The night was soft and hazy, and the sound of a guitar drifted through the air.

Zhu Yun was stunned by the speed of Ren Di’s improvement.

The last time she’d heard Ren Di play, her skill level had been roughly that of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star — but now she was suddenly running through variations and strumming chords with fluid ease, leaving Zhu Yun blinking in astonishment.

Ren Di finished playing, set the guitar to one side, and settled down next to Zhu Yun.

“That was incredible,” Zhu Yun said — this time, she meant it wholeheartedly.

Ren Di shrugged.

A moment of quiet passed. Then, out of nowhere, Zhu Yun said: “Worth it.”

Ren Di looked at her, slightly puzzled.

Zhu Yun gestured toward the guitar. “Being able to play like that — skipping evening study sessions is completely worth it.”

Ren Di studied her with an expression entirely devoid of feeling. After a long moment, the corner of her mouth shifted.

It was, Zhu Yun thought, the closest thing to a smile she had ever seen from Ren Di in all the time they’d known each other.

A slip of paper appeared in front of her.

Zhu Yun took it, and in the dim glow of the night, made out an address written on it.

“My studio. If you ever don’t feel like being at school, come by and sit for a while.”

“Studio?”

“Not far from campus.”

Zhu Yun nodded and tucked the paper away carefully.

Ren Di stretched out with a long, languid yawn, rubbed her eyes, and let out an air of exhaustion.

“Tired?” Zhu Yun asked.

“Yeah. Still have to go find Li Xun tonight.” Ren Di picked up her water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink, muttering under her breath: “Have to fight that insufferable Liu Sisi for him again.”

“Liu Sisi?” Zhu Yun thought for a moment. “From the arts college?”

“That’s the one. The one who won’t look in a mirror without a filter.”

“…”

Liu Sisi was Li Xun’s girlfriend — hourglass figure, plastic-doll face.

Ren Di gave a contemptuous hum. “That synthetic woman practically wants to be surgically attached to him.”

Zhu Yun recalled what Fang Shumiao had said before. “Li Xun’s girlfriends — it sounds like he goes through them pretty often.”

“Exactly.” Ren Di finished her water and shoved the bottle back into her bag. “Sleazy jerk. Absolutely chaotic personal life.”

Zhu Yun said quietly: “Then you should be careful.”

“Careful of what?”

Zhu Yun didn’t dare be too blunt. She chose her words with care. “Just… precautions and things like that…”

Ren Di stared at her with a strange expression, and then all at once it dawned on her. She threw her head back and burst out laughing.

“HAHAHA! Oh my god!” Once Ren Di found something funny, all sense of composure went out the window — she collapsed entirely onto the ground, shaking in helpless fits.

Zhu Yun: “…You don’t have to roll around on the floor about it.”

Ren Di hauled herself back upright and gave Zhu Yun a firm smack on the arm.

“You are absolutely hilarious!”

Zhu Yun: “…”

Ren Di crossed her legs, fished out a cigarette from inside her jacket, and held one out to Zhu Yun.

“Want one?”

Zhu Yun shook her head.

“No?” Ren Di stuck the cigarette between her lips, eyes half-lidded as she regarded her, and spoke in that low, smoke-roughened voice: “Smoke one with me, and I’ll tell you something interesting.”

Without a word, Zhu Yun reached out and took one.

Ren Di’s smile was slow and knowing.

The taste of tobacco settled into the lungs, and the night stretched longer.

“Li Xun and I — we’re not that kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

Ren Di took a drag and said: “I don’t like him. But… there is someone in our dorm who does.”

Zhu Yun, smoking for what seemed like the first time, choked and dissolved into coughing.

There were only three people in the dorm. No process of elimination was even necessary.

Ren Di rested her arm on her knee and let out a quiet, amused breath. “Why else do you think she’s been holding on at the base? Her brain is seriously struggling with Li Xun’s project.”

Zhu Yun looked over at Ren Di.

“What?” Ren Di asked.

Zhu Yun shook her head. “Did you give me that cigarette to cushion the blow?”

Ren Di let out a giggle — and when she’d finished: same words as before. “You are absolutely hilarious.”

