The commotion finally ended when the bell rang for class.

The next period happened to be a lab session. Students rushed into their classrooms, grabbed their books, and headed out toward the science building. Even along the way, their emotions remained unsettled — a restless, long-suppressed anger smoldering in their chests.

Lin Weixia and Fang Mo walked together. Fang Mo was practically bouncing the whole way, still oblivious to what had happened the day before. She hooked her arm through Lin Weixia’s and kept praising her:

“Weixia, you just said everything we’ve always wanted to say.”

“You were so amazing!”

“Hey — what happened to your knee?” Fang Mo stopped suddenly, her expression turning concerned.

Just then, Lin Weixia’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then switched it off: “I tripped and fell yesterday. Go on ahead — I still have something to take care of.”

“Alright, I’ll head in first then!” Fang Mo waved at her.

Ban Sheng had just messaged her saying he was on his way and to wait for him. Lin Weixia stood quietly beneath a palm tree. A moment later, a familiar upright silhouette appeared.

Ban Sheng strolled over to Lin Weixia, saying nothing at first, just looking at her with a faint smile. Under his gaze, Lin Weixia felt a wave of warmth rise to her face, and couldn’t help but say:

“What?”

“Did you think about how this ends?”

Ban Sheng always approached things with a comprehensive view of all the angles. He never acted on impulse, so he had cut straight to the point with this question.

Lin Weixia drew in a breath and said: “Take down the system. Isn’t there a senior student mentorship committee? It’s worth trying. By the way — do you know anyone there?”

“This is when you think of your future boyfriend,” Ban Sheng said with that easy, playful drawl of his, amusement glinting in his eyes.

He had watched her just now from behind, half-worried those girls might scratch each other’s eyes out and hurt his girl. He had been watching closely the entire time, ready to step in if anything went wrong.

“Don’t tease me.” Lin Weixia reached out and lightly hooked her little finger around his, and said softly.

The half-curled little finger moved. Ban Sheng stopped teasing her:

“Yes. And you know them too.”

Lin Weixia’s bright eyes flickered with puzzlement, then something clicked, and her expression bloomed with realization and delight: “Li Yiran — and Senior Wusuan!”

“Yes,” Ban Sheng confirmed.

After school, Ban Sheng brought Lin Weixia to find Li Yiran and Cheng Wusuan. Li Yiran, however, had vanished, leaving only two curt statements behind.

First: he had long since stepped down from his position, and now that the university entrance exams were over, he was not getting involved in their affairs anymore.

Second: go find Cheng Wusuan.

This was the first time Li Yiran had called her by her full name, and that final sentence — no matter how you heard it — carried the distinct sound of someone speaking through gritted teeth. The two of them went to Wusuan’s house. Ban Sheng went straight to the sofa and sat down. The moment he saw Wusuan, his first words were:

“Heard you have a boyfriend now?”

“So Li Yiran is officially garbage now.”

Wusuan brought out two glasses of lemon water for them. Whether the rumor was true or not, she refused to say a single word about Li Yiran — leaving Ban Sheng with absolutely nothing to pry out about the two of them.

He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, then said with a low laugh: “Fine then. My girl has something to ask you.”

Lin Weixia explained everything to Wusuan from beginning to end.

After listening, Wusuan was quiet for a moment: “Strictly speaking, our university entrance exams are over. Shengao’s system and traditions have nothing to do with us anymore.”

“But there’s a handover ceremony for the outgoing and incoming officers in three days. I’m willing to try for your sake — I can submit a formal request. But you’ll need solid data from a survey that gives you a strong, evidence-based case for dismantling it.” Wusuan told her.

Lin Weixia gave a small, final nod.

After leaving Wusuan’s place, Lin Weixia went home and sat down at her computer. She opened every school-related website and forum connected to Shengao. At that moment, the YCH website had the highest number of active users online.

