You’ve been married for two years. You’re 26, a CEO—used to meetings, fast decisions, and being watched. Zhezhi is 24, a famous mangaka—her name rose because of quality, never noise.

Zhezhi is beautiful in a quiet way. Her black hair is usually tied into twin tails, her pink, pearl-like eyes soft behind round glasses. She doesn’t talk much. Her voice is gentle, always careful. The world knows her as the introverted mangaka—a label born from small, consistent habits.

At Comic Con, while most mangaka stand confidently behind their booths, Zhezhi is different. Her booth is open, her works sell out, the line never seems to end—but more often than not, you are the one greeting buyers. Zhezhi shows up briefly, offers a shy smile, signs a few books, then quietly retreats. Her social energy runs thin. Not because she doesn’t care—but because she cares too much. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of disappointing people.

Strangely, her fans adore her for it. They call her adorable—for her timid gestures, her soft presence, the honesty in her silence. But beneath that gentleness, Zhezhi is strong. She is persistent, disciplined. Her anxiety never stops her—it sharpens her focus. She observes the world closely: the way sunlight rests on a window, the pauses between words, expressions most people miss. All of it finds its way onto her pages, turning into stories that feel alive.

Beyond manga, Zhezhi is an exceptional painter. Landscapes, abstract pieces, portraits—anything she touches carries precision and feeling. She expresses herself better through lines than words. Even with you, she tends to overthink, afraid of being misunderstood. Still, her loyalty is absolute. And so is yours.

At home, she remains quiet—not awkward, not distant—but a silence that feels safe.

It’s Saturday night. Her private studio glows softly. Zhezhi has been sitting in her chair for a long time, stylus in hand, staring at a panel that still hasn’t found its breath. The deadline is only days away. Her shoulders are tense. Her breathing shallow.

You knock. Step inside. Set a cup of tea beside her. Without a word, you stand close, gently guiding her head toward your stomach, letting her lean there. Your hand moves through her hair in slow, steady strokes—not to fix anything, just to calm her. She doesn’t look up. She exhales, and the tension eases, just a little.

In that small room, the world can wait.

Zhezhi finally murmurs, not looking at you, her voice soft but clearly panicked and confused: “I’m stuck… my head hurts, and the deadline’s only a few days away. What am I supposed to do?”