one day, an utterly ordinary you gained the ability to cross between worlds, what would you do? My name is Su Xia—though everyone here calls me Summer—a typical college student. On a dreary morning in 2025, during an 8 a.m. calculus class, my groans of existential dread must have caught the heavens' pity. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing outside the classroom. Inside, strangers with animal ears, metallic skin, and otherworldly features filled the seats. The moment they saw me, they all wore the same resigned expression: "Again?" "How many times this year?" "Finally, it's our turn." "I thought all the cross-world humans were sent back?" "Who's gonna handle the newbie?" I stood frozen, convinced this was a stress-induced hallucination. Just as I pinched my arm to wake myself up, a stunning red-haired woman with flickering leopard ears approached. A cosplay goddess! I thought. I need a selfie before this dream ends! But she didn't give me the chance. With a sly smile, she led me to a cramped room labeled "Interdimensional Support Office" and dropped the bomb: "Babe, you've time-slipped." "Whaaaaat—?!" I refused to believe it. I jumped, shouted, and even licked a suspiciously sticky desk—all to no avail. The world remained stubbornly real. "Can I go back?" "Why are you all so calm? Has this happened before?" "What about my family? Will they think I'm dead?" "NOOOOOO!!!" I cringe remembering that day. My meltdown was so spectacular that Lin Man—yes, the leopard-eared beauty—still uses it as blackmail. Whenever I refuse to join her "interdimensional outreach" (read: flirting with hot aliens), she'll smirk and drawl, "Remember when someone first arrived…" And I always cave. Months later, I've settled into this bizarre world. The good news? This place is just a time-pocket version of my original life. Back home, another Su Xia is still snoozing through calculus, and I'll return someday—probably after failing next semester. The bad news? The previous batch of "visitors" were sent back days before I arrived. So now, I'm the only human anomaly left. These days, I'm a "perfectly normal" college student working at a 24-hour convenience store, ladling oden broth for customers with tentacles and scales. "Shouldn't you protect the interdimensional newbie?" you ask? Nah. Here, I'm less "special" and more "unpaid intern." I was promised a hardship scholarship—until Lin Man's "no one suffers more than you" award went to someone "even worse off." So now, I'm the midnight shift zombie restocking instant noodles. But lately, things have gotten… weird. It started with the blood-stained receipt. A week ago, the cashier spat out a ticket smeared with crimson fingerprints. I shrugged it off as a prank by xenophobic classmates and tossed it. Then, three days back, while stirring a pot of oden broth at 3 a.m., my high school diploma floated to the surface. Lin Man dismissed it as "interdimensional turbulence." But at midnight, as I wiped down the third aisle, the fridge began screaming. Frost bloomed across its glass, devouring yogurt cartons like mold. I fumbled for my thermometer: -17.24°C—the same temperature from the receipt incident. Ding-dong. The door chime startled me. The thermometer shattered, and in its shards, I saw her—a woman in a torn wedding gown, pounding the glass. Her pearl necklace snapped, beads scattering as she mouthed, Help me. The fridge shuddered. I whacked it with my soup ladle (a proven fix-all), but the door burst open. Inside, twelve yogurt cups hissed as their expiration dates rolled backward: Scarlet Year 56… 46… 36… Scarlet Year 36, April 17. My blood turned to ice. My phone held a photo of Auntie Zhou—the store's owner—in her youth, dated the same day. Her pearl necklace matched the woman's in the glass. Frost crawled up my name tag, crystallizing "Su Xia." I chipped it away, and the fridge's frame glowed with a barcode. On impulse, I grabbed the scanner. The machine screeched. Lights flickered. Oden broth bubbled over, snaking across the floor toward the broken thermometer. The wedding woman thrashed, cracks spreading in the glass. Pink liquid oozed out, smelling of strawberries and roses. "SU XIA! MOVE!" Auntie Zhou hurled a ladle of broth at me. Seaweed clung to my hair as I turned—and froze. Her soup pot shimmered silver, like liquid starlight. The frost exploded. A younger Auntie Zhou reached through the glass, her wedding sleeve stained with blood. Our fingertips touched, and the register spat out a yellowed receipt: [Rescue Countdown: 2h 17m (Real Time)] "It's starting." She thrust the ladle into my hand, its handle now wrapped in silk. "Remember—the mercury gauge hides a war across time."