The Young Lady Robs Ketchup, Lives Under a Bridge and Sleeps on the Streets

In the late-night fast-food joint, an odd pair sat in an inconspicuous corner.

One was an ethereally beautiful, coldly elegant noble young lady, and the other—her ravenous, deadbeat sidekick.

"Eat up, Miss. Why’re you staring at me? Weren’t you starving earlier?" Ye Cheng spoke through a mouthful of chicken drumstick.

"Miss, munch munch, who even invented this stuff, munch munch…?"

Shen Qinghan: "…"

"Has no one ever taught you not to talk with your mouth full?"

Ye Cheng shook his head. "Nope. Why? munch munch…"

Shen Qinghan: "…"

She had meant to subtly reprimand him, only to realize Ye Cheng was immune—because he was an orphan. No one had ever taught him anything.

The fact that Ye Cheng had grown up relatively normal, without severe moral distortions, was nothing short of a miracle.

Shen Qinghan sighed.

"Never mind. Just keep eating. But stop talking to me."

She lifted her chin, her snow-white neck arching like a disdainful swan’s, her icy aura practically radiating.

Ye Cheng nodded—then began signing to her.

Yes, he knew sign language.

He’d learned it in the orphanage, where most children had congenital disabilities. Healthy kids like him were the outliers. The majority had deformities; the "lucky" ones were just deaf or mute.

Sign language was practically a mandatory subject there.

At least, for Ye Cheng. He was quick to learn, mastering it fast enough to help with meals and communication.

And, of course, to sneak extra portions during food distribution.

Such was the survival strategy of a true opportunist—Ye Cheng never shortchanged himself. Learning new skills was all about securing better meals.

Ideally, landing a cushy government job someday.

Blissfully leaching off the system like a tiny parasite.

Now, with the drumstick still clamped between his teeth, his hands flew into motion.

"Miss, where are we staying tonight? Wanna just crash here at the fast-food place? (Sign language)"

Shen Qinghan: "…"

What the hell was he doing?

After a pause, she recognized it as sign language.

He even knew this?

Ye Cheng’s signing was fluid, professional, on par with certified instructors. But his speed was absurd—his hands moved like he was performing ninjutsu seals. At one point, he even signed two different phrases simultaneously.

Shen Qinghan was stunned. So was the nearby employee wiping tables.

She was no sheltered heiress; she spoke multiple languages, albeit with varying fluency. But Ye Cheng’s rapid-fire signing was utterly foreign to her.

Silently, Shen Qinghan reached for the ketchup packets on Ye Cheng’s tray.

She tore them open.

Squeezed them out.

One. Two. Three…

She didn’t stop. More and more met their demise, her frustration at this "mute" almost pushing her to vocal protest.

Finally, as she targeted the last packet, Ye Cheng broke.

"Spare that one! It’s just a kid!"

He shielded the final ketchup packet like a treasure—these were hard-earned freebies, after all.

Shen Qinghan’s face remained impassive, but a flicker of triumph glinted in her eyes.

She’d never admit she couldn’t understand sign language.

For young mistresses like her, conceding inferiority was unthinkable—especially for someone like Shen Qinghan, whose pride ran bone-deep.

But she was fair.

She wouldn’t force compliance through intimidation.

She had her own ways to win.

In this unspoken duel with Ye Cheng, she hadn’t lost.

She dropped the matter of his talking, quietly eating her burger while gazing at the street outside.

Then a sound made her frown. She turned to see Ye Cheng dunking his bun into the ketchup smears she’d left on the wrappers.

He glopped it on thick and took a bite.

"What are you doing?" Shen Qinghan demanded.

Ye Cheng blinked. "Eating? What’s up, Miss?"

"If you wanted more ketchup, why not just get some from the counter?"

Her tone carried an edge she hadn’t intended.

This wasn’t the outcome she’d wanted.

Her actions had, in essence, humiliated Ye Cheng—those ketchup packets were his spoils from sweet-talking the staff, and she’d wasted them. It felt like invalidating his effort.

Ye Cheng raised a brow. "Oh, I’ll grab more later when we leave. No way I’m wasting this, though."

He grinned, the picture of shameless thrift.

Shen Qinghan fell silent.

An odd discomfort settled in her chest.

"Something wrong, Miss?" Ye Cheng studied her sudden quiet.

She looked away.

"Stop nagging. I said no talking during meals."

"Yes, Miss! (Sign language)"

His hands resumed their frantic "seal-making."

Dinner ended swiftly. Despite devouring five burgers and ten drumsticks, Ye Cheng finished faster than Shen Qinghan, who’d only ordered one.

As the payer, she headed to the counter. With Ye Cheng’s support, she scanned the payment code. Meanwhile, he eyed the ketchup and gloves, ready to hustle.

Before he could speak, Shen Qinghan’s icy voice cut in.

"Give me ketchup."

"Um… ma’am, the ketchup is—"

"I said, give me ketchup. Now."

Her tone sharpened, her glare lethal.

The cashier flinched, hands flying to her chest as she retreated half a step, eyes welling up under Shen Qinghan’s intimidation.

Ye Cheng: "???"

This wasn’t the plan.

He’d intended to sweet-talk freebies—but the young mistress went straight to armed robbery!

No niceties whatsoever.

While Ye Cheng stood dumbfounded, Shen Qinghan doubled down.

"Are you deaf? I said ketchup!" Impatience laced her frosty demand.

"B-but ma’am…" The cashier’s lip trembled before she burst into tears.

Ye Cheng: "…"

Minutes later, he carried Shen Qinghan out of the store.

In her hands, alongside the smoking-rabbit plush, was a bulging bag of ketchup packets and disposable gloves.

"Here."

Shen Qinghan lay sprawled on Ye Cheng's back, swinging a plastic bag filled with ketchup packets and disposable gloves in her hand.

Ye Cheng froze.

"For me?"

"Yeah, for you." Shen Qinghan nodded.

Ye Cheng was stunned. So the ruthless young mistress had just "raided" the front desk for ketchup… for him?

She really—ugh, I could cry!

Ye Cheng was moved for exactly one second.

"Young Mistress, freeloading is an art—there’s a whole philosophy to it. If you want to learn, I can teach you."

Ye Cheng chuckled as he carried the scheming underworld princess on his back, strolling down the street.

Shen Qinghan neither refused nor agreed—because she didn’t say anything.

Luckily, Ye Cheng was already used to this dynamic. If the ruthless young mistress stayed silent, he’d just keep talking.

Ye Cheng: "By the way, Young Mistress, where are we staying tonight?"

Shen Qinghan: "Dunno. Any hotel nearby."

Ye Cheng: "Hotels are expensive. I know a few great spots—wanna hear?"

Shen Qinghan: "Talk."

Ye Cheng: "Under a bridge, a park bench, or the airport lobby—solid choices..."

Shen Qinghan: "..."