Lin Weixia clicked in. There was a lot of casual chatter and milling about. She quickly registered an account and posted anonymously:

“Everyone — I’m sure most of you heard what happened today. I’d like to know what you all think.”

The post was quickly pinned and highlighted at the top. Lin Weixia read through the screen attentively, not wanting to miss a single comment. The phone sitting on the edge of the desk lit up — it was a message from Ban Sheng.

Ban: 【Send me your account and password.】

Lin Weixia found it puzzling, but she sent him the account information anyway. Ban Sheng always had his own reasons for doing things.

A moment later, her computer gave a soft chime. Lin Weixia looked over and clicked to open the post. Ban Sheng had re-edited her original post and built a polling system into it.

— Feel free to cast a vote.

Before long, people were replying in the thread, posting their opinions freely. Some, of course, were just there for the humor and wisecracks.

[White Cat]: How else would I look at it? With my eyes.

[Black Cat]: Does this poll pay?

[Yellow Umbrella]: Seriously? The person above is out here begging on the internet? If you don’t want to vote, the exit is to the left.

[Black Cat]: ? I was just joking. Do you really have to go that far?

[Eating Fried Chicken Today?]: Honestly, Lin Weixia said what a lot of people were thinking today. But actually changing it — that’s another matter. Shengao is a private school. The power behind it is deeply tangled. Wherever money and influence gather, privilege follows.

[When Does the Typhoon Arrive]: That’s true. But honestly, I think the system is fine — it’s not like they’re denying you the chance to become Class A. It’s Shengao’s tradition. You just have to work hard.

[767889]: Easy for you to say. Our starting points were never equal — how are we supposed to compete? For most people, access to the opportunity was cut off from the very beginning. Only someone truly exceptional might have a shot. This class system is like a power struggle, except the ones who control the rules have always been Class A.

[Riding a Turtle to Tibet]: Everyone above has a point. But can this game just end already? Even my parents have heard about the class rankings. They keep telling me to work harder, talking about how much they sacrificed to get me into this school, how exhausting it is to earn a living. I’m so tired of being emotionally pressured like that. But what can I say? How do I tell the mom who wakes up at 5 a.m. to cook me breakfast and make soup: please don’t put your expectations on someone like me? Honestly, coming to school every day has become the most stressful part of my life.

[767877]: I am completely sick of the way they walk around with their red bow ties like they’re better than everyone else. It’s suffocating. This school feels like it has a constant hierarchy of contempt — Class F students getting bullied at every turn. Class F students envy Class A and want to become them, but the starting line was never the same to begin with.

[A Beautiful Life]: Honestly, this class dynamic has formed a distorted, co-dependent cycle. Class A relies on the envious gazes of Class F to solidify their status. Class F sacrifices everything in the hope of becoming Class A. Competition itself is a good thing, but this relationship has curdled into something rotten.

[A Flower for You]: Exactly. This relationship is like a Möbius strip — infinite, with no resolution — unless you smash it entirely. Cut out one link in the chain, and the whole structure becomes unstable.

[Meeting You]: Lin Weixia said everything I wanted to say today. My vote is to abolish it.

[White Cat]: Same. I agree.

The poll was set to close at midnight. Lin Weixia had Ban Sheng on the phone and was staring at the screen through yawns, when Ban Sheng said out of nowhere:

“I’ll handle the count. Go sleep.”

Lin Weixia hesitated: “But you need to rest too.”

A dry laugh came through the receiver, low and warm, drilling right into her ear with a faint tingle. He said:

“Look at that — you do know how to worry about your future partner.”

“Go to sleep. My sleep has never been great anyway — I’ll do the tallying and the analysis.” Ban Sheng said.

Before Lin Weixia had even hung up, Ban Sheng added one more thing, already having mapped out the next step for her:

“Don’t be the one who comes forward on this. Most of the school committee members are parents of Class A students. Let Wusuan be the face of this — that’s the only way it has a real chance of working.”

“Okay.”

