Rain splattered the taxi window as 18-year-old Shuyi (淑怡) stepped onto the curb. Suddenly, a hand grasped hers - the hand of Xia Mingxing (夏鸣星), the fictional boyfriend she’d adored for years in Light and Night (光与夜之恋). "Run with me," he whispered, pulling her through the summer downpour. Her heart raced, though she knew this wasn’t magic: she’d paid ¥800 ($110) for this manufactured moment. Across China, millions of young women are now purchasing intimacy through "cos commissions - where cosplayers become living proxies for digital lovers.
How Otome Games Spawned a Generation’s Surrogate Heartbeats
Commission agents like Qingjiu (清久) spend weeks preparing for a single booking: mastering a character’s posture, sourcing screen-accurate wigs, rehearsing signature phrases. For ¥1,500 ($206), they deliver scripted romance - holding hands through shopping malls, whispering custom-written confessions, even staging marriage proposals during films. "We’re emotional escrow services," explains agent Xiao T. "Clients deposit feelings they can’t share elsewhere."
Education expert Xiong Bingxi (熊丙奇) identifies "compensatory fulfillment" as the core driver. "These lonely, overpressured youth crave idealized relationships without real-world vulnerability," he observes. Data reveals otome gamers exhibit 73% retention rates versus mobile gaming’s 42% average - proof of extraordinary emotional investment.
The industry operates on razor-thin emotional margins. Top agents earn ¥30,000 ($4,130)/month managing 20+ clients, while "kill familiar" scams run rampant: baiting clients with perfect first dates before delivering sloppy seconds. "My regular agent arrived with visible wig tape," Shuyi recounts. "But still charged premium rates."
When Roleplay Bleeds Into Reality
After 12 commissions, Paofu (泡芙) describes post-date collapse: "When the agent left as my character said goodbye, I’d curl up crying for days." Therapists report rising "character attachment disorder" - clients struggling to separate actors from fictional personas.
92% of transactions occur via Xiaohongshu without contracts. Precautions resemble spycraft: clients share live locations with friends, pre-negotiate "no-touch zones," avoid private spaces. Yet screenshots show underground platforms offering "overnight roleplay" at triple rates.
"Is holding hands in a café legal? Yes," says lawyer Zheng Xiaoying (郑晓莹). "But if payment implies bedroom scenes, it becomes prostitution." Without payment trails, prosecution remains nearly impossible. Disputes devolve into "exposure justice" - one agent received 12,000 hate messages after edited voice clips went viral.
Can You Monetize Magic Without Killing It?
As the market balloons toward ¥1.2B ($165M), agents and clients clash over its soul:
MCNs circle like sharks, proposing "Uber for boyfriends" apps with standardized pricing. Veteran agent Qingjiu rebels: "Commercialization would destroy what makes commissions special. Imagine choosing your dream date from a dropdown menu!" Her fears aren’t unfounded – leaked pitch decks reveal plans to upsell "premium intimacy packages."
Elite agents now command ¥2,500 ($344)/hour by offering "unduplicable" experiences: memorizing clients’ social media to "remember" personal details, sourcing rare costume variants. "You’re not paying for time," explains Xiao T. "You’re paying for the hallucination of being truly seen."
The true driver? China’s "lying flat" generation. With marriage rates plummeting 33% since 2013 and workplace exhaustion soaring, otome games offer control traditional relationships don’t. Commissions take it further - allowing women to design perfect partners without compromise. "Xia Mingxing never pressures me about marriage or children," Shuyi confesses. "He exists purely for my joy."
A Generation’s Emotional Stopgap
Cos commissions expose a generation’s aching need for "safe vulnerability" - emotional connection with guaranteed exit strategies. For ¥1,500, clients buy control: over narratives, over expectations, over endings. "In real dating, men vanish after intimacy," says Paofu. "But my commission agent? He texts the next day to ask if I’d like flowers from ‘him’."
Yet the industry’s shadow economy status leaves hearts unprotected. As Xiao T warns: "We’re letting people rent dream lovers without insurance. When the dream breaks, so do they." Until China confronts the loneliness epidemic fueling this market, cos commissions will remain both symptom and sedative - a temporary balm for wounds society refuses to acknowledge.
Yet the industry’s survival hinges on walking an impossible line:
"Too much regulation kills the magic. Too little kills the vulnerable. We’re building airbags for falling dreams."--Professor Liang Min (梁敏), Social Ethics Research Institute
As Shuyi prepares for her next commission - a beachside confession scene costing half her monthly salary - she captures the generation’s resigned pragmatism: "Is it sad to rent love? Maybe. But is crying alone in my apartment better?"
The answer, for millions, appears to be written in rhinestone-studded contracts and temporary heartbeats. Until society offers better solutions, China’s fantasy rental economy will keep selling Band-Aids for the soul.