Zhu Yun leaned back and, in the haze of smoke, began quietly piecing together the threads she’d missed earlier.

So all along, when Fang Shumiao had brought up Ren Di and Li Xun with that evasive, mumbling tone — what was hiding underneath had been jealousy. She liked Li Xun… when had that started?

“It won’t go anywhere.”

Ren Di exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the distance, her voice carrying no feeling at all.

“She won’t last much longer. Li Xun is the kind of person… most women can’t keep up with him.”

That night, Zhu Yun slipped back into the dormitory just before curfew. Inside, Fang Shumiao was sitting on her stool, staring into space.

Zhu Yun walked over and waved a hand in front of her face.

“Come back to us.”

Fang Shumiao snapped to attention, and the moment she saw it was Zhu Yun, she grabbed onto her arm like a lifeline, holding on tight.

“Zhu Yun, save me!”

Zhu Yun startled. “Wh — what’s wrong?”

Fang Shumiao snatched up two sheets of paper from the desk and thrust them at Zhu Yun.

“This — look at this. Do you have any ideas?”

Zhu Yun took the papers and examined them carefully. They listed the functional requirements for a website.

“What is this?”

Fang Shumiao slumped face-down on the desk. “The practical training base project.”

Zhu Yun read through the requirements one by one.

“You want to practice building a website?”

Fang Shumiao looked up. “Not practice. Flip to the back.”

Zhu Yun turned directly to the second page, where at the bottom she found the name of a company as the signatory.

She looked back up at Fang Shumiao, who wore an expression of vague bewilderment. “Zhu Yun, he’s planning to take on an outsourced website project from a real company.”

Zhu Yun said nothing and returned to the first page.

“How are you dividing up the functions?”

“If they land the project, one feature per person? I’m not really sure.”

Zhu Yun nodded. “And what does it take to land it?”

“Land it?! Fat chance!”

“…”

Fang Shumiao sat up straight, brow knitted tight.

“Look at what’s written on that paper. The functional requirements are completely beyond anything we’re capable of building right now. And the competition out there are professional IT outsourcing firms with years of experience.” At that, Fang Shumiao let out a long sigh. “You only get academic credit if the project is completed. If you go in knowing you can’t finish it, you’re just throwing away your time.”

Zhu Yun handed the papers back. “So what are you going to do — drop out?”

“Huh?” Fang Shumiao seemed caught off guard by the question. “Drop out?”

She apparently hadn’t even considered that option. She stared blankly down at the two thin sheets of paper in her hands and lapsed into a fresh bout of vacant staring.

This time Zhu Yun didn’t disturb her. She returned to her own desk and nudged the mouse.

The computer she’d left on before heading out blinked back to life.

In the center of the screen, that vivid red heart was still beating steadily — thump, thump, thump.

Outside the window, the night lay deep and dark.

Was Ren Di still playing?

After sitting with it for a moment, Zhu Yun said quietly: “Fang Shumiao, whichever function you want to work on — let me help you with it.”

Fang Shumiao leaped up and threw her arms around Zhu Yun in an enormous hug. In the end, from the long jumbled list of features, the two of them picked out “Related Product Recommendations.”

Lancrown Foods was a company that had been producing snacks and nutritional products for over a decade — but in the current climate of rapid internet growth, the traditional industry was struggling to stay afloat, and they were looking to make the transition.

Once she had the task in hand, Zhu Yun began drafting rough sketches and searching for relevant reference materials.

She threw herself into it day and night for a week. When the feature was roughly functional, she packaged everything up and had Fang Shumiao take it to the base.

Truthfully, it was her first time doing something like this. Whether it would hold up — Zhu Yun genuinely didn’t know.

Saturday morning, Zhu Yun woke unusually early. She climbed down from her bunk and sat on her stool, chin resting on her palm, staring at nothing. The desk was buried under a pile of web development books she’d borrowed from the library, worn nearly to rags from all her back-and-forth reading.

Fang Shumiao’s day was packed: a morning meeting, then the practical training base activities in the afternoon, and she wouldn’t be back until early evening.

Zhu Yun had no appetite for any of her meals all day. The moment Fang Shumiao walked in, Zhu Yun was on her feet.