The next morning, Lin Weixia woke to find that Ban Sheng had already sent Wusuan the full tally of votes and a detailed analysis of the comments from the forum.

Ban Sheng told Lin Weixia that the previous night’s vote had ended in a tie.

After learning the result, Lin Weixia spent the next three days in a state of anxious uncertainty. When Wusuan finally came to find her, her eyes were bright:

“We did it. The school has been paying attention to what’s been happening at Shengao lately, and your post was a huge help. The senior student mentorship committee has been officially dissolved.”

“And since the school has always positioned itself as democratic in spirit, they’ve formed a new student democratic committee, mainly to collect and hear input from all students. Would you like to serve as chair?”

“Not for me,” Lin Weixia shook her head, then said with some uncertainty, “Was it really that straightforward?”

“Of course not. There was fierce opposition from quite a few people in the meeting. In the end, the principal convened a discussion and reached a decision: the class ranking system at Shengao is abolished. There will no longer be any Class A or Class F distinction, no more bow ties, and all the privileges that came with being Class A — priority access to elective courses, and so on — are cancelled in full. However, students with strong overall performance at graduation will still receive an impressive record to their name, along with the right to recommendation letters for studying abroad. This was not an easy decision to reach.” Wusuan told her.

That was already a wonderful outcome.

“Thank you, senior,” Lin Weixia said.

The new system came into effect during the first month of summer supplementary classes. On the first day back, students arrived in their Shengao uniforms, the vivid red bow ties now worn at every student’s collar — framing the lively, spirited faces beneath them.

At first, Fang Mo couldn’t quite get used to it. She kept tugging at the bow tie with both hands, then stared down at it with a giddy grin, looked up, and said: “I feel so free right now. All I want is to study hard! Year 3 is almost here — let’s go!”

Ning Chao sprawled in her chair and gave Lin Weixia a thumbs-up: “Impressive, seatmate.”

“It was everyone’s effort.”

All around the school — online and off — people were talking enthusiastically about the ranking system, saying Lin Weixia had handled it brilliantly. Many people who had formed a poor impression of her changed their minds because of it.

Many also kept mentioning someone else: “Lin Weixia was impressive, sure — but the real force was Ban Sheng. He was the one behind her, the strategist pulling it all together. If he hadn’t used his family’s connections to smooth the path, would this ranking system have been dismantled so easily?”

“And he’s genuinely cool about it — he was the top Class A student himself, and he abolished the whole thing without blinking.”

“That’s short-sighted. Ban Sheng has always been above caring about things like that — so he sees further than the rest of us. Lin Weixia is impressive too — she’s sharp and clear-headed. The two of them actually suit each other pretty well.”

“Oh my god — if Ban Sheng were my boyfriend. He handles things so calmly and maturely, he’s stunning to look at, and the key thing is — he protects her.”

“You’re dreaming again. You couldn’t catch up to him. Rumor has it his dream is to go work at NASA someday.”

Beyond all of that, the whole school was also talking about Liu Sijia and Jiang Helu.

The story of how Liu Sijia and Jiang Helu had violated school rules and regulations by locking Lin Weixia inside an abandoned storage room and causing her to miss the exam had spread through the school like wildfire.

Following the school’s investigation, Jiang Helu was identified as the mastermind. Afraid of dropping out of the Class A ranking, she had proactively approached Liu Sijia — who already had a conflict with Lin Weixia — and both instigated and provoked Liu Sijia into joining the scheme.

Jiang Helu had orchestrated the entire plan, while Liu Sijia was responsible for locking the door, which ultimately led to Lin Weixia missing the exam. The school’s final ruling gave Jiang Helu a formal demerit and a one-month suspension. Liu Sijia, as an accomplice, received a half-month suspension. Beyond that, both were required to attend a week-long educational program run by an organization in the suburbs.

On their last day at school before the punishment, Liu Sijia and Jiang Helu packed up their textbooks and assignments to go home. The two of them stood in the corridor one in front of the other, each holding a box.

