Past midnight.

Zhu Yun sat in her chair, a phone on the desk in front of her. She had been staring at it for half an hour.

“What are you doing…” Fang Shumiao emerged from the bathroom during a break from sorting her materials and said, “You think if you stare at it long enough it’ll bloom?”

Zhu Yun came back to herself, rubbed her hands together, picked up the phone, and headed out.

Fang Shumiao: “Where are you going?”

“Making a call. I’ll be right back.” Zhu Yun answered.

She went to the dormitory balcony, pulled the door shut behind her, and dialed her mother.

It rang a few times. The call connected.

“Hello?”

“Mom.”

“Zhu Yun — calling out of nowhere, what’s going on?”

“Are you off work?”

“I am. What is it — go ahead.”

Zhu Yun leaned against the railing. The metal was ice-cold in the night wind.

“Nothing much… I just missed you. Wanted to call.” Zhu Yun said quietly.

Her mother heard the rare vulnerability in her daughter’s voice and laughed warmly. “Mom misses you too.”

“Mm.”

“How have things been? Exams coming up soon, right? When do you get your break?”

“Exam week is next week. Once that’s done it should be vacation pretty quickly.”

“Make sure you study properly.”

“……”

Zhu Yun was quiet for a few seconds. Her mother asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter…”

“Then why are you being so hesitant?”

“It’s nothing…”

Zhu Yun started to speak, then stopped. Her mother said: “I’ve been a teacher for half my life. Do you think I can’t tell when something’s wrong with you? Talk to me. What is it?”

Zhu Yun: “There’s a teacher at school who’s been very… hard on students.” She scratched absently at her jaw — the skin there was still slightly reddened where Zhang Xiaobei’s hot tea had hit it.

Her mother laughed.

“Strict teachers produce exceptional students. Your father was known for being strict when he was at school — how else do you think he got such outstanding results? If all teachers are soft and slack, how are students supposed to push themselves?”

Zhu Yun shifted, leaning her back against the railing.

The sky was empty tonight — not a single star.

After a few quiet seconds, she said:

“Mom, my grades have been dropping fast.”

Her mother paused. “What?”

“I was fourth in the class at midterms. Last quiz I dropped to ninth.”

“What happened? Have the courses gotten harder?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Zhu Yun squinted up at a bedsheet hanging outside from one of the upper-floor dormitory windows.

What pattern was that — cartoon characters or a floral print?

“Well?” her mother pressed. “Is there a problem with your coursework?”

“Not exactly. A teacher from the graduate department pulled me in to help with a project. The timeline is very tight, and I haven’t had time to study for anything else —”

“Absurd!”

Her mother cut her off sharply before she could finish.

“Graduate students are graduate students — what does that have to do with you? Pulling you in to work on a project — honestly, what kind of teacher thinks of these things!”

Zhu Yun said quietly: “She meant well. She said it would give us practical experience.”

Her mother said: “Zhu Yun, you’re still too young. You don’t understand how these things work. You leave this alone — I’ll have your father handle it. You focus on your revision, and I’ll be looking at your final exam results.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me — what’s this graduate supervisor’s name?”

Zhu Yun hesitated. “Mom… she’s an associate professor at the school.”

“Is that so? Well, aren’t we impressive.” Her mother gave a cold laugh. “A small-time associate professor and already this high-handed. Schools really have become lawless these days. Tell me the name.”

Zhu Yun pressed her lips together. She finally made out the pattern on the bedsheet hanging upstairs.

Dogs.

“Zhang Xiaobei.”

Zhu Yun confirmed the room by phone from outside the hotel, then went up.

It was an upscale hotel in the city center, specializing in Chinese cuisine. All three floors were appointed in classical Chinese style — carved beams and painted rafters, rich and ornate throughout.

The staff were impeccably trained. An attendant smiled and asked for her room number, then led her upstairs.

