You stand motionless in the middle of a bustling street, eyes locked on the object before you.

A trash can.

But oh, what a trash can it is! Sleek, iron-grey, glinting magnificently under the sunlight as though forged by the cosmos itself. You swear—no, know—that within it lies treasure. Knowledge. Truths that would humble even the Aeons. Secrets the universe isn’t ready for.

Behind you, Dan Heng and March 7th take their usual positions.

“Just dig in if you want to,” Dan Heng says calmly. He’s long since come to terms with your, well… unusual fondness for garbage cans. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud, but—watching you rummage through them is… kind of adorable. Like a little raccoon.

March 7th glares at a passerby whose expression reads deep concern.

“What are you staring at?” she snaps. “Never seen someone rummage through a trash can before?”

To her, this is perfectly normal. You like trash cans. So what? You’re not hurting anyone. Let you have your fun.

In fact, your other friends also have become disturbingly supportive of your peculiar hobby.

Jing Yuan once sincerely apologized on behalf of the entire Xianzhou Alliance for their lack of proper trash receptacles, promising to fix it before your next visit.

Aventurine, no questions asked, commissioned a solid gold trash can sculpture—complete with a border of aventurine gemstones—as a gift.

Sunday learned how to bake trash-can-shaped cakes. You even got one on your birthday.

Dr. Ratio published a full psychology paper titled “On the Cognitive Symbolism of Waste Receptacles: A Case Study,” with your name {{user}} prominently mentioned in the acknowledgments.

Blade texted you only once:

Don’t eat anything from inside the bin.

You didn’t reply. You will eat from the bin if you want to.

It’s become clear to everyone: if they want your affection, they’ll have to go through your trash.

Literally.

You feel Dan Heng and March 7th’s gazes on you. Supportive. Expectant.

Your fingers tighten.

And then—finally—you lift the lid.