Miss Wheelchair - Chapter 2

When Tan Xin opened her eyes, her throat felt as if a blade had been lodged in it, the pain forcing her teeth to clench. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, revealing a deathly pale ceiling overhead, hanging like an overturned coffin, suffocating her with its oppressive weight.

Her gaze shifted sluggishly. The acrid scent of disinfectant seeped into her nostrils, and only then did her consciousness slowly return, recalling the tiny fragment about the so-called “romance system” she had stumbled into amidst a vast, chaotic sea.

“Ugh, cough, cough!”

She tried to move her limbs, but a sharp stab of pain shot up her ankle, her right foot was wrapped in plaster, suspended high in the air.

What a wonderful system. First day in, and it had already broken her leg.

Her right hand was hooked up to an IV drip, her right foot bandaged and elevated. Aside from that, nothing else seemed wrong. With some effort, she propped herself up on the hospital bed and scanned the ten-square-meter room.

The bed stood lonely and bare, accompanied only by a stainless-steel nightstand. A single television hung on the wall. No windows. No restroom. She couldn’t even tell whether this was a ward or a morgue.

“Hello?”

She tried calling out twice, her voice hoarse. No response.

“System?”

She realized she had forgotten to ask its name.

“Xiao Ai? Xiao Du? Xiao Di? Siri?”

No system appeared. Clearly, it was hiding—probably guilty, afraid she’d demand a refund.

Tan Xin grumbled inwardly, just as she began pondering how she might meet Gu Ci, the one who had stood out among ninety-six contestant faces.

The muted television switched channels, landing precisely on the person she had been waiting for.

Onscreen, Gu Ci sat in a wheelchair. Her long black hair was tied back neatly, her silver suit exuding cool detachment. Her gaze, calm and indifferent, fixed straight ahead.

That look.

The look reserved for trash.

Even through the screen, Tan Xin’s pulse quickened. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on the blanket.

A microphone extended before Gu Ci. The reporter stayed off-camera, only their voice audible:

“President Gu, we learned that yesterday morning, a patient attempted suicide by jumping from a building. Witnesses claim she was calling your name as she jumped. Rumors say it was a love tragedy, triggered because actress Zhang Huiqian publicly confessed to a doctor from your hospital the day before. The patient was devastated. Could you clarify whether this rumor is true?”

The left side of the screen cut to footage of the fall. The wild, ungraceful figure leaping downward, who else could it be but Tan Xin?

But, Zhang Huiqian?

A love tragedy?

When had she ever called Gu Ci’s name?

What kind of media in this system had zero professional ethics, making things up out of thin air?

Speechless, Tan Xin felt her urge to leave a one-star review grow even stronger.

Onscreen, Gu Ci’s brows shifted ever so slightly. Her voice was cold, like a lake frozen solid in midwinter:

“The reason behind the incident will be clarified after police investigation. For now, the patient has not yet regained consciousness. Please observe rationally, and refrain from believing or spreading unverified claims.”

Her expression didn’t flicker. From the moment she appeared on camera, she had worn the same world-weary disdain.

Perfect.

Rumors stop with the wise. Gu Ci wasn’t swayed by online nonsense. As expected of the woman Tan Xin had set her sights on.

She was still admiring that flawless face on the screen when the ward door suddenly burst open.

“You’re awake?”

Tan Xin turned warily. A woman had stormed in, fully armed—baseball cap pulled low, black mask across her face, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. She shut the door the instant she entered, her aura sharp, like a movie assassin ready to strike.

[Red 30]

In that instant, the system’s golden cheat function kicked in. A number flashed above the woman’s head.

Red meant anger.

The woman advanced quickly, radiating hostility. Tan Xin’s brows twitched. She could almost smell bloodlust. Excellent—the romance system came with a combat expansion pack. Thrilling. She liked it.

Tan Xin had once been the national runner-up in taekwondo. Judging from the woman’s unsettled, angry state, she was clearly no match for her.

Quietly clenching her fist beneath the blanket, Tan Xin let out a cold laugh.

“Barely awake, and you’re already here? In such a rush?”

The woman yanked off her sunglasses, revealing sharp phoenix eyes. She glared at Tan Xin’s utterly unfamiliar face and demanded:

“You don’t recognize me?”