Both sides of the staircase featured sweeping traditional eaves and interlocking bracket sets; the composition was intricate, and Zhu Yun found herself looking in every direction at once.

The private dining room was on the third floor. It was called “Hall of a Hundred Flowers.”

The attendant pushed the door open, said a polite “please come in,” and withdrew with a bow.

As she entered, someone called out to her.

“Zhu Yun, over here.”

The middle-aged man gesturing to her from across the room was Zhu Yun’s father — Deputy Director of the Provincial Department of Education and concurrent Inspector-General: Zhu Guangyi.

Zhu Yun made her way over and sat down beside him, murmuring a quiet “Dad.”

Zhu Guangyi glanced meaningfully at the person seated on his other side and said, “Don’t you recognize the principal? What kind of student are you.”

Zhu Yun quickly inclined her head toward Principal Qian Wendong.

“Good evening, Principal Qian.”

“Hello, hello.” Qian Wendong waved a hand and turned to Zhu Guangyi. “Don’t hold it against the child — I’m on my feet every minute these days. Half the students in this school probably don’t know what I look like.”

Zhu Guangyi: “It really is a busy time. With the national push to deepen education reforms — cracking down hard on fraud and disorder — I haven’t left the office on time in ages.”

Principal Qian made a few more pleasantries and then called the attendant to begin serving.

Her father and the principal were old friends with no shortage of grand educational affairs to discuss. Zhu Yun let her gaze drift sideways across the table.

Zhang Xiaobei was seated nearest the door. She wore no makeup today; her complexion was noticeably pale, her clothing plain and practical, and her shoes — they would naturally be flat-soled.

Counting herself and her father, there were nine people at the table. Aside from the principal and Zhang Xiaobei, Zhu Yun didn’t recognize anyone else.

The dishes arrived.

Principal Qian smiled and offered his opening remarks.

“Supervisor Zhu and I are old classmates and old friends — it’s been quite some time since we’ve seen each other. As the saying goes, ‘Old friends reunited, tears and tales abound’ — but let’s not make it so gloomy. Tonight we gather in good cheer. While everyone happens to have a free evening, let’s warm our connections and, along the way, sort out a small misunderstanding.”

Murmurs of agreement around the table. Principal Qian added: “And don’t just sit there watching me — I’m sure none of you have eaten. Let’s eat first and talk as we go.”

Everyone had barely picked up their chopsticks when Zhang Xiaobei across the table shot to her feet. She came directly to where Zhu Guangyi and Qian Wendong were seated, head lowered, and said: “Principal Qian, Supervisor Zhu — I have a few things I need to say. If I don’t say them… I won’t be able to eat.”

On that last word, her hand moved quickly to her eyes.

She was crying?

Zhu Yun couldn’t quite see from where she sat.

Zhu Guangyi said nothing. Principal Qian said: “Go ahead.”

“First, I have to admit my mistakes.” Zhang Xiaobei said. “I am too young. Too impulsive. Too driven to prove myself — and that is exactly what led to these errors.”

Today her voice was fragile as a girl wasting away from some long illness.

“But I truly meant no harm. Please — you must believe that my intentions were good. Zhu Yun had participated in the Blue Crown project, and her abilities had earned the recognition of everyone involved. It was for that reason I thought to include her in other work.”

“But I was too rushed, and my temper is poor, and that is what led to the breakdown in communication between us…”

Zhang Xiaobei turned toward Zhu Yun as she spoke.

“I offer you my sincere apology. What I did before was inexcusable.”

The entire room had only one person standing. Zhang Xiaobei’s head was deeply bowed; she trembled slightly, radiating a vague, helpless bewilderment.

Zhu Yun believed her helplessness was genuine.

Because in this room called the Hall of a Hundred Flowers, the only person of lower standing than Zhang Xiaobei was Zhu Yun herself.

…Or perhaps…

Zhu Yun glanced at her father sitting composed beside her. In this particular configuration, her own position might now actually rank above Zhang Xiaobei’s.

