Zhao Chen kicked the door shut behind him, the cheap plywood rattling in its frame. The apartment stank of sweat, cheap detergent, and the ghost of last night's instant noodles. He dropped his workbag—canvas, patched, heavy with the day's grime—and rolled his shoulders. Fourteen hours on the assembly line. Again. His palms were raw, knuckles cracked, and the foreman had docked him half a shift for "sloppy soldering."
*Fuck it.*
He stripped off his grease-stained shirt, tossed it toward the hamper, and missed. The only thing in the room worth more than fifty yuan was the wardrobe: tall, dark wood, dragons and phoenixes carved so deep he could feel the grooves when he ran a thumb over them. Bought it for a song from an old widow who swore it came from her great-grandfather's estate. Probably bullshit, but it looked ancient. Smelled like it too—camphor and something metallic, like old blood.
He opened the doors to hang his uniform. The hinges creaked. Inside: empty hangers, a single moth-eaten coat, and the back panel. Except tonight the panel *rippled*. Not a trick of light. Not fatigue. A visible shimmer, like heat over summer asphalt, distorting the wood grain.
Zhao Chen blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The ripple stayed.
He reached out. His fingers sank through the wood as if it were warm water. Cool air kissed his skin—night air, jasmine-heavy, carrying distant flute music and the clatter of hooves on stone.
*What the fuck.*
Heart hammering, he pushed his whole arm in. Up to the shoulder. The other side was solid ground. He could feel grass. Dew.
He stepped through.
The world flipped.
Moonlight poured over a courtyard of white marble veined with gold. Lanterns swung from cedar beams, painting silk banners in shifting crimson. A pavilion stood ahead, its lattice screens glowing from within. Women's laughter—low, teasing—spilled out like wine. Guards in lacquered scale armor marched past, spears glinting. The air smelled of lotus, incense, and something sharper: horse sweat and steel.
Zhao Chen pressed himself against a pillar carved with coiling dragons. His jeans and factory boots looked obscene here. His phone—dead, but the solar strip on the case caught the moon and glimmered. In his pocket: a Zippo, a blister pack of aspirin, a cheap LED flashlight he'd meant to return. And in his wallet, a single condom. *Why the hell not.*
He needed proof this wasn't a stroke.
A girl emerged from the shadows, balancing a bronze ewer on her hip. Young—nineteen, maybe twenty. Her hanfu was pale green, slipping off one shoulder to reveal the slope of a creamy breast. Hair like spilled ink, pinned with a single jade comb. She hummed as she walked, hips swaying, the silk clinging to the curve of her ass.
Zhao Chen stepped into her path. "Miss."
She startled, water sloshing. Then her gaze flicked over him—his height, his broad shoulders, the foreign cut of his clothes. Her lips parted.
He pulled the soap from his pocket. A cheap bar, but under the lantern it gleamed like pearl. Jasmine-scented. "A gift," he said, voice rough. "From... far away."
She took it, cautious. Sniffed. Her eyes fluttered. "Gods. It's like walking through a garden at dawn." Her fingers brushed his as she turned it over. Lingered. "You're no eunuch. No scholar. What are you?"
"Someone who trades." He nodded at the soap. "For silver."
She glanced around—no guards close. Then, bold, she pressed a small ingot into his palm. Warm from her skin. "One tael. But..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, breath hot against his ear. "Stay. I'll show you *real* gratitude."
Before he could think, she tugged him through a side door into a storeroom. Bolts of silk towered like colored cliffs. She pushed him against a stack of indigo cloth, hands already at his belt.
"I've never seen a man built like you," she murmured, freeing his cock. It sprang hard, thick, veins pulsing. She licked her lips. "So *big*."
Her mouth was on him before he could speak—hot, wet, eager. She took him deep, throat relaxing with practiced ease, tongue swirling around the head. Zhao Chen groaned, fingers tangling in her hair as she bobbed, cheeks hollowing. The silk muffled the wet sounds, but her soft moans vibrated through him.
He hauled her up, spun her, bent her over a bolt of crimson. Her hanfu pooled at her waist, revealing a perfect ass and a pussy already glistening. Pink, swollen, dripping. He rolled on the condom—her eyes went wide at the latex, then darker with lust—and lined up.
One thrust and he was buried to the hilt.
She cried out, nails digging into silk. "*Gods, yes!*" Her walls clenched like a fist, slick and scalding. He fucked her hard, hips snapping, balls slapping her clit with every stroke. Her breasts spilled free, nipples hard as pearls. He reached around, pinched one, and she shattered—gushing around him, legs trembling.
He followed with a guttural roar, cock pulsing as he filled the latex.
Panting, she turned, kissed him slow and filthy. Slipped another ingot and a jade hairpin into his hand. "Come back, my lord. I'm yours whenever you return."
Zhao Chen stepped back through the wardrobe, clothes askew, pockets heavy. The apartment was dark, silent. But the ingots gleamed in his palm—real silver, stamped with Tang characters. The hairpin was cool, carved with a tiny phoenix.
He looked at the wardrobe. It stood innocent, wood grain still.
Tomorrow, he'd bring more.