“How did it go?”

“What?” Fang Shumiao hadn’t caught up yet. “How did what go?”

“The base.”

“Oh…” Fang Shumiao shrugged. “He said it can’t be used.”

A cold feeling settled in Zhu Yun’s chest. She even forgot to ask why.

Fang Shumiao added: “But he said completing one function counts as a contribution to the project, so my academic credit is fine and I don’t have to drop out. Zhu Yun, you’re an absolute genius!”

Genius, my foot.

Zhu Yun finally managed to ask: “Why can’t it be used?”

Fang Shumiao blinked. “He didn’t say.”

Zhu Yun very nearly shouted — then why didn’t you ask him?!

Perhaps her silent fury was too powerful to ignore, because Fang Shumiao dragged her stool over and offered an explanation.

“Okay, so — here’s the thing. The base has stabilized at around a dozen people or so, but the real core team is only a few of them. Li Xun and Gao Jianhong are the center of it all — they work together every day, pushing the progress and keeping the overall framework on track. It’s probably that what you wrote… doesn’t line up with how they think.”

How they think?

The function worked. What else was there to think about?

A tightness settled in Zhu Yun’s chest.

She was quietly grateful she hadn’t eaten too much at dinner, or her stomach surely would have revolted.

“Don’t dwell on it — their brains just work differently from normal people. Here, come on!” Fang Shumiao reached behind her and produced a large bag, inside which was a small bear-shaped backpack.

“I went to the shopping center a couple of days ago. I really can’t thank you enough.”

Zhu Yun waved her off. “You don’t have to — I was learning too.”

“No, you have to take it. I won’t feel right otherwise. And tomorrow evening, dinner’s on me.”

“Really, that’s too much.”

“Take it, take it. It’s a good stopping point — we need to celebrate. My heart has been absolutely racing all week.”

That night, Zhu Yun had a dream. A crowd of little bears were trampling all over her.

The next day they were still trampling.

…

After three consecutive days of being trampled, Zhu Yun turned up at Old Man Lin’s office with dark circles under her eyes and her program in hand.

She simply could not bring herself to accept that things had reached a “good stopping point.”

She didn’t tell Old Man Lin the program had been made for the practical training base. She only said she’d been teaching herself recently, had built a feature, and wanted to know where it still fell short.

Old Man Lin read through the entire program in silence, then looked up at Zhu Yun.

It was an expression she recognized — the very same look he’d had in the office that time, when he’d sat across from Li Xun and worked through a problem with him.

The look made her straighten up instinctively.

“Zhu Yun,” Old Man Lin said, “I’ve noticed your code is consistently short. You must have trimmed it down many times over.”

Zhu Yun nodded.

“That’s right. As they say — code is like a woman’s skirt: the shorter, the better.”

“…”

“But brevity is only one dimension. You’re this close — what you need is to think more carefully about how to abstract and modularize your logic. As I said on the very first day of class: don’t get seduced by clever tricks. Keep your eye on the bigger picture.” Old Man Lin closed the compiler window, paused for a few seconds, and then asked out of nowhere: “Do you enjoy programming?”

The question made Zhu Yun pause as well.

Did she enjoy it?

Not exactly.

Did she dislike it?

Not exactly that, either.

Then what was it that kept pushing her in that direction?

“If you’re interested in practical experience, I’d suggest you give Li Xun’s setup a try.”

Why.

“It will definitely be good for you.”

Will it.

Zhu Yun walked out with her head down. She had barely cleared the office doorway when a pair of feet appeared in her line of sight.

She looked up. Li Xun was leaning against the corridor windowsill, a notebook tucked under one arm. Autumn had already arrived, but he was still in a short-sleeved shirt, both sleeves shoved up to the shoulders, the usual mess of golden hair on his head.

With the light behind him, Zhu Yun couldn’t make out his expression — but she didn’t need to think very hard to guess. The same as always: that blend of teasing and mockery.

“Shouldn’t a class representative do what the teacher says?”

Zhu Yun was too drained to spar with him. She turned and walked away.

Three meters out, a clear, unhurried voice drifted from behind her —

“Coming or not? You come, and I’ll cover it.”