Her thoughts were wandering.

When Zhang Xiaobei finished, Zhu Guangyi spoke in his steady, measured way. “Both teachers and students are under considerable pressure these days. Everyone must be understanding of one another. Patient with one another.”

Zhang Xiaobei gave a small, quiet nod.

Zhu Guangyi: “The pressure on teachers stems mainly from institutional performance evaluations — this is the most fundamental root cause of many of the problems we see today.”

Zhang Xiaobei nodded with evident feeling, at last lifting her head to say something — but Zhu Guangyi had already turned to Principal Qian. “And yet it is precisely for that reason that oversight must be strengthened. We must firmly eliminate all title assessments that breed corruption, resentment, and disorder!”

His tone shifted without warning into something hard and pointed. Zhang Xiaobei’s shoulders gave an involuntary flinch.

Zhu Guangyi’s voice dropped to a low, deliberate register. “There are teachers today who have abandoned all professional ethics — who will stop at nothing in pursuit of their interests. Fraudulent credentials. Fabricated papers. Manufactured awards. Teaching quality at rock bottom, yet relying on every kind of manipulation and flattery to climb the ladder — silencing their conscience, oppressing students, breeding corruption from within. Is that what academic title assessment was ever intended for?”

Principal Qian’s expression had grown equally grave, his brow deeply furrowed. He nodded in agreement. “Precisely. Even with the crackdown intensifying, there are still those who think they can slip through the cracks. This kind of thing must be stamped out entirely.”

Zhang Xiaobei’s face had gone the color of ash. She swayed slightly, barely keeping herself upright.

Two people ate that meal tasting nothing.

One was Zhang Xiaobei.

The other was Zhu Yun.

A single-serving mushroom soup sat in front of her. Zhu Yun stared at the oil slick floating on the surface, feeling vaguely ill.

She felt ill about the soup. She felt ill about Zhang Xiaobei. She felt ill about herself.

After dinner, her father and Principal Qian had other matters to discuss. Zhu Yun took a cab back to campus ahead of them.

It was already very late. She walked to the academic building, and the base’s windows gave off a faint glow.

One person left. One light on.

He was in his usual position — slouched in the chair, long legs crossed up on the desk, laptop balanced on his legs, ashtray within reach.

Li Xun was deep in code, concentration absolute, until a head appeared at the edge of his face.

Li Xun startled violently. Ash fell on his hand, burned him; he flung the cigarette away and leapt to his feet.

Zhu Yun laughed beside him.

Li Xun stared at her. “Are you a person or a ghost?”

“Take a guess.”

Li Xun gave her a sideways look, brushed off his clothes, and sat back down.

Zhu Yun drifted to her own seat. Li Xun said, “What are you here for?”

“Just to look.”

Li Xun glanced at her obliquely.

Zhu Yun: “What?”

Li Xun shook his head and went back to work. Zhu Yun asked, “How far along are you?”

Li Xun crooked a finger. Zhu Yun leaned over.

He walked her through the functions he had completed so far.

The room was quiet; Li Xun spoke in a low voice. Zhu Yun listened with full attention — and gradually, she forgot the content entirely.

Just as she’d thought.

Exactly as she’d thought.

Just like she had imagined earlier: come here, take a look, listen for a while, and the sick feeling went away. She had discovered a function of Li Xun’s beyond cursing and writing code — settling the stomach, soothing the liver, restoring equilibrium.

“Hey.”

Zhu Yun came back to herself and found Li Xun looking at her quietly.

He had been going all day. He had no energy left for mockery. He asked directly: “Really don’t need help?”

Zhu Yun: “It’s already taken care of.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

Li Xun gave a small nod and turned back to the screen, but didn’t do anything. A few seconds passed. He said under his breath: “Next time something comes up, tell me first.”

“Mm.”

He frowned. “Don’t go handling things alone.”

“……Mm.”

Li Xun muttered a few more dark words under his breath, and then returned to work.