A Perfect Disguise
Marvel woke up early the next morning.
He put on his favorite Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way to the top. Today was not a day for casual wear. Today… was a mission day.
But if he was going to stalk a master like PhD, he needed the perfect disguise.
He rummaged through his messy room, tossing aside books, socks, a broken electric fan, and half a sandwich he had forgotten about two days ago.
And then—he found it.
A pair of black pantyhose. He didn’t remember where it came from. Maybe he stole it. Maybe it was a souvenir from a strange night. Who knew?
Either way, he grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.
First, he cut the pantyhose in half, separating the two legs.
Then, using a careful eye and shaky hands, he cut small holes—two for the eyes, one for the mouth, and an extra one for the nose. He didn’t want to suffocate. Dying while spying would be embarrassing.
He pulled one leg over his head. The nylon hugged his face tightly, warping his features into something between a bank robber and a deformed fish.
The leftover fabric dangled behind him like a long, limp tail, swinging with every move.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.
“…Not bad,” he muttered. “Stylish… practical… slightly disturbing… but just the right amount.”
Then, he walked downstairs.
Out on the sidewalk, he spotted a young man passing by.
Marvel waved. “Hey bro, can I ask you something real quick?”
The guy paused, gave him a strange look, then nodded.
Marvel leaned in. “Do you think I look… too weird today? Like, is my outfit too much?”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Weird? Nah. You’re fine.”
Marvel squinted. “Are you sure?”
The guy smiled and started listing examples. “Man, I once saw an eighty-year-old grandpa wearing his old high school uniform and actually going to class like he still belonged there. I’ve seen a guy walking home late at night, pantsless, just straight-up letting his giant dong swing around.”
Marvel blinked. That was… a little convincing, but not fully.
The guy noticed Marvel’s hesitation, then pointed across the street.
“See that dude over there?”
Marvel turned.
Across the road, a ripped, muscular man was strolling casually down the middle of the street wearing nothing but a woman’s pink triangle underwear. It was tight. Ridiculously tight. The fabric looked like it was fighting for its life.
No one even looked at him.
“He’s wearing that in public,” the guy said. “And no one bats an eye. So trust me—you? You’re nothing special. Totally normal.”
Marvel stared at the underwear man for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.
In that moment, he fully believed.
He was ready.
Two PhDs, One Girl
Marvel walked past an open-air barbecue stand and was surprised to spot PhD so quickly. He saw the man sitting beside a petite young woman, dressed in his usual blazer, floral shirt, and slacks. However, today, PhD wasn’t wearing his glasses—probably swapped them out for contacts.
PhD had one arm draped over the girl’s shoulders and kept leaning his face closer to hers, whispering, “Let me kiss you… just one kiss…”
The girl was clearly resisting, pushing hard against his chest with both hands and saying, “No! Stop it!”
Marvel watched in admiration from a distance.
“Now that’s our PhD. A real scoundrel. I’ve got to learn from him,” he thought.
Suddenly, the man in the chair was kicked several meters away, tumbling across the ground in a ridiculous mess.
Marvel looked up—
Standing nearby was another PhD—same floral shirt, same blazer, same slacks.
This one was wearing glasses.
Marvel looked closely.
This man had a clean, sharp face and moved with elegant precision.
The one who got kicked? His nose was pig-like, eyes tiny like slits—nothing like the real PhD.
The real PhD quickly rushed to the girl, gently held her right hand with both of his, and said warmly,
“Miss, are you okay? That pervert didn’t scare you too much, right? Don’t worry—I’m here now. I’ll protect you.”
He smiled softly. “By the way… do you have a boyfriend? If not, maybe we could go out sometime?”
The girl gave him a look of pure fear and pointed at the man still groaning on the ground.
“That’s… actually my boyfriend.”
PhD glanced over and paused.
The guy looked awkward as hell—shame all over his face.
But PhD smiled anyway. “Ah, I see… sorry about the misunderstanding.
