On another side of town, when Lin Weixia and Fang Jiabei parted ways, the two of them exchanged a glance — a thousand things passing between them without a word.

On the way home, Ban Sheng bought a can of milk and walked at his own unhurried pace. A taut string at the back of his mind kept quietly warning him — think too deeply about this and it won’t do you any good.

He crushed the empty can and threw it in the bin, then walked on ahead, his expression blank.

He would wait for Lin Weixia to come get the ring from him herself — next week.

After the great escape and the heartfelt night they’d all shared, everyone had looked forward to the new week and the simple routine of classes together.

But over the course of a single weekend, everything had changed.

An article and a video posted on the YCH website drew an enormous amount of attention, sparking wide-scale discussion. News media picked it up and ran with it extensively. Readers who saw the post erupted in outrage, calling for consequences for the perpetrators.

Even parents at home watching television during dinner found the local news broadcasting a brief report on it. Though the media had blurred out the footage to protect identities, some parents still asked:

“That uniform looks familiar — is this something that happened at your school?”

“Yes, that’s Shengao’s uniform. The video’s blurred, but the post mentions Year Three, Class One, a person by the surname Zheng… My friend is in that class. Let me ask her.”

Monday. A cloud settled over the Shengao campus.

Every student walking the corridors was refreshing the forum repeatedly, looking for new information. Some had saved the post and video, pulling them up again and again. The post was titled — Confessions of an Invisible Person.

Hello. I am an unimportant person. You can call me the invisible one, the person on the margins, or even just an extra — none of that matters.

The boy in the video — let’s call him Youth A — I’ve known him since middle school. He’s my companion. Back then, because he developed later than others and was physically slight by nature, he was frequently bullied by his peers at school. The adults caught on late; by the time they did, his parents and the school took action.

To prevent him from being left with psychological scars, the adults did what adults do best — they built for us, still children, a kind of comforting illusion. Things like: “Middle school exams are coming up soon.” “Once you get to high school, you can leave all this behind.”

So Youth A kept working hard at his studies. Eventually, his excellent results earned him a place at Shengao, and the school waived his tuition. After entering high school, he treated every classmate with warmth and careful courtesy. Though this school had its hierarchies, and its students were often cold, it was still better than before.

When he wrote to me to share that he had been selected as an outstanding student representative, nobody could have anticipated that this was the beginning of something terrible.

When a person stands in a high place, they are seen not only by the crowd — they are also spotted by certain malevolent creatures lurking in the shadows. That is how Youth A came to be targeted by a group led by someone surnamed Zheng.

These bullies would deliberately burst into mocking laughter wherever Youth A passed, drawing onlookers. They blocked his way, shoving and striking him, shouting things like “sissy” and “pretty boy.”

Endless ridicule and abuse fell upon him. Youth A’s life grew harder than before, yet he kept persisting, kept trying to live. On that Friday after school, Youth A and I had arranged to walk home together and feed the stray cats he’d taken in.

But that day I waited at his door and he never came. What came instead was word that on his way home that Friday after school, Youth A had been distracted and had an accident — struck and killed by a truck running through a red light. The investigation concluded the driver had been drunk.

The conclusion was that it was an accident. That is true.

But in the hour before he left school, Youth A had been subjected to abuse by a group of young people led by someone surnamed Zheng in the underground swimming pool. They forced Youth A to undress of his own volition; when he refused, he was beaten and degraded for nearly an hour. A portion of this is documented in the attached video below.

Youth A’s death was an accident. But does that mean the others bear no fault? Does it mean they committed no wrong?

He was just like any of us — an ordinary person. Beyond his studies, he loved to draw. His interests were ordinary. The anime he watched most often was Slam Dunk*; his favorite character was Ryota Miyagi. He took in stray cats.*

The only way Youth A was different — if it could be called a difference at all — was what those bullies called him: “sissy,” “freak.” But I didn’t see anything different about him.

