1 Requesting the Handsome Man's Contact Information (1)

You are an utterly unremarkable university student.

The only thing that sets you apart is your decent grades.

But even that distinction faded into mediocrity once you started college.

Your university life thus far could be summed up in four bold letters: “Unremarkably Ordinary.”

Sometimes, you daydream about having a moment of brilliance in your life.

But a fantasy is only a fantasy.

Just moments ago, your classmate’s seemingly friendly words left you utterly speechless.

An hour earlier, you had run into a female classmate from your class in front of the school’s administration building elevators.

After exchanging a “What a coincidence,” the two of you stood together, craning your necks to watch the black display above the elevator doors.

The crisp sound of high heels echoed behind you.

You turned your head, and your eyes lit up instantly!

It was your favorite lecturer—young, intelligent, gentle in appearance, yet clear and commanding in her lectures, her every word and gesture shining with confidence.

She embodied the ideal adult you aspired to become.

You greeted her politely with a nod.

Compared to your rather formal greeting, your classmate was much more enthusiastic. In the blink of an eye, she was already chatting energetically with the teacher.

Standing off to the side, you listened to your classmate’s lark-like laughter, your gaze fixed on the ground around your white sneakers as if you were drawing a prison.

Your classmate brought up the upcoming campus culture festival. She was a member of the arts committee and well-known for being the class gossip—she always had the scoop.

You, on the other hand, knew nothing about the event and had nothing to contribute. Well, you did know when it was scheduled, but who on campus didn’t?

Three people waiting for the elevator; two deep in conversation.

Your silence was as conspicuous as lice on a bald man’s head.

You wanted to talk to the teacher, but in truth, you couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so you could only pray for the elevator to arrive quickly.

The elevator finally chimed, a sound like celestial music.

The doors slid open. The teacher and your classmate entered first.

You followed, instinctively taking up a spot in the corner.

When you looked up, you met their eyes, both standing side by side against the transparent glass.

The three of you formed an awkward triangle.

They were on one side; you were the odd one out, the lone apex.

Suddenly, your classmate covered her mouth and giggled.

In the confined elevator, her slender fingers couldn’t muffle her lively laughter.

Confused, your gaze wandered blankly between the two heads turned your way—landing on empty air.

Abruptly, your classmate stepped forward and took your arm.

The unexpected closeness left you a little dazed.

“Why don’t you sign up for one of the events?” she said warmly, shaking your arm. “I could even give you a little help during the initial screening.” As she spoke, she held up her hand, pinching her fingers together in a playful “just a little” gesture.

The culture festival?

But you didn’t have any special talents…

Your smile froze awkwardly as you frantically searched for an appropriate way to decline.

Your arm grew stiff in her embrace, but she seemed not to notice.

With no response from you, she turned to the teacher.

Relieved, you watched the back of her dark head.

Then, in a familiar, affectionate tone, she said, “Teacher, help me persuade her, please! University isn’t just about burying your nose in books, right?”

Left speechless, you knew that, in that instant, you must have appeared the quintessential bookworm in the eyes of your favorite teacher.

The teacher smiled and adjusted her glasses but said nothing.

Dust motes danced in the sunlit silence as the elevator ascended and finally stopped.

The doors opened; your classmate immediately released your arm and followed the teacher out.

You, left behind like a bewildered, dusty goose, were carried away by the closing doors.

All the way back to your dorm, you replayed the scene in your mind.

You should have mentioned the film you watched last weekend—the one the teacher had recommended in class—when you greeted her.

You could have asked the teacher whether she’d participated in similar events during her own university days when your classmate brought up the festival. If she said yes, you could have asked for her advice and kept the conversation going.

You could have shown interest when your classmate suggested you join the event—even if you had no intention of signing up in the end.

By the time you reached the campus package locker, you realized there had been opportunities at every turn—chances to change the outcome, all of which you’d missed.

You found the pickup code in your messages and retrieved your package without issue.

You held the white foam box and glanced at the sender’s name:

“Mary Su”

Mary Su—so close to “Mary Sue,” yet somehow it sounded much more rustic.

Mary Su—how could a name be both rural and foreign?

The contents were listed as: “Baked Flatbread”

You’d never heard of this “flatbread” before and had no idea what it was.

Until one of your roommates, almost daily over meals, would pine for the flatbread from her hometown.

Hearing about it so often, you couldn’t help but grow curious.

When your roommate showed you a picture, you blurted out, “Isn’t that just a pancake?”

The next second, her glare was like a dagger, and her shiny, glossed lips mouthed the words emphatically:

“This—is—flat—bread!”

You nodded rapidly, chicken-pecking style, and never uttered the word “pancake” again.