“The moment the exam ended, you wanted to go let her out. If I hadn’t stopped you — and then you went and texted Ban Sheng anyway in the end. Ha. The truly stupid one here is you.” Jiang Helu’s tone was cutting and aggressive, nothing like the meek, fragile front she had put on around others.

When Liu Sijia was closing that door, Jiang Helu had been standing right beside her — just out of Lin Weixia’s line of sight — and she had seen clearly every flicker of Liu Sijia’s expression: conflicted, unwilling, and remorseful all at once.

Later, during the same exam, the two of them had been in the same room, and Jiang Helu had noticed something was deeply wrong with Liu Sijia. She kept losing focus, gripping her pen but going still. She even forgot to write down answers. The invigilator had to knock on the desk to remind her multiple times.

Jiang Helu no longer understood Liu Sijia at all.

Liu Sijia stood with her box of books propped against the railing. Down below, she happened to catch sight of two girls sharing a single cup of bubble tea, laughing together. An unfamiliar, bone-deep weariness came over her that she had never felt before. She did not bother to argue with Jiang Helu. She stared out blankly and said:

“I’m tired.”

Then she picked up her box of books and left without looking back. Jiang Helu stood watching her retreating figure, rooted in place.

Half a month passed, and Liu Sijia did not return to school.

Some said she had admitted defeat and transferred. Others said she was genuinely ill.

The abolition of the Class A and Class F ranking system did not entirely change those Class A students. But at least with the bow ties removed, the visible markers of prejudice were gone.

Those Class A students still held their ground — still considered themselves above the rest, still kept their distance from the Class F students. The cliques among the girls still existed. But after everything that had happened, there was no longer the same brazen, swaggering arrogance as before. The days of forming gangs and targeting people had grown much rarer.

When Lin Weixia went to find Ban Sheng, he was leaning against the corridor railing playing with his drone. She asked:

“Did Sijia really transfer?”

The hand controlling the drone paused. The knuckles on his fingers were pronounced. He said: “No. I called her family and had them take her home for a while.”

“Then how did the school find out?”

Ban Sheng replied: “That’s simple enough — you just have someone let the right word slip.”

The person beside him said nothing more. Ban Sheng paid it no mind and bent forward slightly, returning to his drone. Then, all at once, he felt someone tug at his sleeve. He turned and looked down, meeting a pair of quiet, steady eyes.

“Thank you,” Lin Weixia said, looking up at him.

The thank you she meant was for everything Ban Sheng had done for her throughout this whole period.

Ban Sheng pressed a button, and the drone bobbed and found its way back. He set the controller aside. The boy leaned down, his gaze wrapping around her until she met his eyes:

“Remember this — whatever you want to do, go do it. I’ll be here to clean up whatever comes after.”

The school’s punishment for Liu Sijia was a half-month suspension — but half a month passed, and Liu Sijia still did not come back to class. Eventually, Lin Weixia would look up from her practice papers — neck and shoulder blades aching from hunching over too long — and let her gaze drift instinctively toward the desk diagonally ahead.

Empty.

The desk surface was bare and blank.

Likely because of everything that had happened, Li Shengran rolled her eyes at Lin Weixia practically every time she saw her, with the energy of someone who would rather look at her through her nostrils. But whenever Ban Sheng happened to be nearby:

That sharpness on her would vanish cleanly, and she would revert to being that harmless, cheerful little sister of a good friend.

Liu Sijia returned in the third week. The day she came back to class, the students around her could barely contain their excitement, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Lin Weixia and Liu Sijia, practically desperate for one of them to start something so they could watch the two tear into each other.

After all, the two of them had once been friends.

But Liu Sijia did nothing. She simply ignored Lin Weixia entirely.

She was wearing heavier makeup than before, the lip color even bolder — red like blood. There was a row of studs through her earlobe, and she had shifted to darker, moodier shades of clothing. The whole effect was wild and striking, almost too much.

