The uploaded short video lasted exactly one minute.
The background music had a light, upbeat rhythm with a sweet, coquettish melody that made listeners unconsciously smile just from the tune alone. The lyrics were in a foreign language, so someone had translated each line and displayed it at the bottom of the screen, synchronized with the protagonist’s every movement.
The protagonist wore a pink-and-purple JK uniform, her hair tied into twin tails with a strawberry hair clip. As the first lyric played—"So mean, do you even like me?"—she pouted unhappily, her hands dropping down to mimic the classic "T-T" emoji expression.
The second line: "This time, you have to confess first."
She crossed her arms, puffing out her cheeks—less angry and more like she was playfully sulking—her determined gaze piercing through the screen.
The third line: "Am I not pretty?"
She cupped her face with both hands, looking at the camera with a mix of confusion and nervousness, as if waiting for the viewer to confess their answer.
...
The final line coincided with the song’s climax. As the lyrics declared, "You’ll definitely fall for me," there was a sharp "bang!"—the protagonist tilted her chin up, closing one eye as if taking aim, a confident smirk playing on her lips before she "shot" the screen with her fingers.
The video cut off abruptly.
Unsurprisingly, that shot pierced straight through the hearts of every viewer, just like the name of this ending move: "Fatal Snipe."
Falling in love only takes a moment.
You’ll definitely fall for me.
The moment the video was uploaded, likes and comments began skyrocketing by the second.
[OMG OMG OMG who is this?!]
[I was grinning like an idiot the whole time—this is absolutely legendary! Shoot me, beauty, I surrender!!!]
[Just finished watching. Mom, I’m in love.]
[How dare you ask, "Am I not pretty?" What kind of question is that?! If you’re not pretty, then who is?!]
[This is too freaking adorable! Who wouldn’t love a moe girl like this?!]
[That final shot was next-level. I could obsess over that look in her eyes all day.]
[Tearing up while silently agreeing. That gaze was impossible to resist, wuwuwu...]
[I kept saying "it’s just okay" but I’m already rewatching it.]
[So who is she?! A new controversial streamer on Meow Paw? Did I miss something again?]
[I only remember a streamer called Meng Miaomiao on Meow Paw. Is it her?]
[Definitely not! This girl is all-natural, way prettier than Meng Miaomiao!]
[Let me speak up! There’s one who calls herself "Meow Paw’s #1 Beauty"—she turned on max-level beauty filters on her first livestream. Watching her face reveal was comedy gold LOL.]
[It’s our one and only "Meow Paw’s #1 Beauty," Gu Ran! This video is from her livestream tonight. Everyone, go check her out on Meow Paw!]
...
The comment section was buzzing with excitement. This irresistibly cute sniper-themed short video went viral instantly, trending across all major social platforms.
Gu Ran had no idea—until Ding Ze’s call woke her up the next morning.
Mumbling sleepily, she fished her ringing phone from under her pillow.
One minute later, hearing Ding Ze’s exhilarated voice on the line, she jolted awake.
She shot up in bed, immediately opening Weibo. The first thing she saw was a gossip blogger she followed passionately reposting a short video with the caption: "Whether you’re smitten or not, I definitely am."
The thumbnail was her—wearing her new JK uniform, twin tails tied up.
Gulping, she clicked into the original post. The share count read: 50,000+.
Her hand trembled.
Clutching her phone, she hastily exited Weibo and opened Douyin.
The very first recommended video greeted her with a song she knew all too well—she’d listened to it on loop yesterday while practicing.
And there she was again, on screen, pouting cutely to the lyrics, "So mean, do you even like me?" while making the "T-T" expression with her fingers.
Gu Ran stared at her own exaggerated expressions in the video, then stiffly glanced at the like count on the right: 1.98 million+.
Ding Ze’s ecstatic words from the call replayed in her mind: "That dance you did last night blew up!"
Gu Ran flopped back onto the bed, eyes wide, but there was no joy on her face—only dread.
Scrolling down, she realized she’d started a trend. Today, influencers and celebrities on Douyin were all mimicking her cutesy gesture-filled dance from last night.
Returning to her own video, she watched the likes climb even higher, on the verge of tears.
She’d only meant it as a fun little segment for her livestream audience. Who knew a fan would screen-record and post it elsewhere—let alone that it’d go this viral?!
Was it really that good?!
She was just messing around on stream!
With a miserable groan, Gu Ran dragged herself out of bed and opened the Meow Paw app. Her follower count had exploded, but for the first time, she wasn’t happy about it.
Ding Ze sent her a WeChat message: [Likes just hit 2 million!!!]
Attached was a screenshot of the Douyin milestone.
Biting her lip, Gu Ran typed back: [Can you… delete this video?]
[Like, scrub it from the entire internet. "This content cannot be displayed per regulations" style.]
[I don’t think this dance is even that interesting! I’m totally average-looking, my expressions are super exaggerated, and I wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone!]
[Bowing emoji.]
Ding Ze: [???]
[Do you think I’m some kind of corporate big shot who can pull the "per regulations" card?]
[If this is your idea of humblebragging, dial it back. You call yourself average and your moves overdone?]
