Chapter 20

We’re Open for Business (Part 2)

Someone shouted, “The monkeys are making heart signs!”

And that was all it took.

A wave of tourists rushed to the monkey exhibit like it was Black Friday at a beauty sale. I trailed behind them, mildly horrified and a little intrigued. Turns out, the monkeys weren’t following anyone’s cue—there wasn’t even a keeper nearby, just one tired-looking staffer keeping order with wide eyes and sheer willpower.

No stage, no commands. Just… monkeys.

But these weren’t your average banana-peeling goofballs.

These little guys were smart.

Not just clever-smart, but frighteningly perceptive. Smart enough to know who ran the place (me), who could kill them with a glance (Lu Ya), and who was more likely to sneak them fruit behind my back (probably You Su). They even ranked us in terms of power. Not that I’m offended being third behind a god and a fox.

So of course they figured out that making heart signs got them attention. Especially from teenage girls. Especially the kind who squealed and took selfies.

And now?

Now they were practically running a fanmeet. Little monkey paws forming heart shapes, baby monkeys wiggling their fingers, all with the earnestness of idol trainees. Some didn’t even know how to eat bananas yet, but they’d mastered the ancient art of being adorable.

Visitors were practically melting on the spot.

No guilt, no awkward performances—just pure, chaotic monkey love.

…

I wandered toward the lion exhibit next, part of my routine check. The sun was high, but things were going smoothly. Over two hundred guests already, and thanks to my generous classmates lending their free labor, crowd control wasn’t a disaster.

Well. Except for the part where a few of the girls cornered me to ask about that guy at the front gate.

I had no answers for them. I barely escaped with my dignity intact.

Anyway.

Over at the lion enclosure, a small crowd had formed. Twenty or thirty people were pressed up against the glass, staring at our overly energetic male lion.

Normally, male lions are the epitome of lazy royalty—yawn, flop, nap. Repeat.

But not ours.

Ever since we upgraded their diet with high-spiritual-energy feed, they’ve been acting like they just snorted powdered ginseng. Especially today, when I quietly begged the lion to act cute—for marketing reasons, obviously. In exchange, I promised a steady supply of the good stuff.

So here he was, tail twitching like a housecat, wiggling his butt before pouncing dramatically… and rolling on the floor like a kitten on catnip.

People loved it.

Then he turned, stared straight at the glass, and charged.

The kids screamed. The adults flinched.

The lion slammed his front paws against the barrier, smooshed his huge face to the glass like a Garfield sticker, and just… stayed there.

His whiskers bent sideways. His expression was pure derp. His paws were so fluffy it was almost criminal.

Phones came out. Laughter erupted.

That lion was a star.

…

Still, the real showstopper? The Arctic foxes.

Specifically, one silver-gray Arctic fox perched on a stump, daintily nibbling at a strip of steamed dried fish like royalty at afternoon tea.

When she was done, she picked the fishbone clean, rinsed her paws in the little water stream, and began grooming herself with such practiced grace that the entire crowd was spellbound.

The whole area was silent.

No one dared breathe too loudly, like they were watching a sacred ritual.

I leaned over to one guy nearby and whispered, “Pretty, right?”

He blinked like I’d just woken him from a dream, then nodded like a fanboy seeing his bias in real life. “Beautiful. I could stare at her all day. She’s like… a panda, but classier. Look at those eyes! She’s smiling.”

I nodded, not sure I got the hype. I mean, she was cute, but…

Still. The atmosphere was strange. Reverent. People didn’t just see her. They worshipped her.

Was that a fox thing? A racial charm aura? Why wasn’t I affected?

Maybe I was immune because I was her boss.

…

Our photographer wandered in then, probably looking for shots. He paused at the doorway, clearly unsettled by the eerie calm. It didn’t feel like a zoo. More like a natural history museum… or a meditation center.

Kids and adults alike were glued to the glass, whispering quietly, snapping photos with solemn awe.

The photographer lifted his camera, suddenly inspired. Through the lens, that fox practically glowed.

He muttered, “I don’t even need to retouch these…”

…

The only interactive zone in the whole park was the bird exhibit.

Today, most of the birds were out working—either guiding guests or charming people into buying tickets. The ones that stayed behind had taken up their posts. Two peacocks, in particular, had developed a routine: open their tails once an hour, collect admiration, and go back to chilling.

Visitors tried every trick in the book to get them to fan their feathers outside of schedule—whistles, songs, even crackers.

But these birds were choosy.

They liked women. And kids. Anyone with a soft voice and a kind face.

Those lucky few had birds land on their heads or shoulders, chirping like it was a fairy tale.

The rest? Tough luck.

…

As I strolled past the entrance plaza again, I noticed the wild sparrows—Cape Horn’s notorious gang—were still doing their thing. Mugging tourists. Begging for snacks. Pulling bold dive-bombs on anyone foolish enough to unwrap a granola bar.

Unlike the trained birds, these guys had no filter.

I couldn’t even be mad. I just… sighed.

Congratulations, sparrows. You’ve evolved from petty thieves to tourist lures.

…

Final tally from the ticket booth: around 700 visitors.

Seven. Hundred.

Most of my university classmates were wrecked by now, sprawled out like war survivors. Xiao Su and the rest had clocked out. But not me.

I had a soft article to finish.

Our big marketing push depended on it—photos, copy, layout, the whole shebang. I sat with the photographer and the editor (thank god they were professionals), and we combed through hundreds of photos.

From five to past eight, we worked nonstop.

At last, it was done. I sent the draft to a journalist I knew, the one with the big local media account who’d interviewed us before. They agreed to repost it as a follow-up piece, right at peak traffic hour.

After that, I begged my friends and former classmates to share it. Anywhere and everywhere.

When I finally sent the editor and photographer home, I flopped into my chair and just stared at the ceiling.

“Finally done…”

Tomorrow was judgment day.

The second peak of opening weekend. Make or break.

I’d done all I could.

Now I could only hope fate—or a nine-tailed fox with good timing—would do the rest.