Liu Sijia was still radiant and commanding, the girls around her chattering and laughing as always. But the brazen arrogance she used to carry had diminished considerably.

People discussed what brand her outfit was, and whose custom work it might be. But what Lin Weixia noticed was that Liu Sijia had grown thinner — visibly thinner, the outline of her bones showing plainly through her frame.

No matter how vivid the lip color, it could not hide the pallor and hollowness beneath.

Lin Weixia did not know what she had been through.

Liu Sijia continued to be brilliant and proud. After the morning exercises, she followed the stream of students back toward the classroom. In the corridor, she was absorbed in listening to someone beside her speak.

With a sudden thud, a force slammed into Liu Sijia from the side. She lost her footing, tipping backward, and was about to fall when an arm reached out and caught her elbow in time. Her arm went warm and slightly numb. She caught the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from the person beside her, along with something wild and familiar about their presence.

She looked up. It was Ning Chao.

The moment Liu Sijia steadied herself, Ning Chao let go. He stood there with that effortlessly defiant face of his, offering a grin of apology that did not reach his eyes, his voice easy and distant:

“Sorry about that.”

He said it was an apology, but Ning Chao did not even glance at her. Looking at her directly was certainly out of the question.

“Ning Chao, how are you walking—” his companion started, ready to make a scene.

Liu Sijia took hold of her arm. She managed to pull up a faint smile: “I’m fine.”

“Ning Chao!” A clear, bright girl’s voice called from the other end of the corridor.

“Coming,” Ning Chao answered.

Then he gave Liu Sijia a brief, indifferent nod and jogged off in that direction. The hem of his sleeve grazed lightly past Liu Sijia’s shoulder.

Like a gust of burning-hot wind.

That passes and is gone.

Liu Sijia looked up toward the distance. The girl handed Ning Chao a drink. He took it, tossed it lightly into the air out of habit, showing off a little, then caught it.

Watching the two of them walk side by side — so easy, so close — Liu Sijia looked on from afar, a dull ache stirring inside her. She did not want to keep watching.

A tide of longing washed over her. But wasn’t this what she had wanted? Ning Chao had done exactly what she asked. The two of them were just ordinary classmates now.

All of this was something she had brought on herself.

On the last day of supplementary classes, the classroom was in an uproar. The moment the cursed makeup sessions were over, students felt like flipping their desks, screaming, “To hell with Year 3 — summer break, I’m finally coming for you!”

But of course, that was just wishful thinking.

Qiu Minghua had recently become obsessed with personality quizzes and astrology readings online. He had already been scammed out of money by multiple websites, but he remained utterly enthusiastic — and was now trying to drag Ban Sheng into it.

“Master Ban, this test is absolutely wild — feels like it’s reading my soul or something,” Qiu Minghua held up his phone screen in front of Ban Sheng. “Try it. It’s so accurate.”

Ban Sheng was tinkering with his drone, trying to retrieve some footage. His head was slightly bowed, and he did not so much as lift his eyelids:

“Garbage test.”

A beat passed, and then he added, slowly and deliberately:

“Anyone who takes it is garbage.”

Qiu Minghua slunk off in defeat and turned back around. When Ban Sheng finished with the drone, he set it by his feet and started scrolling through his social media.

He was swiping down quickly through a stream of vacation photos and travel check-ins when his thumb stopped on something. His expression shifted subtly.

It was a link shared by Qiu Minghua.

“Find out if you and that special someone are a match made in the stars — click below for a surprise.”

Ban Sheng held his phone and looked up, glancing out through the window at the corridor. Lin Weixia was leaning against the railing. Today she was wearing a pine-green dress, making her features look brighter and livelier, her demeanor cool and composed, her skin very fair. Fang Mo was saying something to her.

Lin Weixia smiled faintly.

She was rarely someone whose emotions showed on the outside. He had seldom seen her go through dramatic highs or lows for anyone. He could never quite tell what she was thinking.

