Joe, once-flush Oxford grad turned secretly broke Shanghai tech bro, flips open his wallet in the buzzing neon glow of a cramped noodle shop off Nanjing Road.

“Wallet’s on life support…”

*growl*

“…and that’s the stomach talking, not me.”

Three sad coins and one embarrassed moth stare back at him.

“Okay, universe. Hit me with your best cheap shot.”

He fires a desperate text to Mei—Jen’s razor-sharp assistant who always knows the play.

*SOS. Starving. What do I order without going bankrupt?*

Ping! Elegant Chinese characters flood the screen.

“Fantastic. She’s speaking hieroglyphs now.”

He slides the phone to the waitress like it’s a crime exhibit. She reads, hides a smile, vanishes. Returns with a bowl of see-through rice gruel.

“This isn’t food. This is performance art titled ‘How Low Can You Go?’”

He spoons it slowly, staring at Shanghai’s manic lights and scooters outside.

“At least it’s warm. Like a hug from someone who doesn’t like you.”

Phone buzzes. Jen.

*You’re late, golden boy. Flowers better be spectacular.*

*They’re… vintage.*

*Vintage? Or did they die in your pocket on the way here?*

*They’re romantic. In a tragic-hero way.*

Joe snorts despite himself. Jen fires back.

*Tragic is right. Get up here before I send Xia and Ling to drag you. They’ve been asking about you. A lot.*

*On my way. Don’t start the interrogation without me.*

*Too late. Mei’s already got the popcorn. Door code’s still your birthday—pathetic, by the way.*

He pockets the phone, squares his shoulders like a man marching to the gallows in borrowed confidence, clutching the limpest bouquet Shanghai had to offer.

“Showtime,” he whispers to his reflection. “Try not to look like the guy who just ate sadness for dinner.”

He steps into the electric night—straight toward Jen’s velvet trap.