On her strong recommendation, you added her hometown flatbread shop owner on social media and ordered ten plain and ten pepper-salted flatbreads.

Back in your dorm, you unpacked the delivery.

After washing your hands, you took out a pepper-salted flatbread, ready to take a bite, when you remembered your roommate’s repeated instructions: It tasted best when heated.

So you tossed it into the air fryer.

Five minutes later, dressed in loungewear, you climbed up to your bunk, munching on the crisp, fragrant bread.

Normally, you wouldn’t eat in bed, but you didn’t care today.

If circumstances allowed, you might have even set up a hotpot on your bunk, feeling that only an array of fresh beef, lamb rolls, and a medley of meatballs could satisfy your current, indescribable mood.

Flatbread in mouth, you unlocked your phone, ready to seek solace in a five-kill match in King’s Arena.

But then you noticed a strange red flame icon next to the King’s Arena app, labeled:

“Burn Bright, Little Introvert!”

You scratched your head.

You had no memory of downloading such a game.

Still, you had to admit the name was especially appealing to you now.

As an introvert, you desperately wanted to be an extrovert tonight.

Curiosity piqued, you tapped the icon.

The six words “Burn Bright, Little Introvert” appeared, flickering with realistic flame effects, and in the next instant, you found yourself plunged into a crimson space.

Flatbread and all.

You blinked once, twice, and a third time.

You were still in this space, surrounded by red.

But you weren’t afraid.

After all, you’d read plenty of stories—transmigration, reincarnation, cyberpunk, ABO, non-humans. You’d seen it all on the page.

Was it finally your turn to be the protagonist?

You bit into the flatbread—crisp outside, soft inside, perfectly seasoned. It was undeniably delicious.

As you chewed, you curiously surveyed your surroundings.

The redness wasn’t bloody or frightening, but rather warm and energetic.

Just looking at it made you want to leap into action.

You suddenly grew wary.

Ordinarily, you were never this energetic.

But before you could dwell on it, an electronic male voice rang out: “Welcome, new player, to the ‘Burn Bright, Little Introvert’ game world. Please create your exclusive game ID.”

A moment later, a blue-glowing, transparent panel appeared before you, straight out of a sci-fi blockbuster.

The panel already displayed a player number: “2024”

Below that, the game ID field was blank, the blinking cursor beckoning you to type.

You paused at the number 2024.

This year was 2024—could it be that the game chose only one player a year, and you just happened to be this year’s chosen one?

You voiced your question, but the only reply was a crisp, static silence.

You wondered if the game system, like you, was a bit introverted but compelled by its programming to answer all player inquiries.

So you changed tack: “Why me?”

The electronic voice responded, “The game was summoned by your powerful desire.”

You pointed at your own face with the flatbread, three parts doubt, seven parts surprise: “My… desire?”

“Yes. The system detected a strong emotional fluctuation and was summoned to help you become who you wish to be.”

To become who I wish to be?

A temptation few could refuse.

You took another bite of flatbread and nodded. “Alright.”

The system said, “Please create your game ID.”

You raised a finger and tapped the floating panel.

A 26-letter keyboard popped up below.

As you considered switching to the Chinese input, that rustic-yet-foreign name from your package label sprang to mind.

On a whim, you typed:

“Mary Su,” and hit “Confirm.”

The system intoned, “Game start.”

The world spun.

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself standing in a subway car.

Before you hovered a much larger, pale-blue transparent panel, capable of displaying even more text.

Mission Objective: Obtain the contact information of the target.

Mission Location: Inside the subway station.

Mission Time Limit: Thirty minutes.

Mission target?

Where was the target?

You looked left and right; the long bench was packed with people.

Everyone was absorbed in their phones, no one noticing your sudden appearance.

You looked down.

Your loungewear had been replaced by a white-lettered T-shirt and jeans.

Most miraculous of all, the flatbread was still in your hand.

You looked across the aisle.

The opposite bench was also full, everyone glued to their screens.

But compared to the subway cars you were used to, this carriage felt oddly empty.

Because only one person was standing.

A young man stood with his back to you, and above his head, four golden characters glittered: “Mission Target.”

As soon as you saw them, they vanished.

What a smart game!

Did it have some kind of iris recognition software installed over the target’s head?

As soon as you looked, it registered that you’d found him.

You observed him quietly from behind.

He was tall.

The silver handrail above him barely reached his temple.

You, on the other hand, always had to stretch for the plastic straps.

He dressed well—a mint and white plaid shirt with a soft sheen, casual white slacks, and with his long legs and upright posture, his back looked clean and fresh.

You studied him from the back of his head to his heels, a sinking feeling growing in your chest.

Oh no.

Nine times out of ten, he was bound to be a heartthrob…