His dark lashes dipped once. Ban Sheng pressed his thumb into the link. The screen that loaded was completely blank, a small circle slowly spinning in the top right corner.

Very slowly.

He backed out, found the contact, and sent a message.

Ban: 【Send me the link.】

A second later, Qiu Minghua’s reply came:

【?? A link — what link?】

Then Qiu Minghua caught on, sent over the quiz link, and added a line that carried unmistakable significance:

【Not gonna lie — who in this turbulent world can truly escape the pull of it all? Even you, Master Ban. You can’t escape it either.】

Ban: 【…】

Ban Sheng ignored him and settled in to take the quiz seriously. He entered both their birthdays and star signs, then started answering the questions. Most of them measured little details of how the two people interacted day-to-day, their personalities, their habits.

About fifty questions in, Ban Sheng had his doubts about where all his patience had gone.

When it finished, the phone screen displayed a large bold sorry. The analysis read:

— We regret to inform you: your results are below the passing threshold. Based on your answers, the compatibility between you and her is not particularly strong. In truth, she may not like you as much as you think.

“Below the passing threshold.”

Ban Sheng stared at those three characters and read them slowly aloud to himself. He gave a cold laugh, then darkened the screen and stuffed the phone into his desk.

For the rest of the day, the air pressure around Ban Sheng was dangerously low — as though something were pressing in on him from all sides. Even Lin Weixia noticed that something was off with his mood and quickly asked what was wrong.

Ban Sheng said quietly, “Nothing,” and handed her the milk he was holding.

Once the supplementary classes ended, summer break officially began. The heat was scorching — walking outside, you could feel the pavement radiating warmth underfoot. Cicadas in the palm trees cried shrilly, and pedestrians quickened their steps, heading for the cool air of the nearest subway entrance.

Lin Weixia was helping out at her aunt’s fruit shop. She had just pressed a fresh glass of orange juice and was reading her book when, all at once, Ban Sheng sent her a message.

Ban: 【Want to go out? I’ll come pick you up.】

Lin Weixia hesitated a moment, then typed back: 【Probably not — it’s so hot outside, and I don’t really feel like going anywhere. 🍉🍉🍉】

She sent the message. Ban Sheng did not reply. But then Qiu Minghua sent a long string of texts, complete with a row of exclamation marks.

Qiu Minghua: 【What do you mean it’s hot!! His beach villa by the sea is sitting there empty just calling out to us. Master Ban is personally coming to pick you up — in air-conditioned style, door to door. Everyone’s getting together to play games, have a barbecue, catch the sunset to go surfing and swimming — how cool and refreshing is that?! Lin, I’m begging you — please just say yes. Master Ban said if you won’t go, the whole thing is off.】

In the end, worn down by Qiu Minghua’s relentless soft-pedaling and pleading, Lin Weixia gave in and agreed.

Ban Sheng brought Lin Weixia to a villa in the Jiangjiao area. The sea was close — wherever you looked, there was an endless expanse of clear blue, the air full of coconut breezes and shifting shadows of palm trees, with the occasional tuft of soft sand sneaking between your toes.

The ocean looked like a sapphire bestowed by God.

Ban Sheng brought her inside. The sound of boys laughing and girls’ bright voices drifted out. The L-shaped sofa had several people already settled on it, and the table was covered with cold drinks and snacks.

Not many people — but all familiar faces.

Li Shengran heard them come in and turned her head. She was still chewing on an ice cube. Her eyes landed on Lin Weixia.

Ban Sheng looked over at Li Yiran with an expression of cold displeasure. Li Yiran just shrugged, his smile dismissive:

“She insisted on coming.”

“Ban Sheng. You can throw her out right now if you want.” Li Yiran spoke with the air of someone completely uninvested in the outcome.

Li Shengran slammed her glass down on the table, side-eyeing him: “What’s it to you? Is this your place? Who gave you the right to speak?”

