Zhu Yun quickly put the young painter out of her mind.

Back at school, Zhu Yun went to the base. She had meant to find Li Xun to discuss some issues with the software functionality, but the moment she walked in, she found Li Xun’s girlfriend from the drama conservatory sitting in her chair, running lines with him.

The girlfriend gazed at him with tender devotion. “Who told you to come and find me here?”

Li Xun: “Love.”

He had glanced through the script once and already had it memorized. He set the pages aside and began performing off-book.

“Love encouraged me to discover this place. I am no sailor, yet wert thou as far as that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, I would venture for such merchandise.”

The girlfriend: “I must confess that had you not overheard my true feelings when I was unguarded, I would have been far more reserved! So forgive me — it was the night that revealed my heart’s secret. Do not think my vow to be a shameless act of wantonness!”

Li Xun: “Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear—”

“No—!”

The girlfriend’s emotions surged too high; her voice cracked on the note.

“Ahem!” She cleared her throat and pressed on: “The moon is fickle and inconstant. If you swear by it, your love may prove just as changeable!”

“What shall I swear by, then?”

The girlfriend seized Li Xun’s hand with both of hers.

“If you must swear, swear by your gracious self — for you are the one I adore! The one I worship!”

“Is that true? Do you truly feel that way?”

……

How does Shakespeare’s dialogue come out sounding so vulgar the moment it passes through your two mouths.

Zhu Yun went and sat down beside Wu Mengxing. Wu Mengxing and the rest of the base had long since grown accustomed to all of this; they could face any of Li Xun’s rotating girlfriends with perfect composure.

“Your gracious self…” Zhu Yun scoffed with contempt. “Please.”

“Hm?” Wu Mengxing looked up from his computer. “Whose self?”

Zhu Yun shook her head. A few seconds later, a bolt of lightning seemed to cut through her mind — she suddenly recalled the human anatomy chart hanging in the wellness class at the Chinese medicine clinic she had visited just that afternoon.

“The body…”

Zhu Yun rose, walked over to the girlfriend, placed her hands lightly on the girl’s slender waist, and said, “Come on — why don’t you wait over here for a bit.”

The girlfriend, who had been in the full throes of passionate performance, was cut off mid-scene. Her cheeks flushed crimson with indignation; she stamped her foot.

“That’s the second time!”

Li Xun soothed her. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

The girlfriend tucked away her script, gave a sharp huff, and twisted her way out the door. Li Xun watched her retreating figure, lit a cigarette, and slid a glance toward Zhu Yun.

“Is that fun for you?”

“Is finding a girlfriend your idea of entertainment?”

Li Xun leaned back in his chair and smoked. “Being in a relationship is supposed to be easy,” he said. He tilted his chin in Zhu Yun’s direction. “Didn’t I give everyone time off? Why are you still here?”

Zhu Yun reorganized her thoughts and said, “I went to the Chinese medicine clinic just now and saw a human acupuncture point diagram. You’ve always said the old interface system was too complicated — what if we just used a human body diagram directly?”

Li Xun slouched in his chair and gave a mild sound of acknowledgment. “Keep going.”

Zhu Yun took out paper and pen, sketched the outline of a human body, and said, “Using a body diagram would be far more intuitive. Let’s simulate the mouse with a pen first.” She circled and dotted areas on the drawing. “When a user sees the human body model, they can click or circle whichever area feels uncomfortable, and then we bring up a symptom selection and description screen — the guidance will be much more direct. And this way we can divide the body into major sections right from the start: head, limbs, back, abdomen, and so on. That gives the whole system a lot more internal consistency.”

Zhu Yun said all of this in a single breath, then waited for Li Xun to decide.

Li Xun was smoking heavily; the haze had narrowed his eyes to thin slits.

After a long moment, he turned and asked Gao Jianhong: “When will the motion capture system be up and running?”

Gao Jianhong: “Installation, calibration, and then training — at least another week, I’d say.”

