching the video repeatedly. Bright feathers seemed to fall all around her, highlighting her growing dimness.

________________________________________

The Next Day

Still groggy but carrying a glimmer of hope, young people from other project teams joined Jiang Huan as they entered the fourteenth floor of Lori. In the elevator, they chatted about producers burning the midnight oil to meet deadlines. Jiang Huan stood expressionless among them. Another day had arrived, and Akira announced, despite zero progress, that they still needed to hold a meeting.

“What’s on the agenda?”

“Are we discussing the story and art assets again? No matter what, we’ll probably be pushed to the bottom of the priority list.”

She wanted to try, but the feeling of being overlooked was exhausting.

Reluctantly rising from her chair, she dragged her feet as everyone else moved toward the meeting room. She had no choice but to follow.

The elevator doors opened, and someone was walking toward the office. Who could it be? A late colleague? Someone visiting a friend from another team? Or perhaps the cleaning lady?

The entire office immediately sensed an aura of elegance mixed with an unapproachable coolness. Sunlight illuminated him from ankle to knee, highlighting his deep gray suit paired with a matching shirt. The buttons were fastened modestly up to his throat, exuding restraint. With superior proportions, prominent brow bones, and a straight nose, he carried himself with effortless confidence. His elongated eyes shifted subtly, radiating ambition and decisiveness with every step. Though minimally adorned, every detail spoke volumes—knowledge and extreme rationality rendered him impenetrable, even in his gaze.

The man stood before everyone. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Bai Jingchuan, the newly appointed producer. I called this meeting, so everyone must attend without exception. See you in five minutes.”

The group froze for five seconds, scanning this absurdly handsome and intelligent man. None of them expected such a top-tier figure to arrive, seemingly too perfect to be real. Everyone filed into the office with their laptops. Jiang Huan remained rooted in place until everyone had entered. As Bai Jingchuan emerged from his office and approached her, he politely asked, “Aren’t you coming in?”

This is the crystal ball I love as an adult.

I want to create dreams, and this is where dreams can be made.

In the virtual world, the person I adore stands before me. If I run to him, he’ll open his arms to catch me, welcoming me with a comforting scent. But he can’t come into reality—he’s merely a beautiful doll, a mannequin programmed to embrace me when I turn it on.

But at the moment of that embrace, there’s snow, rainbows, confetti, fireworks, petals, and halos—it’s one of the few times I allow myself to dream.

This is my escape from real life. I can fight through the thorns of reality just to reach the moment when I wind up the crystal ball and watch it spin.

I must keep the crystal ball turning, so the producer is undoubtedly the person I need to hold onto.

Jiang Huan rushed forward, throwing her arms tightly around the producer until she could barely breathe. She caught a whiff of fresh grass—cold, distant, and utterly unapproachable.

But for the sake of the crystal ball, she buried her face in his chest and declared, “I’ve finally found you!”

“You have found your target. Current initial progress: Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -1000.”