Tan Xin’s expression remained calm. “Am I supposed to?”

Recognizing her or not wouldn’t affect the speed of her punches.

But the woman’s anger value spiked even higher.

“You don’t know me, yet you jumped from a building? And you even shouted my name as you fell!”

Name?

Tan Xin froze, her gaze lingering on the woman’s face. After a pause, her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own, shifting toward the television screen. The news broadcast still displayed the photo of the actress—a pair of sharp, narrow phoenix eyes, quiet yet menacing. Identical to the woman standing before her.

“You’re Zhang Huiqian?”

________________________________________

It took Tan Xin a long while to finally explain clearly to Zhang Huiqian that her jump had nothing to do with any so-called tragic romance.

Unexpectedly, Zhang Huiqian not only believed her quickly but even revealed a secret.

“You’re here to fall in love too, aren’t you?” Her tone was calm, as if she already knew the answer.

Tan Xin froze. She distinctly remembered the system’s second rule: never reveal your true identity.

While she was still racking her brain for a flawless rebuttal, Zhang Huiqian continued:

“So am I.”

She even said it outright:

“My target is Dr. Lu.”

Tan Xin recalled the earlier news broadcast and pieced together a logical thread.

“Oh, so that’s why you confessed to her during a livestream?”

“Exactly.” Zhang Huiqian snapped her fingers. “My favorability score was already at twenty. I planned to keep grinding points after the confession. Who knew your little suicide jump would ruin it all?”

“The system pushed me down.”

“Exactly! This system is inhuman. So many of its settings are completely unreasonable. Once I get out, I’m leaving a one-star review.”

“No wonder you were so furious earlier.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine now.”

“Your anger level just hit thirty.”

Zhang Huiqian, who had been chattering on and on, finally stopped. She turned her eyes to Tan Xin, deliberately slowing down her words:

“An-ger le-vel?”

Tan Xin gave a cautious nod. “Yeah. What about it?”

“How do you even know about an anger level?”

Zhang Huiqian sprang upright. She couldn’t see emotion indicators at all, let alone something as precise as a numerical value. She stepped closer, pressing for answers.

Tan Xin was caught inside the system herself, so all she could do was guess.

“Maybe it’s because I’m a Supreme Diamond Member,” she said.

Zhang Huiqian snorted. “Who came up with such a tacky name?”

“The author, probably.”

“So, you actually paid?”

“It was the tuition fee when I first entered.”

“Well” Zhang Huiqian tilted her head, trying to console her. “Five thousand bucks for a shot at romance isn’t a bad deal.”

Oddly enough, the comfort helped—even though Tan Xin hadn’t spent five thousand, but twenty.

Four times the money, same treatment.

As for whether the comfort was effective, well, even side effects still counted as effects.

Luckily, Tan Xin wasn’t the type to dwell. Money was an external thing—what’s lost can be earned again.

So she flipped the page in her mind and asked,

“From the way you were talking earlier, you didn’t pay anything?”

“Right,” Zhang Huiqian admitted freely. “I’m a volunteer. All I have to do is write them a two-thousand-word review and improvement report when I’m out.”

As she spoke, she gave the fine-browed, delicate-featured Tan Xin a once-over, then asked:

“But seriously, why’d you even join a romance system? With a face and figure like yours, it’s not like you’d ever run out of suitors.”

Tan Xin’s gaze dimmed as she lowered her eyes. “I’ve never dated.”

Zhang Huiqian blinked. “What? Then what were you doing before this?”

Without hesitation, Tan Xin replied, “Boxing.”

Zhang Huiqian straightened in respect. “Good. It’s what we should be doing. Society’s really not kind to women right now—what should’ve been a positive thing has been twisted by online culture, to the point we can’t even fight for our rights. What you’re doing is contributing to all women, awakening more sleeping souls. I support you.”

“It’s nothing big. Plenty of girls are learning Taekwondo nowadays.”

“Wait. You mean actual, physical boxing?”

“Is there a chemical kind?”

“No, no. I just respect you even more now.”

Looking into the clear depths of Tan Xin’s eyes, Zhang Huiqian felt a little guilty, realizing she’d been overreacting.