This was simply who he was — someone who suffered greatly during his life.

That Friday, the cats were still at home waiting for him to come back. But the little cats didn’t know he had left.

Please hold them accountable.

The video attached to the post ran approximately three minutes. Though the faces in the footage had been blurred for various reasons, Class Three-One’s students could still identify the perpetrators with sharp certainty: Zheng Zhaoxing. Ding Li. Zuo Heng. Zhou Zhenyang.

And Ban Sheng.

The post quickly rose to trending. The school office phone was flooded from early morning with calls from media and relevant authorities. Every teacher who picked up the phone broke out in a cold sweat.

When Lin Weixia arrived at school, the atmosphere was unsettling — a scattered, disorganized kind of chaos everywhere. At the school gate, there was no longer a teacher on duty checking appearance and dress code. Students were doing their cleaning rotation lazily, mops moving at a crawl.

The classroom atmosphere was equally strange. Everyone was whispering to each other. They were all in the same environment — the post and its truth, like a giant steamer, left every single one of them sweating through their foreheads.

Lin Weixia set her bag down at her desk and instinctively looked toward Fang Jiabei’s seat — just as Fang Jiabei came walking over. The two stood in the aisle by the front row of desks.

Fang Jiabei’s voice was unhurried but her tone was an accusation:

“You broke your promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Lin Weixia said, lowering her dark lashes.

Lin Weixia was still about to say something more when — bang — someone kicked the back door of the classroom open with a violent crash. Before anyone could react, Zheng Zhaoxing charged in. He crossed the room in large strides, reached out and grabbed whatever was at hand — a stack of books — and hurled it hard at Fang Jiabei.

Zheng Zhaoxing’s expression was dark, his eyes full of menace. He stuck his finger in Fang Jiabei’s face, his long nail nearly poking her eye out, and snarled:

“You little fish-scale freak — I didn’t expect you had something like this in you. That day at the pool I thought I was seeing things. It really was you. You filmed the video, didn’t you. You wrote that post too, didn’t you.”

“You have a death wish?”

Zheng Zhaoxing loomed over her, prodding and pushing while hurling obscenities at her. Fang Jiabei stood with her eyes lowered, her fringe as long as ever — impossible to read her expression beneath it.

Everyone turned to watch, expecting, as usual, that Fang Jiabei would absorb it and wait for Zheng Zhaoxing to finish venting and leave.

Then Fang Jiabei suddenly looked up and struck away the hand being thrust in her face — crack — the sound sharp and clear. The air seemed to freeze. Everyone drew a breath.

“Tell me — what does it feel like to be condemned and cursed by everyone? Humiliating, isn’t it? Especially those curses on the internet — all those comments tearing you apart — infuriating, isn’t it, painful, and yet you can’t reach through the screen to do anything about it. Well. What I suffered was ten times, a hundred times worse than that.” Fang Jiabei said, cold amusement in her voice.

“And my name is Fang Jiabei,” Fang Jiabei continued, hands in her pockets, watching him with composure. “Believe it or not — as loud as this has gotten, police will be at the door to investigate very soon. You must be very afraid right now, Zheng Zhaoxing.”

“Insects like you deserve to rot.”

Fang Jiabei’s words struck straight at Zheng Zhaoxing’s nerve — panic flooded in, instantly converting to fury with nowhere to go. Zheng Zhaoxing raised his hand high, about to bring it down hard —

A slender arm cut across and stopped his wrist. Lin Weixia stood to the side, her presence cold and composed, her expression calm and remote: “That post was written by me.”

Zheng Zhaoxing went still. It took a moment for it to register — the video had been given to her by Fang Jiabei. He shook Lin Weixia’s hand off hard, staring at her as understanding dawned:

“So it was you. You went to all the trouble of transferring to Shengao for your old flame, didn’t you? What was his name again? Right — Liang Jiashu.”

