Chapter Text
Maomao had always known that living in the Pleasure District came with risks.
She simply hadn’t expected clerical incompetence to be the most dangerous one.
Disguising herself as a boy had been a long‑standing habit.
It was efficient, practical, reduced the likelihood of being harassed, grabbed, or dragged into conversations she didn’t want to finish.
It also meant – binding her chest (actually, she had nothing to bind anyways), wearing oversized clothing, speaking less (ugh… no need because her tone was already low and masculine), looking sickly, unpleasant, and profoundly uninterested in human interaction.
That’s very Maomao.
This strategy had worked flawlessly. Right up until the night it didn’t.
The kidnappers had been… underwhelming.
Maomao woke up to the familiar sensation of being carried badly.
“Oh?” she noted internally, “Fucking amateurs!”
She did not scream or struggle. She did not bother opening her eyes either.
From real life experience, struggling made people nervous.
Nervous people made mistakes.
Mistakes resulted in injuries – hers or theirs – and she preferred injuries that were predictable.
“She’s light,” someone said.
“He,” the other corrected, “Look at the clothes.”
Maomao sighed faintly, Ah. Gender assumptions. My old ally.
By the time they realized she was conscious, she had already memorized their footsteps and breathing patterns and concluded that neither man could outrun her if properly motivated.
Unfortunately, motivation would come later.
She was sold before sunrise.
Fuck my life! – Maomao mumbled.
The Rear Palace intake office smelled like dust, ink, and deeply regretted life choices.
Maomao was unceremoniously lowered onto the floor and presented like an incorrectly labeled package.
“Found in the Pleasure District,” one kidnapper informed proudly.
“Male,” the other added.
The registrar frowned, “He’s small.”
“So are some men,” the first insisted.
The registrar sighed the long sigh of a man who no longer believed accuracy mattered. “Strip. Verification.”
Maomao complied mechanically.
The check lasted approximately three seconds.
Silence followed.
“…Huh?” the registrar said.
The kidnappers leaned in, “…Problem?”
“Yes,” the registrar replied flatly, “This one lacks equipment.”
The kidnappers stared.
Maomao stared at the floor.
“You said male.”
“He looked male!”
The registrar rubbed his temples. “Congratulations. You sold us the wrong category.”
“We can refund…”
“No refunds,” the registrar snapped, “This is the Palace, not a fish market.”
He scribbled something on a new form, “Assign to junior eunuch duties,” he muttered.
One kidnapper hesitated, “But he’s…”
Maomao chose that moment to cough weakly and look profoundly unwell.
The registrar glanced at her once. “…Even better. No one will notice.”
And just like that, through – A kidnapping. A misunderstanding. And astonishing bureaucratic indifference.
Maomao was inducted into palace service.
She watched the kidnappers flee with their payment and thought calmly, Well. This is inconvenient.
Then she adjusted her sleeves and added, But manageable.
And thus, through the flawless machinery of palace mismanagement, Maomao entered the Rear Palace workforce.
Maomao’s first thought upon stepping into the Rear Palace was, Wow. This place is exquisitely optimized for murder.
Her second thought was, Great. I’ll fit right in.
She shuffled along with the other eunuchs, head down, shoulders hunched, profile adjusted precisely to look like someone no one would remember five seconds later.
She had worked very hard on this disguise. Powders for pallor. A binding that made breathing optional. A posture that screamed “I am not paid enough to exist.”
Perfect.
The registrar barely looked at her.
“Name?”
“Mao.”
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
“Skill?”
“…Carrying things. Ah, poison and medicine specialties, too.”
Outstanding. She was hired immediately.
By midday, Maomao was assigned to medical storage, which she chose to interpret as fate doing her a solid for once.
Rows of herbs. Poisons. Medicine logs. Dust. Silence.
“You’re new.” The voice was cheerful, which was suspicious.
Maomao turned slowly and immediately wished she hadn’t.
The man standing there was infuriating.
He stood beneath a covered walkway, robe immaculate, posture careless in a way that could only be intentional.
His face was… irritating. There was no other word for it – sharp features softened by a smile too practiced, too empty.
The kind of beauty that was meant to disarm, to distract.
He was beautiful in a way that felt actively inconvenient – tall, slim, voice soft.
His smile radiated the exact energy of someone who had never been told “no” and had taken it as a personal challenge.
Ah. Management.
A palace decoration. An eunuch.
Maomao instantly disliked him.
“Yes, sir–” Maomao said, lowering her eyes.
“From outside the capital?”
“Yes.”
“Assigned here?”
“Yes.”
He smiled wider, clearly amused by her lack of imagination, “You don’t say much.”
“There’s not much to say, sir.”
A pause.
Then laughter – soft, musical, and entirely unconvincing.