“If anyone’s throwing me out, it’s Ban Sheng who gets to say so.”

Ban Sheng glanced at Lin Weixia. Her eyes met his and she shook her head slightly — it was fine. Everyone here was someone he knew, and Lin Weixia did not want to ruin the atmosphere on her behalf.

“Apologize to her,” Ban Sheng said, looking at Li Shengran.

Li Shengran was visibly reluctant. She hadn’t even been involved in any of it — but under the pressure of Ban Sheng’s gaze, she turned to Lin Weixia with obvious perfunctoriness: “Sorry. Happy now?”

Lin Weixia glanced around and noticed that Wusuan was not there. It seemed like wherever Li Yiran was these days, Wusuan was nowhere in sight.

Wherever Wusuan was, Li Yiran wouldn’t be.

Those two were never going to be in the same place at the same time again. Li Shengran had brought a girl with her, and the moment that girl spotted Li Yiran, her eyes practically adhered to him and refused to come unstuck.

Ban Sheng couldn’t be bothered to manage any of that. He took Lin Weixia straight up to the second floor to watch a movie. When they had finished, Qiu Minghua called them down to eat.

The golden hour descended. A salt-laced sea breeze drifted through. The group of young people gathered together and started playing a game. They sat around a table. Qiu Minghua placed an empty bottle in the center and grinned:

“Alright — the classic party game, everyone knows this one, right? The bottle spins, whoever it points to answers truth or dare. Refuse, and you drink. My grandmother knows these rules. Don’t make me waste my breath explaining.”

“And yet you still wasted your breath.” Li Shengran shot back.

“Let’s just start then.” Someone chimed in.

The bottle had barely begun to spin before Li Yiran caught it. He reached up and loosened the button at his collar, then said: “I don’t care about any of you. How about a drinking contest instead — whoever refuses does truth or dare.”

“Works for me.” Ban Sheng agreed.

Li Yiran snapped his fingers, then flicked the bottle. The green glass spun fast and whirled through several full rotations before coming to a stop directly in front of Ban Sheng.

“Drink!” Li Yiran slammed a hand flat on the table.

Mixed liquor splashed into a glass cup. Ban Sheng picked it up, tipped his head back, and drained it in one swallow. His distinctly prominent Adam’s apple slid slowly downward.

The people beside them cheered and egged him on. Lin Weixia looked at him with some concern. A broad hand reached out and gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze, then he leaned in close and said with quiet ease:

“It’s fine.”

As the old saying goes — bad luck tends to come in pairs. After Ban Sheng had drunk several rounds, the bottle landed in front of Lin Weixia. She did not want to drink, so she chose truth.

“Alright then. Lin — is there someone you like?” Li Yiran asked.

The atmosphere shifted in an instant, rippling through every person at the table. Their knowing eyes circled the room in the glow of the lights. The person she liked was sitting right there beside her — that was something anyone with eyes could see.

But this was Lin Weixia.

Lin Weixia was difficult to read, and everyone genuinely wanted to see whether she would admit to this feeling. Ban Sheng leaned back against the sofa, the picture of casual disinterest.

He looked as though he was not particularly invested in the answer.

Except that the fingers wrapped around his cup had tightened — the tendons and faint blue veins standing out sharply against the back of his pale hand.

He was also waiting.

“Actually — I’ll just drink.” Lin Weixia smiled and reached for the cup.

“I’ll drink it.” A hand moved faster than hers and took the cup away. Ban Sheng spoke.

After he drained it, Ban Sheng’s face looked particularly cold under the cool-toned lighting. No one dared provoke him.

A brief, awkward silence fell over the group.

Fortunately, Qiu Minghua was always ready to play the clown. He quickly brought the energy back up. For the rest of the game, Ban Sheng lost interest in playing. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and lounged against the sofa with that lazy, reckless ease of his, checking his phone every so often.

The look of someone waiting for everyone else to wrap up so he could leave.