Li Xun nodded.

When he mentioned the motion capture system, something stirred inside Zhu Yun.

He wants to use the mocap system for animation effects?

“Good timing — we can use the project as a training ground,” Li Xun said. “Learning theory in a vacuum is useless. You learn fastest when you’re thrown straight into practice.”

Zhu Yun nodded. She was deep in thought when the light in front of her suddenly dimmed. She looked up, and Li Xun’s gracious self was standing directly before her.

“Go get in touch with Liu Sisi.” He pinched out his cigarette and addressed Zhu Yun.

Zhu Yun stopped thinking.

You want me to contact your ex-girlfriend — what for exactly?

Li Xun: “Tell her to find me a few 3D specialists from the animation department. Pay them whatever they ask.”

Those words made Zhu Yun’s blood run hot with excitement.

Whatever they ask.

My, my.

With that kind of bold promise as the foundation, Liu Sisi very quickly brought in two fourth-year seniors from the animation department. When they laid eyes on the motion capture system, they were both struck speechless.

“This is incredible… our whole department doesn’t have one of these!”

That was entirely unsurprising.

At that time, motion capture was still an emerging technology. Never mind a small arts college — you could count on one hand the number of universities across the entire country that owned a system like this.

Zhu Yun stole a glance at Li Xun. She and Gao Jianhong had both been rather astonished when he first brought in the equipment, because there hadn’t been any obvious pressing need for a motion capture system at the time — and yet Li Xun had overridden all objections and purchased it anyway.

Li Xun liked to experiment. He was always hungry for the next new thing.

When the seniors heard they would receive free training on the system, their excitement was boundless. Getting certified on this equipment would be an extraordinary asset when they entered the job market after graduation. Both immediately declared that they would accept no payment — they would bring the same devotion to this project that they would give their thesis work.

The entire workflow was finally settled, and Li Xun began driving the pace forward at his usual relentless speed.

Zhu Yun realized that ever since she had joined the base, she seemed to have caught Li Xun’s affliction of academic lopsidedness. The well-rounded grades she had once been so proud of were now a distant dream. In every non-major course, Zhu Yun was either writing code or pulling research. In a pre-finals quiz, she had dropped from fourth in the class to ninth.

What was worse — Li Xun had climbed from eleventh to tenth.

You are honestly, infuriatingly consistent.

Zhu Yun stared at their two names sitting side by side on the grade sheet. After a good dose of indignation, she folded the paper in half and put it away.

The morning English class ended. Zhu Yun took a few minutes to bring some work to Old Professor Lin, her mind still half-occupied with the question of model rendering as she walked.

No one’s used the motion capture system before — what if there are compatibility issues?

She thought she should probably find Li Xun and talk it over — give him a heads-up, so they wouldn’t have to start over from scratch if something went wrong later.

She was still turning this over in her mind when a flash of something gold caught the corner of her eye in the corridor up ahead.

Zhu Yun’s footsteps faltered.

Li Xun?

He came to bother Old Professor Lin with questions again. Zhu Yun pursed her lips. Even though she was Old Professor Lin’s class representative, anyone could see that the professor had a soft spot for Li Xun.

She arrived at Old Professor Lin’s office, work in hand. The professor was drinking tea; only he and one other teacher were inside.

After handing over the work, Old Professor Lin asked with a chuckle, “How’s the base holding up? Any tricky ailments you need me to come diagnose?”

Zhu Yun: “Still alive for now.”

Old Professor Lin gave a couple of satisfied chuckles. Zhu Yun asked, “Did Li Xun come by just now?”

“No, not at all.”

Zhu Yun made a small sound of acknowledgment and said her goodbyes.

Coming out of the office, she felt a faint sense of unease.

That shade of hair color — there was only one person on campus who had it. She walked a short distance in the direction she had seen Li Xun disappear. Offices were sparse in this part of the building; the entire corridor was hushed and still. Without quite meaning to, Zhu Yun softened her footsteps.