[Do you have any self-awareness at all? :)]
The more Ding Ze thought about it, the more convinced he was—ever since he first met Gu Ran, he’d suspected she had a skewed self-perception. A girl with her looks, instead of chasing a wealthy marriage or breaking into showbiz, had signed on as a streamer? Absolutely unreal.
Gu Ran pouted at his reply. Pointless to ask, as expected.
Getting videos deleted was Ji Shiyu’s expertise, not Ding Ze’s.
Another message popped up: [Get a grip, Gu Ran. Meng Miaomiao spent a fortune on cross-platform ads last year and barely cracked 200K likes. You just hit 2 million organically!]
[You’ve gone mainstream!]
The words "gone mainstream" made her head throb.
What was she supposed to do now?
She didn’t want mainstream attention. All she wanted was to quietly stream in Meow Paw’s beauty section, living off her base salary and occasional fan gifts.
Going mainstream meant more eyes—Ji Shiyu might see it. Her fake socialite "friends" might see it.
Staring at her WeChat interface, she braced herself for the inevitable message from one of those plastic sisters:
"OMG, Gu Ran… is this you?"
"So you're a live streamer now."
"The kind who'll do anything as long as viewers send you gifts, right?"
Even if her fake "sisterhood" friends saw this, she could brush it off. But what if Qin Wenyi saw it too?
At the thought of Qin Wenyi, Gu Ran lowered her lashes.
Had Qin Wenyi returned? Were she and Ji Shiyu back together?
Of course they were. They might even watch her stream together, laughing at how far she'd fallen—this delusional, extravagant woman who never knew her place, now reduced to such a pitiful state.
Gu Ran sniffled, her heart aching the more she dwelled on it. Why was her life so miserable?
Perhaps it had been doomed from the very beginning—that night when she pretended to be drunk and begged Ji Shiyu to take her in. A relationship built on such dishonesty was never going to end well.
All day, she clutched her phone nervously, bracing for the worst.
Fortunately, her fears didn’t materialize. No one sent her screenshots or links, mocking her for being a live streamer.
Gu Ran pondered. Her fake friends were always active on social media—there was little chance they hadn’t seen the video. The reason they hadn’t confronted her was probably because they didn’t recognize her.
In the clip, she wore a JK uniform, with wispy bangs and twin ponytails—a look quite different from her usual style.
Even if they had doubts, they’d probably dismissed it as some lookalike influencer.
As for Ji Shiyu… Gu Ran pursed her lips.
He didn’t use Weibo or Douyin. Between work, business trips, and endless responsibilities, the odds of him stumbling across her video were practically zero—unless someone deliberately showed him.
The thought eased her tension slightly.
She wasn’t streaming tonight. Her contract with Cat Paw stipulated five days a week, with two days off—unless there were special circumstances.
Ding Ze had pushed hard for her to stream tonight. The viral video had brought massive traffic, drawing new users to the app and skyrocketing her follower count. Seizing the momentum, he argued, would take her fame even higher.
But Gu Ran refused. A working girl never worked overtime. And when Ding Ze insisted on "striking while the iron was hot," she shook her head so vigorously it could’ve been a rattle drum.
She didn’t want to strike anything—she’d rather let the iron cool down.
Faced with her stubborn refusal, Ding Ze had no choice but to relent.
He couldn’t persuade her, but as he watched the growing anticipation in her fan group—both old and new fans clamoring for her return—he suddenly had an epiphany.
Gu Ran was a genius.
Rushing to stream while trending was predictable. But this? This was masterful marketing. Making fans wait, keeping them desperate—that was next-level strategy.
Two days later, after her cute hand-dance trended, with countless influencers and celebrities imitating it, Gu Ran finally went live again.
Before the stream, Ding Ze was a bundle of nerves, bombarding her with endless reminders—so frantic he might as well have put on a dress and streamed in her place.
Gu Ran skimmed through his lengthy instructions.
His plan was clear: since the cute hand-dance had blown up, she should double down on that image. Cementing her brand as a sweet, moe-style streamer would guarantee success.
Success meant fame. More and more people would know her. The top female streamer.
Gu Ran took a deep breath at Ding Ze’s grand vision, too polite to outright reject it.
He wanted her to wear the same JK uniform from the viral video, reinforcing the image for new fans.
Sitting at her vanity, curling iron in hand, she paused mid-motion.
Something felt off.
Ding Ze had said sticking to the sweet, moe persona would lead to success—to fame, to recognition.
Then it hit her.
She didn’t want to be famous!
What if she went viral again? Once or twice, she might get lucky. But three or four times? Even her fake friends couldn’t miss that.
Glancing at the sickly-sweet JK uniform on her bed, she grabbed it and shoved it into the deepest corner of her closet.
Then, back at the mirror, she mulled it over before curling her hair into a bold, fringe-less "bad girl" wave.
Satisfied with her reflection, she nodded.
Perfect. Anyone tuning in for twin-tailed JK moe girl would leave disappointed.
If being cute meant fame, she’d just switch directions.
Her gaze landed on the new "hot girl" mini-dress hanging in her closet.
