Gu Ran didn’t wear any makeup today.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to before going live—what woman wouldn’t want to look prettier with makeup?—but all her cosmetics and skincare products had been left behind at Nanchen Mansion. Ji Shiyu had gone so far as to freeze her credit cards out of spite. It wasn’t about the money; she refused to stoop so low as to take anything on her way out, lest he mock her for being petty.
The only trace of makeup on her face was a swipe of affordable lipstick, just enough to brighten her complexion.
The filters on Cat Paw Live were effective, but when turned off, the app’s original camera still delivered impressively high-definition clarity.
Gu Ran leaned closer to her phone to confirm the filter was disabled before settling back into her chair and checking the screen.
What stared back was her unfiltered, unedited, natural face in full HD.
She exhaled in relief and smiled at the camera.
Now no one could accuse her of being a cross-dressing fraud.
And she hadn’t lied—she really was… quite pretty.
Gu Ran instinctively glanced at the scrolling comments below the screen.
Why had they stopped moving?
Where was everyone?
She checked the viewer count in the top-right corner.
The numbers were still there, so why was no one talking?
Assuming her phone had frozen, she pouted slightly, propped her chin on her hand, and stared at the screen, waiting for it to respond.
Meanwhile, every viewer in the livestream—who had been eagerly anticipating the exposure of yet another “catfishing” scam after the infamous “Super Sweet Lolita” incident—was met with the sight of a breathtaking beauty idly resting her chin in her palm, locking eyes with them through the screen.
For a moment, it felt like a slow-motion shot from an art-house film.
And when her gaze met theirs, it stole their breath away.
Gu Ran noticed the live effects were still animating, so her phone probably wasn’t frozen. Yet, with no comments appearing and even her opponent, “Meng Miaomiao,” suddenly falling silent, she wondered if they were conspiring to prank her.
Hesitantly, she spoke up, “Is anyone still there?”
“Hello?”
Her voice was no different from when she’d been singing sweet, bubbly tunes earlier—like an oversweetened orange soda, infectious enough to make listeners’ lips curl into an involuntary smile.
Gradually, the audience snapped out of their daze, their smiles lingering as they refocused on their screens.
The PK battle between “Meng Miaomiao” and “Cat Paw’s Most Beautiful” was still ongoing. On the left was the freshly filter-free “most beautiful,” and on the right was the platform’s universally adored goddess, Meng Miaomiao.
The contrast was almost cruel.
It wasn’t that Meng Miaomiao wasn’t pretty—with her large eyes, delicate nose, and cherry lips, her doll-like, slightly Eurasian features ticked all the boxes for many male fans. But next to Gu Ran, it was a humbling lesson in what “dimensional transcendence” truly meant.
Under the raw camera lens, Gu Ran wore not a speck of makeup. The perfect balance of striking allure and youthful sweetness played across her features, her slightly full lips adding a tantalizing mix of sensuality and innocent charm. Without even needing to dissect it, she effortlessly reduced the platform’s reigning “pure-and-sexy” queen, Meng Miaomiao, to looking like a mass-produced internet celebrity.
Only after Gu Ran asked “Is anyone there?” a few more times did the audience fully process what they were seeing—a face so clear they could count every lash, completely untouched by filters.
Their collective reaction: Absolute madness.
Not a cross-dresser. Not a catfish. She hadn’t lied about a single thing since going live. If anything, her only “lie” was downplaying her looks with “I’m actually kinda pretty.”
Because this wasn’t “kinda pretty.” This was drop-dead gorgeous!
This wasn’t a scammer—this was a full-blown heart-arsonist!
After the initial shock wore off, the comments exploded at lightning speed, with the most repeated phrases highlighted by the system:
[Aaaaaah I’ve lost my mind!!]
[Ranran? Your name’s Ranran, right?]
[Ranran, I’m so sorry, I was wrong, I’ll go kms now]
[Damn, that look—just end me already]
[Holy shit, in all my years of watching livestreams, I’ve never seen a host dare to go without filters, let alone makeup!]
[I’m so sorry, host, I was so, so wrong]
[Who was it that called her shameless for naming herself “Cat Paw’s Most Beautiful”? If she’s second place, point me to anyone who dares claim first!]
[Most Beautiful IS Most Beautiful! Even if the heavens descend, you’re still number one!]
[Is this level of beauty even allowed in the streaming world?!]
The barrage of praise flew by too fast for Gu Ran to read, but she caught enough to see they were all compliments.
As the PK penalty time ended, Meng Miaomiao didn’t even bother with a goodbye. For the first time in her two-year career, her trademark politeness cracked—she abruptly cut the connection.
Gu Ran watched her viewer count skyrocket.
She sighed in relief. “Thank you, everyone.”
But after the awe faded, the audience grew indignant.
First, there were men pretending to be cute girls online, and now an actual natural beauty had been streaming under a filter so heavy it was practically an insult to her face?
They’d been duped. Again.
Truly, the prettier the woman, the better the liar.
Comments poured in:
[Why would you use an 18-level filter when you look like THIS?!]
[Is it fun to mess with us nerds? Why does everyone mess with us nerds?!]
[There’s zero trust left between people]
[First girls deceive me in real life, now livestreamers deceive me too, I’m crying]
[I… I wanted to yell at you, but then I saw your face and physically couldn’t, damn it!]
[Same, I can’t bring myself to scold her, ugh]
[Listen, I’ll forgive you this time! But don’t get cocky! Next time you pull this, I’ll—I’ll beg on my knees!]