“So quiet–!” he mused, circling her like she might spontaneously explain herself if stared at long enough.
“Most new eunuchs cry. Or faint. Or steal something they shouldn't. You’re just… counting.”
“I was told to count, sir” she replied.
He hummed, “You’re doing it wrong.”
Maomao froze internally, Oh good, she thought, I have met my natural predator.
“Wrong?” she asked carefully.
“Yes,” he said lightly, “You’re not making any mistakes. That’s suspicious.”
What the fuck?!
That was when Maomao officially decided she hated him.
“I apologize, sir” she stated dutifully, “Would you prefer I miscount?”
He laughed – Actual laughter.
Such a weirdo!
“Oh, you’re interesting… I’m Jinshi, Manager of the Rear Palace, which means if something explodes, cries, poisons someone, or causes an international incident, it’s my fault.”
She doubted that. People like him floated. They did not linger near storage rooms or dusty corners.
Maomao bowed, “Mao.”
Jinshi stared, “Just Mao?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Interesting!”
Maomao went back to counting jars, dismissing him mentally as nothing more than an inconvenience wearing a pretty face.
Jinshi did not move right away. He stared at her like she’d just handed him a puzzle missing half its pieces.
“You hold herbs like you expect them to bite.” He observed.
“They have before.”
He laughed. Loudly.
“Mm…” He studied her harder now.
“You walk like you’ve been hit before. Multiple times. And you look at herbs like your friends.”
She smiled internally, Abort mission, she told herself, This one has eyes.
“I’ll be watching you,” Jinshi concluded cheerfully.
“I would prefer you don’t, sir–” Maomao retorted before thinking.
The silence was immediate.
Then Jinshi grinned, “Oh, I like you even more now.”
He left.
Maomao exhaled exactly one millimeter of relief.
That night, while Jinshi lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about the strangely competent eunuch who did not trip over anything like a normal person, Maomao slipped into the medical archives for the first time.
Outside the archives, Jinshi paused mid-step.
“…Huh? There is something profoundly wrong with that eunuch,” he said to no one, “I really should’ve fired that one.”
Stupid-ass Jinshi, he didn’t.
Jinshi had exactly three problems the next morning.
Someone had swapped the morning incense with something that made half the concubines sneeze in unison.
A tray of medicinal wine had exploded for reasons no one could explain but everyone blamed on the eunuchs.
And now – this.
He stared at the registration scroll like it had personally insulted his ancestors.
“Explain…” Jinshi said sweetly, which meant everyone in the room began silently preparing their wills.
The registrar bowed so hard his forehead nearly embedded itself into the tiled floor.
“Master Jinshi, sir, the new eunuchs arrived today as scheduled. All verified. All accounted for.”
Jinshi tapped the scroll. “There is a problem.”
Silence.
“A problem that involves,” he continued, “the spontaneous generation of a new staff member who is neither suspicious enough to be interesting nor incompetent enough to ignore.”
Jinshi smiled, “Which is frankly the worst kind.”
The registrar risked lifting his head. “S–should we… remove that one?”
“No.”
That was immediate.
Jinshi folded the scroll and sighed like a man burdened by the failures of the universe.
“Send them to medical storage. If they steal poison or cure someone by accident, at least it’ll be entertaining.”
Jinshi prided himself on being an excellent manager.
This was objectively incorrect, but he didn’t know that.
Most days, his responsibilities included breaking up concubine arguments over vibes, delegating disasters to sub-managers, pretending he knew where the budget went, personally judging everyone who worked under him, etc.
Today, however, his thoughts were occupied by something far more dangerous.
A suspiciously competent junior eunuch named Mao.
He lay sprawled across a silk couch in his office, staring at the ceiling like it had personally conspired against him.
“Too quiet,” Jinshi murmured, “Too observant. Didn’t trip over a single thing.”
He sat upright suddenly.
“And didn’t ask for clarification,” he added, “Who the hell does that?”
“No one healthy.” He rang a bell.
A very tired senior eunuch appeared immediately, already at peace with the idea that this was going to be nonsense.
“What do we know about the new one?” Jinshi asked.
“Which one?”
“The… beige one.”
“…Sir?”
“The one who looks like regret.”
“Oh–! Mao?” The eunuch flipped through notes.
“He came in three days ago, works in medical storage. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t flirt. Especially, he hasn’t poisoned anyone… Yet.”
Jinshi narrowed his eyes, “Assign me to shadow him.”
The eunuch blinked, “Sir. You are the Manager.”
“Exactly. I must manage.”
“…From the shelves?”
“Yes.”
Defeated sigh, “As you wish, Master Jinshi.”
Thus, the Rear Palace entered a new era of intense, unnecessary supervision.