Chapter Text
String Venka’s latest vlog was supposed to be simple — aesthetic, soft, on brand.
It had everything her two million followers adored: the sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, her twelve-step skincare routine, the gentle sound of a lo-fi playlist, and a voiceover where she said things like, “Start your day slow, with gratitude and hydration.”
Everything was perfect.
Until her background wasn’t.
At the thirty-second mark, as Venka lovingly lifted her venti iced matcha latte with soy milk, two pumps of white mocha, one pump of vanilla, light ice, cold foam, and edible gold flakes — yes, edible gold flakes — something shifted in the blurred background of the café.
A girl with a dark, messy bun barely holding her hair together — Fang Runin, obviously — was glaring daggers at the boy across from her. Yin Nezha, in his immaculate Icicle shirt that probably cost more than her monthly rent. Perfect posture, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortlessly expensive — a walking advertisement for generational wealth, smug detachment, and whatever perfume rich men wear that smells like superiority.
Rin was mid–rant, hands moving, eyes flashing; Nezha sat there like marble, calm, infuriatingly composed, and looking at her as if she were a particularly interesting math problem.
At one point, Rin gestured so dramatically that her hand entered Venka’s “product shot.”
By the time the voiceover reached “A gentle start sets the tone for the day,” Rin had slammed her hand on the table and Nezha had raised an unimpressed brow.
The internet noticed.
@stardustbaby: background girl looks one bad day away from murder 😭
@mochaxmochi: not her arguing with a man that hot. i’d fold.
@glowbyjia: WAIT that’s Yin Nezha from the politics department??? and Fang Runin???
@campuschronicles: confirmed. they fight like this in every class.
@chaoticneutral_: “gentle start to my day” girl there’s literal war crimes behind you 💀
Within hours, the hashtag #CafeFightCouple hit Weibo’s trending page.
When Rin saw it the next morning, she nearly dropped her phone into her noodles.
Kitay sent her the link, of course, with the tact and empathy of a brick.
kitay: congrats. you are famous.
rin: for fucking what
kitay: threatening yin nezha behind a gold-foam latte
An hour later, Rin stormed into the same café, still fuming, and found Venka in her usual spot — laptop open, lighting perfect, her next vlog already in progress.
Rin slapped her phone down on the marble table. “Explain.”
Venka looked up, smile too bright, eyes too innocent. “Hey, babe! Did you see? We’re trending!”
Rin blinked. “We? You mean the clip where I look like I’m about to commit a felony?”
Venka shrugged. “The people love authenticity.”
Rin let out a dry laugh that sounded anything but amused. “Yeah? My future employers are gonna love my authenticity when they google me and find a video of me threatening some rich guy behind your five-hundred-yuan latte.”
She leaned forward, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not that you’d know what that’s like. You could post a video committing light arson and still end up on the cover of Elle China.”
Venka twirled her straw, unbothered. “Technically, that would perform really well with the algorithm.”
Rin groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “You are the algorithm.”
Before Venka could reply, the café door chimed — that soft, delicate bell sound Rin was already learning to associate with incoming chaos.
Because naturally, it was Yin Nezha.
Perfect posture, pressed white Icicle shirt, not a single wrinkle or human emotion in sight. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a luxury brand’s “studious minimalist” campaign — calm, cold, and exactly the last person Rin wanted to see while contemplating her ruined digital footprint.
He walked straight up to their table and, without a word, set his phone down next to Rin’s. #CafeFightCouple glowed from both screens.
“I assume this is your fault,” he said evenly.
Rin blinked, slow and deliberate, like she was physically restraining herself from launching the nearest object at him. “My fault? You sat there like a luxury mannequin while I was trying to educate you, you emotionally constipated trust fund in an Icicle shirt.”
Venka sipped her matcha. “Educate is a strong word.”
Nezha slipped his hands into his pockets, his tone maddeningly calm. “It’s not that bad.”
