My Girlfriend Is a Cello Player-Chapter 1: The King of Foot Massages Won't Meet the Cello Girl

The teenage boy sitting across from her had been staring at her for half an hour now. Even though he'd ordered the luxurious "699 Nostalgic Female High School Uniform Massage" package, the woman was starting to feel unnerved by his intense gaze.
But why would a high school student spend so much money just to see someone in a school uniform? Hadn't he seen enough of them at school?
At 24 years old, masseuse No. 7 had always prided herself on her ability to convincingly cosplay as a high school girl. But now, faced with the real deal—a genuine high schooler—she felt her career confidence waver like never before. This kid's face... there was no doubt about it; he'd probably dated actual high school girls. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd ask her to help him with math homework next. After all, she'd only attended vocational school—not exactly Ivy League material.
"Why do you do this?" the boy suddenly asked.
"Huh?" she replied, caught off guard.
"You're pretty. Why are you doing this job?"
"My dad got hooked on gambling when I was little," she began, reciting the well-rehearsed story.
"That's not an excuse," he cut her off sharply. "Doesn't it affect your grades?"
"I'm not a student—I'm cosplaying. I don't have grades. Just performance metrics."
"But wouldn't people talk? If you ever brought someone home, you'd have to explain it to family and friends. And then there's the stigma—you'd need a plan to clean up that black mark on your reputation."
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Was this guy serious? Such a young age, yet already harboring some kind of savior complex. Still, looking at him, maybe it wasn't entirely out of the question.
"It'll make switching careers harder later, too," he continued, his tone analytical. "Say you become famous one day. Someone will dig up your past and comment online: 'An entertainer once discarded by businessmen, now treated like gold.' Stuff like that."
He paused thoughtfully. "If there's any upside, it's that clients might pay more for your services. But if they've got that kind of cash, why wouldn't they just book—"
"For fuck's sake, what's wrong with you?!" she snapped, losing her composure.
She felt humiliated, mocked even. Wearing the uniform was awkward enough without being ridiculed by some smug teenager.
"I quit! Screw your feet—and screw your attitude while you're at it!"
She stormed toward the door, ready to leave.
"Then refund my 699," he said calmly.
"You got 40 minutes of a 70-minute service. You think I owe you anything?"
"Fine. Refund me 400, and throw in a 399 coupon. I saw them at the front desk earlier." His voice carried an air of certainty.
………..
With the coupon in hand, Lin Tian stepped out of the spa into the cool night air. The streets were still damp from the recent downpour, puddles reflecting the dim glow of streetlights. He sighed, glancing at the glowing interface hovering before him: Producer System.
No luck again. Not a single suitable candidate.
Lin Tian had lived 18 unremarkable years in this parallel world until last week, when he unexpectedly bound himself to the "All-Rounder Producer" system. The catch? He couldn't activate it alone—he needed a female partner. By cultivating her into an idol adored by millions, Lin Tian could boost his own stats and unlock rewards from his previous life: novels, music, manga, scripts—the works.
The problem? Despite his handsome face, which drew envy from countless men, Lin Tian's social circle barely extended beyond textbooks. Finding a girl willing to team up with him seemed impossible. Desperate, he'd turned to the foot massage parlor—a place where men could meet attractive women at relatively low cost. But as he'd quickly discovered, these women were entrenched in their craft. Dressing them up as idols wouldn't change the fact that they'd likely pitch bizarre hybrid services like "Handshake Event + Concert Outfit Massage."
Clearly, rushing things wouldn't work. Choosing the wrong partner could doom him to a lifetime managing the Golden Foot Spa chain—or worse, training its legion of masseuses. Sure, he'd earn the title "King of Foot Massages," revered by legions of beautiful masseuses, but where was the glory in that?
Stepping onto the subway home, Lin Tian let his thoughts drift. At 18, he wasn't particularly passionate about foot massages anyway. For now, his dreams lay elsewhere.
---
Lin Tian lived alone in a cheap rental apartment within an old neighborhood near the city's second ring road. Though rundown, the location was perfect for a commuting student like him—just six stops from school and close to downtown. The building backed onto a quiet café owned by an elderly man named Gan, whose white hair belied his energetic demeanor. Gan often checked in on Lin Tian, offering snacks or homemade wine during holidays. In return, Lin Tian occasionally bought coffee he didn't drink just to support the business—even though Gan rarely accepted payment.
That evening, however, something felt different. The café lights were off, the doors locked tight. It was barely nine o'clock—far earlier than usual. Confused, Lin Tian peered through the glass door. That's when it opened.
A girl carrying a cello stepped out, her plain features framed by a neat ponytail. She wore the same high school uniform as Lin Tian but exuded an aura of detachment, her eyes distant and hollow.
"You need something?" she asked softly.
"Where's Grandpa Gan?"
"He's not here. I'm watching the shop tonight."
"And you are…?"
"His granddaughter."
"Oh."
"Mm."
Their brief exchange ended as abruptly as it began. Without another word, the girl brushed past him, her cello case grazing his shoulder. She tossed a bag of trash into a nearby bin, locked the café door behind her, and disappeared inside.
Lin Tian watched her go, puzzled. When had Grandpa Gan mentioned having a granddaughter who attended the same high school? Then again, he realized guiltily, he'd never bothered to learn much about Gan's personal life. Perhaps asking to cut through the café tonight wasn't worth the effort—not with her icy demeanor making conversation seem like a chore.
---
Climbing the stairs to his sixth-floor apartment, Lin Tian spotted her again. This time, she sat perched precariously on the railing outside unit 603, her legs dangling over the edge. Her cello rested beside her.
What's she doing? Trying to catch some fresh air? Or maybe searching for a lost cat? Lin Tian thought to himself and then joked inwardly. She's not thinking of jumping, is she?
The girl also noticed Lin Tian, She turned around, her expression unreadable.
"Hmm… If you are thinking about jumping, could you choose a different location? Preferably not in front of my door?" Lin Tian asked.
"Okay."
Gently, she shifted along the railing to unit 602.
"That's not much different there. How about moving to another floor?"
"If I fall from lower down, I probably won't die."
"That depends. Head-first might work." Lin Tian considered suggesting tying the cello to her head for balance—but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Helping her would make him a murderer. Not ideal.
"Roof?"
"The roof's locked. I don't have a key."
"Oh, pull the lock down—it's fake."
Her eyes lit up with understanding. Slowly, she swung her legs back over the railing and hopped down. "Thanks."
"No problem." Lin Tian nodded, pulling out his keys to unlock his door. As he did, the girl hesitated, retracing her steps.
"One last favor—could you hold onto this for me?" She held out her cello case hopefully.
"Sorry, can't do that," Lin Tian replied apologetically.
"Alright." Disappointment flickered across her face. "Goodnight, then."
"You too. Sleep well."
As she ascended to the rooftop, Lin Tian entered his apartment, grabbed a stale bottle of cold brew coffee from the fridge, and flopped onto the couch. Cracking open his laptop, he settled in for a relaxing evening.