From somewhere in the very last classroom at the end of the hall, she heard the low murmur of voices.

Zhu Yun looked up and down the corridor, then, as if moved by some impulse she couldn’t name, crept forward and crouched beside the door, pressing her ear to it. Because the hallway was so utterly quiet, even though Li Xun and Zhang Xiaobei weren’t speaking loudly, every word came through with perfect clarity.

“Have you thought over what I mentioned before?” Zhang Xiaobei asked.

“Not yet.”

“Li Xun, it’s precisely because I can see your abilities — because I know you’re genuinely capable of handling this — that I recommended you to Baoке. You know who they are, right? One of the most respected software companies in the industry.”

“I know.”

“Their project is a significant challenge. If it goes well, there’s a real possibility of securing an internship position.” Zhang Xiaobei said with a smile. “They don’t normally consider undergraduates at all, but I spent more than a week running back and forth, meeting with their project lead multiple times, before I was able to put you forward as a guarantee.”

“Thank you.”

Pfft.

Outside, Zhu Yun nearly choked trying to hold back her laugh.

Zhang Xiaobei seemed to hear the perfunctory quality in Li Xun’s reply as well. She let out a quiet sigh.

“I understand that the base keeps you busy, but everything has its priorities. Please don’t be resistant about this. I’ve been around far longer than you have — I know better than anyone which projects matter, and which ones will actually benefit you in the long run. You’re welcome to ask Professor Lin as well and hear what he thinks.”

Li Xun nodded. “Alright. I’ll think about it some more. And… if there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading out.”

Zhu Yun nearly jumped out of her skin — all her features seemed to bunch together at once.

Don’t leave so suddenly! Give me time to get out of here!

She was just about to flee when she heard Zhang Xiaobei speak again.

“Your family circumstances are quite difficult, aren’t they.”

What?

Zhu Yun went still. So did Li Xun.

Zhang Xiaobei said, “Your household registration is rural, isn’t it.”

What. In the world.

Though in the beginning, it was true that Zhu Yun had thought Li Xun’s gold, unkempt mop of hair carried a distinctly rustic air — after getting to know him, she’d found it hard to connect a single thing about his extravagant, freewheeling manner to any image of rural life…

Or had the countryside simply leveled up to this degree?

While Zhu Yun’s mind was still spinning in confusion, Zhang Xiaobei continued: “But the records you submitted to the school have been altered — your family members’ contact information, your registered address, and all the other details. The school has no way of reaching any of your relatives.”

“You applied for a financial aid bursary from the school, and the school disbursed the funds. I don’t know how you passed the review process, but you should understand that if anyone were to look closely, your bursary would certainly be revoked — and if the school decided to take disciplinary action… I think you know what the consequences would be.”

“Of course, I’m only telling you all this because I want you to know that I understand your situation. You’re already pulling in projects, doing primary development work, and keeping up with your coursework all at once — your bandwidth is being stretched to its limits. If you come work with me, you won’t have to divide your attention like this.”

“It’s the same as what I’ve said before: I’ve been through all of this myself. I know what’s best for your future. Think it over carefully, and please — don’t be resistant.”

The whole world had gone completely silent.

After a long pause, Li Xun spoke quietly. “Professor.”

Zhang Xiaobei: “Yes?”

He gave a faint, easy smile. “You’re quite something… I mean that sincerely.”

Zhang Xiaobei answered with a light, unhurried, “Is that so.”

Zhu Yun rose without a sound and slipped away.

Over the next few days, Li Xun was entirely himself.

He attended classes as usual. He worked as usual. He mocked their elementary coding mistakes as usual.

Several times, when Zhu Yun was submitting files, something rose to the edge of her tongue — but each time, it never made it out.

A few more days passed. Zhu Yun ran into Zhang Xiaobei in Old Professor Lin’s office.