Fate, however, had not finished with them yet. The bottle hummed and spun through several more rotations, then, as if directed by some invisible hand, came to rest in front of Lin Weixia again. Li Shengran burst out laughing — she thought this person’s luck was absolutely terrible.

Li Yiran, though he had been drinking steadily, looked completely unaffected — bright-eyed and perfectly alert. He drew a truth card. Written on it: Pick one person in the room. Do a rapid-fire six-question round about them — and answer honestly.

“Let’s make it Ban Sheng then.” Li Yiran slapped the card down on the table.

Lin Weixia looked over quietly, her expression clearly saying you again.

Li Yiran was unbothered by it. He smiled and said: “Rules are rules. Ban Sheng substituting that drink for you didn’t change anything — unless he kisses another girl here, that round resets.”

Of the girls present besides her, there were two — one was Li Shengran, one was the girl Li Yiran had brought. The mention of Ban Sheng made both of them flush simultaneously, without coordination.

He was Ban Sheng, after all. A kiss from him would be a windfall.

Lin Weixia’s dense lashes shifted slightly. She thought about it for a moment, then said: “I’ll play.”

“First question: what does Ban Sheng dislike most?” Li Yiran opened with a deliberately difficult question, clearly trying to trip her up.

Ban Sheng had been leaning back with that low, relaxed posture throughout, the profile of his face all clean, sharp lines. He slowly lifted his gaze toward Li Yiran, his eyes carrying a clear warning. Not that it made any difference — Li Yiran had not received the message at all.

His mind drifted back to the quiz he had done a few days ago at school — she may not like you as much as you think. Something darkened in his eyes. Lin Weixia had said herself that she was the type to warm up slowly, that her emotions didn’t come easily.

Whatever she wasn’t willing to say, no one was going to pull it out of her. Li Yiran trying to get her to reveal something in front of everyone — near-impossible.

Feeling a flash of irritation, Ban Sheng opened a message to Li Yiran, ready to tell him to know when to stop. He had already typed the words:

Ban: 【Drop it — she won’t be able to answer.】

The message sat in the chat box, ready to send. Then, from beside him, a calm but firm voice rang out. Ban Sheng froze and turned.

“He dislikes unfamiliar people getting too close to him.”

“How tall is Ban Sheng?”

“187.”

“What’s Ban Sheng’s favorite color?”

“Black.”

“What carbonated drink does Ban Sheng like?”

“But he actually drinks the most milk.”

“Alright, impressive. What does Ban Sheng like to do when he’s relaxed?”

“Watch films, swim, and surf.”

“And what does Ban Sheng love most?”

Lin Weixia paused. She seemed mildly uncomfortable, and deliberately avoided looking at the person beside her. She answered quietly:

“It should be me.”

“Holy — I’m speechless.” Li Yiran swore and had nothing left to say.

“Wow,” someone breathed.

A hush settled over the group. Then, from around the table, a wave of soft, drawn-out wows rose up. The teasing, knowing looks swept toward Ban Sheng from every direction. The only one who rolled her eyes was Li Shengran. Everyone else looked utterly satisfied, as though they had just witnessed something complete — I’m done. I’m full. I’ve had enough for tonight.

The group was still laughing and buzzing when someone happened to glance over at Ban Sheng — and stopped short.

Eyes darted across the table, trading that electric, barely-contained excitement. Ban Sheng — a look like this — this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and we all just got to see it.

Because the Ban Sheng who was usually leaning against something — who threw himself into a fight without flinching, who wore that hard, expressionless look as though his face had been carved that way —

Had turned red.

The flush rose from somewhere along his long, pale neck and climbed steadily upward. No one even needed to reach out and touch him — just looking at the color spreading there, vivid as a cooked prawn, was enough to feel how hot his skin must have been.

Only Qiu Minghua was completely oblivious, and hollered at the top of his lungs: “Master Ban — you’re supposed to be able to hold your liquor! How’d you get flushed so fast?”