Still, even if you do have a boyfriend… that doesn’t mean I can’t try, right?”
He leaned a little closer. “Tell me… do you like him more, or me?”
The girl stiffened. “I still really like my boyfriend. Can you please let go of my hand?”
PhD’s smile twitched.
Once again—just like always—he had opened boldly and ended in rejection.
He slowly let go of her hand, frustrated.
Then, casually, he reached for his zipper with one hand… about to unzip… ready to release his ultimate technique.
But he paused.
Looked around.
Too many people.
Way too many bystanders.
He sighed and lowered his hand.
There’s no way he could release the Golden Dick in a situation like this.
Don’t Copy My Outfit
Just as PhD was turning to leave, the fake PhD suddenly stood up and shouted in a deep, dramatic voice,
“You! Stop right there!
You think you can just walk away like that?!”
He raised his fist, which began to glow faintly, and declared with passion:
“I’m going to beat you up—and this time, I won’t lose… because I’m in love!”
PhD stopped in his tracks.
He calmly picked his nose.
Pulled out a dry chunk.
And started rubbing it between his fingers like it was Play-Doh.
The fake PhD roared and launched himself forward, hammering PhD’s body and face with a flurry of punches—over ten solid hits, each landing with dramatic, echoing thuds.
PhD casually flicked the booger away.
Then, warm and polite, he asked:
“Excuse me. Are you finished?”
He hadn’t taken a single point of damage. Not even a bruise.
Then—boom!—he casually unleashed a Shoryuken uppercut.
The fake PhD was launched straight up, flying nearly three meters into the air before crashing back to the pavement.
He let out a loud cry of pain.
PhD strolled over to the guy, squatted down, grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands, and ripped it into scraps.
He tossed the shredded cloth into the air.
The pieces fluttered down like cherry blossom petals—soft and romantic.
PhD stood tall.
“Next time, don’t copy my outfit.
I really hate that.”
The girl ran to her injured boyfriend, throwing her arms around him and begging PhD not to hurt him anymore.
PhD sighed and gently patted his own forehead.
“Ah… shit.
Guess today’s just not my day.”
Then he turned and walked off down the street.
And Marvel… quietly followed behind him.
Behind The Disguise
For the entire week that followed, Marvel wore the same black pantyhose over his head every day and stalked PhD’s every move, determined to uncover the legendary secret behind his seductive success.
He witnessed PhD’s antics in a crowded subway station—kneeling on the ground with a bouquet of roses, confessing his love in the middle of the train door, blocking passengers from exiting, and causing several to miss their stops. The girl, flustered and annoyed, ultimately rejected him.
He followed him to a McDonald’s, where PhD casually sat down across from a random girl and picked up her fries, eating them as he delivered a cringey pick-up line:
“Such naughty fries… with such a naughty girl… what are you doing here, beautiful?”
The girl was unimpressed—and rejected him again.
Then there was the haunted house incident. A group of girls nervously wandered through the dark halls, clutching each other in fear. Suddenly, PhD descended from the ceiling on a hidden rig—hanging upside down like a ghost—expressionless, and asked them:
“Would you like to be my girlfriend?”
The girls screamed, wet themselves from terror, and ran out crying.
Marvel kept watching and recording. And the deeper he dug, the more confused he became.
PhD’s success rate wasn’t as high as he claimed. In fact, it was shockingly low.
Until—finally, one day—PhD succeeded.
Marvel watched from the shadows as PhD held a girl’s hand and led her into a love hotel. Marvel squatted at the entrance for three whole hours, waiting. Eventually, PhD came out… alone.
But something about him had changed.
His posture was upright, but his eyes were distant. There was no joy in them. No pride. No triumph.
Only… emptiness.
Marvel stared at him, heart pounding.
“Could it be… that this legendary ladies’ man isn’t happy at all?”
“Could it be that he does this just out of habit… not because it brings him joy?”
For the first time, Marvel saw PhD not as a seduction god, but as a lonely man searching for something—or someone—far away.