“I truly didn’t realize how stretched he was…”

Zhang Xiaobei wore a look of distress. Old Professor Lin consoled her. “I know, I know. Don’t worry just yet, Professor Zhang.”

“How can I not worry? I’ve already submitted the headcount. And it’s my own fault — I should have confirmed with him first. I was just so excited when I saw the opportunity that I went ahead and arranged everything on his behalf without thinking. And now he…” She sighed. “I meant well.”

“Your intentions were good.”

“But good intentions don’t mean he has to accept them. And now I’m sick with anxiety — the project is about to begin, and my graduate students are all tied up with their own research. Where am I supposed to find someone else on this timeline?”

Old Professor Lin: “The issue is really just that Li Xun, that boy…”

“Then what am I supposed to tell the company?”

Pressed by the relentless questioning, Old Professor Lin furrowed his brow, wavered, and was on the verge of saying: “Then why don’t I—”

“Professor.” Zhu Yun knocked on the doorframe, work in hand.

Old Professor Lin and Zhang Xiaobei turned at the same moment. Zhu Yun nodded a greeting to both of them. “I’m just here to drop off the work.”

The instant Old Professor Lin saw Zhu Yun, it was as though a light had switched on in him: “Come in, come in!” She stepped forward, and Old Professor Lin gave her shoulder an approving pat, saying to Zhang Xiaobei, “This is my class representative — I believe Professor Zhang already knows her?”

Zhang Xiaobei gave Zhu Yun a thorough, measuring look — her gaze like a set of scales, weighing carefully.

“We’ve met. She was part of the Blue Crown project.”

Old Professor Lin: “What do you think of her abilities?”

Zhang Xiaobei gave a nod. “Very capable.”

“Isn’t she! Exceptionally quick to learn, and her mind is sharp — her thinking is remarkably broad!” Old Professor Lin said with evident pride, then turned to Zhu Yun. “Have you heard of the Baoke Corporation?”

Zhu Yun smiled. “Of course I have.”

Evening.

Zhu Yun pushed open the door.

Above the rooftop, a blazing sunset had set the sky on fire.

Not far away, three people were seated together — Ren Di and two of her bandmates, huddled in discussion over a new song.

Zhu Yun went over and settled down beside them, pulling out her laptop, setting it on her knees, and powering it on.

“Did Li Xun infect you? You carry that thing everywhere now.” Ren Di jabbed at her with a smirk.

Zhu Yun stretched languidly. “Waiting for some files.” Zhang Xiaobei had told her to stay on standby, ready to receive the project brief.

“Let me introduce you — this is my band’s guitarist, Bage; and on drums, Little Liuzi.”

The two individuals bearing their distinctive nicknames saluted Zhu Yun in unison.

“Yo!”

Zhu Yun returned the salute: “Yo!”

Ren Di laughed. Zhu Yun asked her, “Got a smoke?” Ren Di passed her one, then shielded it from the wind and lit it for her.

It had been a long time since she’d smoked. Zhu Yun gazed at the burning clouds far in the distance, and thought: he had kept her so busy she had forgotten everything else.

That day, she hadn’t stayed to hear how the conversation between Li Xun and Zhang Xiaobei ended. She had left early. She wasn’t afraid Li Xun would give in to Zhang Xiaobei’s demands — she knew that was impossible. But she hadn’t been able to stay and listen anyway.

She had thought about the reason for a long time, and had finally arrived at an answer: deep in her bones, she simply could not bear the thought of Li Xun backing down.

That insufferably arrogant stray dog… How could he possibly back down?

She would not accept it. She would not allow it.

“What’s with that look? Planning to commit murder?” Ren Di murmured softly beside her, amused. “Your expression is terrifying.”

The laptop gave a chime. An email had arrived.

Zhu Yun: “Play me something good, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

Ren Di cradled her guitar and began to play, her voice low and easy. Zhu Yun squinted at the project brief, reading through to the final line — and smiled.

She took two slow drags of her cigarette, and began to type.