Rin let out an incredulous laugh. “Not that bad? I’m going to have to explain to every job interviewer for the next ten years why my search results include ‘campus menace’ and ‘domestic terrorism behind a matcha latte!’”
Venka hummed. “That one’s trending, by the way.”
Nezha looked between them, utterly unfazed. “You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” Rin echoed, voice rising. “You come from a family where your dad probably owns half the companies I’ll apply to. You wouldn’t know a job rejection if it bit you in your privileged ass.”
Venka immediately held up her phone. “Okay, pause — the lighting right now is so cinematic.”
“Venka.” Rin’s tone was a warning.
Nezha exhaled, slow and measured. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve already seen worse written about me online.”
Rin threw up her hands. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too rich to even worry about things like employability. If your family sneezes, the market shifts.”
“Dramatic,” Nezha murmured.
“Realistic,” she shot back. “What will Daddy Yin think, seeing his precious son getting fucking shipped with some peasant over a coffee shop argument?”
Her tone was pure acid, and for a second she thought she’d won — until Nezha tilted his head slightly and said, voice even,
“My father won’t care.”
A pause. “My mother, though… she’d probably just pray for you.”
That threw her off-balance. “Pray for me?”
“She prays for everyone she thinks needs saving,” he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
Venka finally looked up from her phone, grinning like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “Oh my god, that’s so true. She used to say that all the time — ‘Yin Nezha, dear, remember to pray for those less fortunate in both soul and wallet.’”
Rin blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”
Nezha didn’t even flinch. “She was very community-minded.”
Venka wasn’t done. “Remember when we were, like, twelve and she made us pray together in the living room? You were kneeling on those gold silk cushions, repeating that thing about— what was it— ‘banishing earthly impulses and cleansing the mind of rebellion’?”
Nezha closed his eyes for half a second, the tiniest sign of pain. “You have an incredible memory for irrelevant trauma.”
Rin tried, she really did — but she burst out laughing. “You? On your knees? Praying for humility? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Venka grinned, clearly delighted. “Oh, he was fuming. You could practically see the rebellion radiating out of him. She made him start over twice.”
Rin blinked. “Guess I’m just blessed.”
Nezha didn’t miss a beat. “Apparently twice.”
Venka snorted into her drink. “God really does give his toughest battles to the most dramatic soldiers.”
“When we’re done discussing my mother’s religious psychosis, might we actually get back to the problem at hand?” Nezha said dryly, tone clipped.
Venka was still giggling, thumbs flying over her phone screen as she violently typed.
“Yeah, Venka,” Rin snapped, throwing her a look sharp enough to slice through her acrylic nails. “Just delete the fucking video.”
Venka looked up with mock sympathy. “Babe, the internet never forgets. If I delete it, the rumors are just gonna get worse.”
She lifted her manicured hands dramatically, then let them flop down onto the marble table. “But thank you for trying to convince me — and for giving me a free comedy show instead!”
Rin glared. “You’re unbelievable.”
Venka stood, brushing nonexistent dust off her designer skirt. “If you don’t mind, I actually have to cut my new vlog, pick up a dress from the boutique, and get to class. Priorities, baobei.”
Rin blinked. “Baobei?”
Venka smirked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It means ‘baby,’ you unromantic gremlin. Anyway—” she gave a little wave, “—see you later, lovebirds.”
Nezha exhaled like he was trying very, very hard not to react.
“So what do we do now?” Rin asked, turning to Yin Nezha, who was running a hand through his freshly cut hair.
He’d chopped it off a few weeks ago in what Venka had dramatically dubbed a “nervous breakdown” — before dragging him to one of those overpriced, influencer-approved salons she never shut up about to “fix it.”
Now, he looked like he was one sigh away from sliding a hand down his face like an exhausted father of two who’d just realized his kids were arsonists.
He let out a deep sigh, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his — probably also ridiculously expensive — pair of loose jeans.
“I say,” he began, in that frustratingly even tone of his, “we just ignore it. Give it a week. Rumors die faster when you stop feeding them.”