A distant gaze. A longing in his pupils.
As if somewhere out there… was the one.
The one he still hadn’t found.
The Forbidden Flash
One week later, Marvel was still following PhD.
At first, he only wanted to learn PhD’s seductive secrets. But now, something deeper had taken root—he also wanted to understand why PhD always looked so empty inside. Why were his eyes always distant? Who was he really searching for?
On a bustling street, both Marvel and PhD were suddenly drawn to the same person—a woman on the phone, walking ahead.
From the very first glance, they were stunned.
She was flawless. No weak angles. She wore a flowing white dress. Her face was soft and angelic, but her body was the definition of temptation. A perfect storm of elegance and danger.
PhD immediately began tailing her from behind. Marvel followed him.
But this time, PhD noticed the figure behind him—someone with a black pantyhose over their head.
He glanced back briefly, then smirked.
Makes sense, he thought. With a girl this hot, of course I’m not the only one stalking her. That pervert’s probably after her too.
PhD chuckled to himself.
“Well, brother… you might have to wait in line. I’ll get the first taste. You can be second if there’s anything left.”
The pursuit lasted almost thirty minutes. They followed her past a park, a supermarket, down winding alleys.
Finally, she turned into a dead-end street, still chatting on her phone, seemingly unaware of the two men behind her.
PhD’s eyes lit up.
Perfect spot. No witnesses. Time for the Forbidden Golden Skill.
He called out:
“Hey! Beautiful lady—could you turn this way for a second?”
The woman paused and turned her head slightly.
PhD adjusted his stance. Then, with complete seriousness, he reached down and unzipped his pants.
A faint golden glow sparked from beneath his blazer.
Yes. It was time—to unleash the Golden Dick.
But just as he began to channel the forbidden power…
The woman suddenly exclaimed into her phone, “Okay, I’m coming now! I’ll be there ASAP!”
Without another word, she turned back around—and leapt.
Effortlessly, she cleared the five-meter-high brick wall at the end of the alley and vanished onto the other side.
PhD froze in disbelief.
Before he could even chase, he felt a presence behind him.
A head was sticking out from behind the alley wall. A pair of wide, glassy eyes stared at him with overwhelming emotion.
Marvel stepped out from the shadows, pantyhose still on his head.
He whispered:
“Holy shit… I finally discovered your secret…”
The Long-Lost Feeling
There was a flash of golden light in Marvel’s eyes.
That light pierced straight into his nervous system, rushing along his tangled network of neurons. Within seconds, the current spread across his entire body, and a jolt of energy paralyzed his heart.
His eyes began to shimmer.
Then tears—hot, relentless—gushed out like a fountain.
He clutched his chest, gasping, overwhelmed by a strange, painful warmth. His lips trembled. His mouth opened. He muttered over and over:
“It’s you… it’s really you…”
PhD stared back, blinking slowly. After a few seconds, he quietly said:
“…Holy fuck.”
Suddenly, Marvel’s vision flooded with memories—shards and fragments of a time long gone.
The world blurred. Ten years peeled away.
He was back in high school.
Back in that classroom.
He could feel the desk under his arms. The dusty chalk scent in the air. He remembered… he was wearing a black pantyhose over his head, even back then.
He sat beside a girl, talking to her nonstop—about bones, about essence, about current events, the universe, love, careers… every topic under the sun. They talked for over an hour. She laughed. He laughed. It was one of the happiest memories of his youth.
But in the corner of that memory… someone was watching.
A boy sat in the far corner of the classroom.
His eyes were soft. Jealous. Also hurt. It looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t. That boy wasn’t looking at the girl—he was looking at Marvel.
That longing… that quiet suffering… was meant for him.
Marvel’s memory zoomed in.
The boy wasn’t wearing a school uniform. He wore a floral shirt. A blazer. A pair of slacks. His hair was curly. On his face—a pair of wireframe glasses.
Marvel’s lips parted as he whispered the name.
“…PhD.”