[HAHAHAHAHAHA]
Gu Ran read through the comments—full of tough words delivered with zero bite—and decided to address the filter issue.
“It’s my first time streaming, and I was nervous, so I used a filter,” she explained. Then, bowing her head slightly, she added, “I’m sorry, everyone.”
The response was immediate:
[It’s okay, we forgive you!]
[Sweetheart, lift your head up!]
[Why are some of you so harsh? Ranran already apologized, what more do you want?!]
[Who could possibly refuse an apology from this angel?]
[How does she look this good even from this angle?]
After her apology, Gu Ran straightened up, about to decide what to talk or sing about next, when—out of the corner of her eye—she spotted a cockroach darting across the floor by the table leg.
She leapt to her feet, hastily telling the stream, “Wait a moment, everyone!” before grabbing the insecticide her landlord had given her and unleashing a furious spray at the intruder.
Half a minute later, the cockroach lay motionless, thoroughly deceased.
Gu Ran set down the insecticide, wrapped the cockroach's corpse in a tissue, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash.
The live-stream audience hadn’t even processed what had happened when the streamer hurriedly said, “Wait for me a moment,” and then disappeared from view.
The chat erupted:
[Where’d she go???]
[It’s all your fault for being so aggressive! She already apologized, but some of you still weren’t satisfied—now you’ve driven her away!]
[Where is she? Come back already!!!]
The stream descended into chaos after Gu Ran left, with some viewers arguing and others pleading for her return. But gradually, their attention shifted to the now-empty screen.
With Gu Ran gone, the background of her stream became fully visible.
The curtains, which had appeared warped and distorted under the heavy beauty filters the day before, now revealed their true state—yellowed with age, riddled with holes in several places.
The audience took in the furnishings and environment of the streamer’s room.
The sparse, worn-out furniture was peeling and chipped. The desk lamp had a bare bulb with no shade. The wallpaper was dotted with patches of green mold from dampness. The style and layout suggested this wasn’t a home but a hotel—and the cheapest, lowest-grade kind at that.
Other beauty streamers showcased cozy, well-decorated rooms in their backgrounds. But this streamer lived in a place like this?
A minute later, Gu Ran returned, smoothing her skirt before sitting back down in front of her phone.
“Sorry about that,” she said, noticing the audience was still waiting. “Something came up just now.”
“A cockroach suddenly ran right past me, so I grabbed insecticide and sprayed it.”
She sounded almost sheepish as she added, “I’m a bit of a coward—I couldn’t bring myself to step on it.”
The viewers were stunned.
Not only did this beauty live in such a place, but she’d also vanished for two minutes just to kill a cockroach?
Gu Ran glanced down at her planned stream schedule and continued, “Next, I’ll sing a song for everyone.”
“If you like it… um…”
She hesitated, recalling her bold claims from the day before—promising to stand up and show her full figure for a “Party Popper” gift, turn off two layers of filters for a “Guardian of Love,” disable four layers for a “Romantic Firework,” and remove all beauty filters for a “World Carnival.”
Not only had she received zero gifts, but she’d also been ridiculed on forums for being delusional and presumptuous. People mocked her for daring to ask for gifts when she looked like that, calling her a scammer who treated her audience like fools.
Gu Ran puffed her cheeks and scrolled to the cheapest tier of gifts—the ones that cost just a dollar or two. After a long internal struggle, she finally mustered the courage to finish her sentence:
“Could you maybe… send me a little something? Just a small gift?”
Her expression was a mix of hope and vulnerability. “A lollipop would be fine, or a rose. A bouquet of flowers would be amazing!”
---
That night, at the headquarters of Xinbo Group, the lights in the CEO’s office were still on.
Ji Shiyu had a cup of long-cold black coffee at his side.
His secretary knocked and entered, quietly replacing the cold coffee with a freshly brewed cup.
Ji Shiyu glanced up from his screen, noticing the secretary’s slightly smudged makeup. “Go home,” he said.
“Huh?” The secretary blinked, then nodded quickly. “Right away. Thank you, Mr. Ji.”
Ji Shiyu added, “Send Xu Hui in.”
“Of course.”
Soon, Xu Hui stepped into the office.
Seeing the furrow in Ji Shiyu’s brow, he still reported, “The staff at Nan Chen Residence just informed us… Miss Gu hasn’t returned yet.”
The man’s fingers, resting on the edge of the desk, tensed slightly.
Xu Hui ventured carefully, “Mr. Ji, the card…”
Ji Shiyu took a slow, deep breath, his eyes cooling again.
His voice was lower than usual from days of overtime. “Keep it frozen.”
Xu Hui hesitated, unsure whether to relay Gu Ran’s exact words from their phone call: “I’m never going back there again.”
In the end, he simply nodded as before. “Understood.”
Xu Hui turned and left.
The office was silent, almost desolate.
Ji Shiyu gazed out at the thick darkness beyond the window and closed his eyes.
The memory surfaced—Gu Ran, standing right here in this office, throwing down her ultimatum before running out in tears.
His brow twitched as he suppressed the growing, inexplicable unease that rose in him whenever he recalled that moment.
He told himself he wasn’t in the wrong. But another voice in his mind insisted he was—that he’d been completely wrong.
His frown deepened before he finally opened his eyes again, his gaze steady.
Gu Ran had no access to her cards, no money. She’d never held a job, had no ability to support herself, and couldn’t possibly tolerate staying anywhere below a five-star hotel.
She would come back.
