The chilly tendrils of rain at 3 a.m.
clung to Lin Mo's windbreaker as he pressed himself against the wall.
The dim streetlamp at the alley's entrance, swollen by mist, cast a pallid light over his hand clutching a pair of lace panties—draped over the third-floor balcony, pink and white with tiny embroidered lilies.
His fingertips grazed the fabric, still faintly warm from the sun and carrying the indistinct scent of a stranger.
He had crouched behind the bushes for nearly two hours.
The second-floor bedroom light had been off for forty minutes, no movement visible through the slit in the curtains except the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner blending with the rain.
His phone vibrated in his pocket—a message from a Convenience store colleague urging him to clock in.
As he silenced the screen, his gaze lingered on the third-floor railing: a sky-blue bra swayed gently in the wind, its chiffon cups fluttering like a butterfly perched on wire.
Hurry.
He licked his dry lips, nails scraping moss from the wall.
The security grille on the old apartment building had a loose corner on the third-floor turn, discovered during his recon last week.
A quick climb, a grab at the clothesline, and both items would vanish into his bag—softer than the gym locker set he'd stolen last time, more intimate than the silk nightdress he'd hooked from a drying rack weeks prior.
He crouched, sneaking to the building's rear. The slippery drainpipe felt icy against his palms. As he scaled it, the hem of his coat snagged on a crack, tearing with a sharp rip. He froze, staring up at the third-floor window—the curtains remained tightly drawn.
His heart raced, not with fear, but with the familiar, tingling heat that surged when he spread stolen garments across his rented bed, inhaling their faint aromas, imagining the women who'd worn them.
Reaching the third-floor grille, the rain intensified. Wind lashed his face as he strained for the clothesline.
His fingers brushed the strap of the blue bra just as the drainpipe snapped.
No time to react.
As he plummeted, the last thing he saw was the pink panties slipping from the line, floating like rain-soaked clouds.
Warmth.
Not the drafty cold of his winter apartment, nor the sticky summer heat.
This was the cozy embrace of a quilt, fragrant and soft.
Her lashes fluttered, squinting against the light.
Above her, a cream-colored sheer curtain framed a crystal chandelier's glimmer.
The mattress beneath her was luxuriously soft, the duvet sliding over her skin like water.
This was not his rented room.
Consciousness returned sluggishly, like cotton submerged in warm water.
She remembered the drainpipe's crack, the searing pain of impact, the fleeting vision of pink fabric—had he died?
Where… was she?
Her fingers stirred, brushing smooth skin. Not the calloused hands of a laborer, but delicate ones with rounded nails painted pale pink, a silver bracelet jingling at her wrist.
Her heart jolted—she—suddenly sat up.
The duvet slipped, revealing the neckline of a silk nightdress.
Looking down, curves swelled beneath the thin fabric, lace panties visible beneath.
A woman's body.
She froze, then erupted into a low laugh—unbidden, trembling with wild with joy.
She raised her hand, watching it sway, graceful and unmarked.
This was everything he'd ever desired.
The stolen bras and panties hidden in his bed's cardboard box, scrutinized under sunlight, their textures caressed—imagining the women who'd worn them.
He'd never felt guilt, only longing for the softness that belonged to women, not hidden in shadows.
Now, he had a vessel of his own.
"Su Wanqing?"
A gentle male voice floated up, accompanied by a knock. "Awake? Time for breakfast."
Su Wanqing. The name triggered a faint shiver, as if electricity coursed through her.
"Coming," she replied instinctively. Her voice was unfamiliar—soft, husky with sleep, yet inherently gentle.
She rose, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. Approaching the vanity, she paused.
The woman in the mirror was beautiful—delicate, ethereal, like mist over a Jiangnan lake.
Oval face, petite nose, naturally pink lips. Chestnut hair tumbled loosely down her back, a few strands grazing her cheek. The cream silk nightdress, embroidered with pearls at the collar, emphasized her porcelain neck.
This is Su Wanqing. This is me.
She reached out, touching the glass—cool against her fingertips. The reflection's lashes fluttered, eyes sparkling like honey.
No regret, no resistance. The man named Lin Mo had drowned in the rain. Now lived Su Wanqing—dwelling in a villa, clad in silk, whole.
She opened the walk-in closet. Rows of dresses and suits greeted her. Drawers held neatly folded lingerie—silk, lace, chiffon; blush, ivory, sky-blue. Each piece was a work of art.
She knelt, pulling out the bottom drawer. Inside, matching sets—some embroidered, others adorned with tiny pearls. She lifted a pink lace set, reminiscent of the one she'd seen before her fall, yet finer. Pressing it to her cheek, she inhaled the cedar-scented air, smiling.
"Su Wanqing?" The voice grew closer, at the staircase. "Feeling unwell?"
"No," she said, tucking the lingerie away. "Be right down."
She must adapt quickly.
In the bathroom, she used fruity toothpaste, its sweetness cloying. The towel was cloud-soft. She studied her reflection, brushing her teeth with deliberate care—this was how Su Wanqing lived.
Choosing a lavender dress with lace trim, she twirled before the mirror. The fabric whispered against her ankles.
Descending the spiral staircase, she entered a sunlit living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a manicured garden. A suited man stood, glasses glinting.
"Good morning," he said. "Sleep well? You looked tired last night."
Her husband, Gu Yanshen—refined, gentle.
"Fine," she replied, mimicking Su Wanqing's demure manner. "Perhaps a little weary."
She sipped sweet red bean porridge, listening to Gu Yanshen discuss company matters. Their marriage, three years old, seemed affectionate.
After he left, she explored the study. A photo showed her and Gu Yanshen, her head resting on his shoulder. Opening the laptop, she found a diary recounting a life of quiet joy: art galleries, baking with Zhang Ma, Gu Yanshen's patient guidance.
That evening, she spread lingerie across the bed—soft, fragrant, hers. Lying among them, she inhaled sunlight and soap, a far cry from the musty stolen fabrics.
Memories flooded her—Su Wanqing's childhood, first love, marriage, the quiet happiness of being cherished. She knew now: Su Wanqing had feared telling Gu Yanshen about the pregnancy, the reason for her paleness.
As dusk fell, Gu Yanshen returned, pulling her into a warm embrace.
"Good news?" he asked, hopeful.
She nodded. "The doctor thinks… I might be pregnant."
His eyes lit up. He lifted her, spinning her in wild with joy. "Wonderful! Wanqing, this is everything!"
She leaned into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The transformation was complete. Lin Mo was gone.
In her veins flowed Su Wanqing's memories, her love, her future. The woman in the mirror smiled—a genuine, radiant smile.
This rebirth was perfect.