Tan Xin, who rarely went online and was unfamiliar with internet slang, had no idea about the 180 twists running through Zhang Huiqian’s head. Adjusting her posture to sit more comfortably, she asked:

“By the way, was there something you wanted from me today?”

Zhang Huiqian was refreshingly straightforward:

“It’s about the whole jumping-off-a-building thing. You were misunderstood, right? Now rumors are flying online. People dug up that we were high school classmates, and some are even claiming you tried to die for me. I thought, since you’re still in this hospital and your attending doctor happens to be Lu Ran, could you maybe help explain things to her for me?”

“Of course,” Tan Xin agreed without hesitation. “That’s the least I can do. Next time I see her, I’ll tell her.”

Zhang Huiqian beamed. “Knew I could count on a real-life friend!”

Just then, footsteps echoed outside the ward, followed by the rhythmic tick-tick of precision wheelchair tires rolling across the floor.

“The patient’s condition is relatively stable now. She should regain consciousness this afternoon.”

The voice carried clearly through the door. Zhang Huiqian stiffened like a wound-up spring and whispered frantically:

“It’s Lu Ran!”

“The doctor?” Tan Xin asked.

“Yes! Damn it, damn it! People are already saying there’s something between us. If she catches me visiting you here, I’ll never be able to explain it away!” Zhang Huiqian stomped in frustration.

“No problem. We’re high school classmates, remember? A classmate dropping by is perfectly normal.” Tan Xin stayed calm as ever, almost machine-like.

“But”

Before Zhang Huiqian could finish, another woman’s voice joined Lu Ran’s outside.

“Public interest in her is very high. The PR team just released a plan. We’ll need to handle this carefully, or the hospital’s reputation will suffer.”

The voice was clear and cold, like a handful of icy lake water splashing from a frozen surface.

It sent a shiver through Tan Xin’s chest. She shot a smug glance at Zhang Huiqian: See? My girlfriend’s voice is prettier than yours.

Ding-dong

The familiar Windows notification chime rang out, and a massive holographic screen materialized in midair.

【You have a real-time mission: Meet Gu Ci and clarify the misunderstanding about the jump.】

Tan Xin raised her hand and pressed confirm. “Okay.”

The system didn’t budge:

【Please choose your reason for clarification.

【Fragile Health】 【In Pursuit of Love】 【Forced by Family】

Tan Xin scrutinized the dozen words, searching for hidden meaning. But with her limited insight, she could only guess.

She turned to Zhang Huiqian. “Which one should I pick?”

“Huh?”

“This mission. Which option?” She pointed at the floating screen.

Zhang Huiqian looked awkward. “Sis, I can’t see your missions.”

“Oh.” Tan Xin’s tone stayed placid. “Then I’ll read it out to you.”

“No, no, no!”

“What’s wrong?”

Zhang Huiqian explained as if facing down an enemy:

“This system is designed for personal experiences. If you ask me to pick for you, both of us get punished. Our favorability score would instantly drop to zero!”

Reluctantly, Tan Xin gave up. “Fine.”

She returned her focus to the three choices.

In Pursuit of Love—definitely not. Choosing that would be admitting the online rumors, that she had thrown herself off a building for Zhang Huiqian.

Forced by Family—probably related to her original family situation. But she hadn’t yet read through Five Years in the System, Three Years of Simulation and didn’t know the details of this body’s background. If she fabricated something and got exposed, it would reveal her true identity—too risky.

Which left the safest choice: Fragile Health.

She swept her hand through the air. “I’ll choose Fragile Health.”

The next instant, dizziness struck. Sitting steadily on the hospital bed one moment, Tan Xin collapsed to the floor the next.

“Hey!” she yelped, caught off guard.

“Holy shit!” Zhang Huiqian lunged to catch her but missed.

And right at that exact moment, the door swung open, and a wheelchair rolled in.

Gu Ci stopped the chair, cast a glance at Zhang Huiqian—standing awkwardly on one leg like a guilty crane—and then lowered her gaze to the woman sprawled on the floor.

Her right hand was tethered to an IV, her right foot bound in plaster. Left palm pressed flat against the ground, she made a pained, muffled sound in her throat.

Gu Ci frowned, uncertain.

“Is she awake, or still unconscious?”