At the name Liang Jiashu, the room erupted in hushed voices, growing louder. That name had once been forbidden among Class Three-One’s students — no one had dared speak it — and now it had been unearthed again.

“You have no right to say his name!” Lin Weixia’s voice rose. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Her eyes began to redden.

Lin Weixia had suffered serious bullying in middle school. The reason: she was deaf, and people laughed at her and called her a freak.

There was another student who had been targeted alongside her — a boy with exceptional grades, a real gift for drawing, a beautiful face that drew the attention of the girls at school. Sometimes excellence inspires envy; combined with his slight build, more and more people began targeting him.

But Liang Jiashu, when he was the one being tormented, would step in front of her — making concessions, enduring the cruelty, taking on humiliations — all to shield her from it.

Only to protect her.

The two of them were the two people on the edges of the class — leaning on each other, keeping each other warm, getting through a very long stretch of time together.

Liang Jiashu was a genuinely good person. His skin was fair; he had curly hair. When he smiled, his eyes curved into lines, and he had dimples.

He was the one who was isolated, relentlessly targeted, and still stood up — placing himself between her and that pain, absorbing the harm meant for Lin Weixia.

He was the person Lin Weixia had sworn to herself she would grow stronger for — so that one day, she could be the one to protect him.

But she hadn’t managed it. In the end, Liang Jiashu left behind only an amber pendant with a leaf inside.

Liang Jiashu was not a name for just anyone to say.

“Liang Jiashu — that guy with the pretty face, the curly hair,” Zheng Zhaoxing said with a grin, turning toward the door to call out to the figure standing there. “Isn’t that right, Ban Sheng?”

All eyes went to the door. The morning sun had kept moving — the patch of light that had fallen across the back of the door was gone now. The boy’s tall, lean silhouette stood in that space, as if he were standing in shadow.

Ban Sheng was here.

Nobody knew how long he’d been there.

How much had he heard — or had he heard all of it?

Because the teachers had been called to an emergency meeting, no one was supervising morning study session. The class had descended into chaos, everyone clustering together to watch the scene unfold.

Lin Weixia stood where she was. One step. Two steps. Three steps —

She watched Ban Sheng walk in — wearing a black T-shirt, hands at his sides, fingers prominent, moving in an unhurried pace toward his seat.

As he passed by their side, Ban Sheng’s figure paused for a moment.

Lin Weixia caught him out of the corner of her eye — his thin lips parted: “Zheng Zhaoxing. Go back to your seat.”

Ban Sheng stood sideways to them and didn’t look at Lin Weixia once. The tendons in his neck shifted as he spoke, but still nothing could be read from his voice. He said:

“Everyone disperse.”

He’d spoken to everyone. To no one in particular.

Only not to her.

As if Lin Weixia had never existed in his line of sight at all.

With a word from Ban Sheng, the crowd scattered. Chairs scraped against the floor with a series of sounds — some students handed in assignments, some borrowed others’ work to copy, some started eating breakfast.

But there were still eyes quietly watching Ban Sheng’s reaction. He gave nothing.

After all, Ban Sheng had always been very indulgent of Lin Weixia. Nobody expected her to be this ruthless. Sacrificing someone close to you for justice.

Everyone took out textbooks and pretended to read, all still murmuring about the forum, the post, the bullying. Ban Sheng, however, was perfectly calm — he pulled out his chair and sat down, handed in his assignment, and started eating breakfast.

He was eating a sandwich — slowly, jaw working gradually — as though he cared only about the food in front of him.

Li Shengran arrived at school very late. By the time she got to the classroom, the morning study bell had already rung. She sat down and pulled out her English textbook, slamming it down with a crash that made heads turn.

Lin Weixia sat in her seat reading. She kept receiving looks from Li Shengran — who had turned around and was staring at her with fierce, hard eyes.

Morning study session ended without the teacher ever appearing.

Lin Weixia closed her book and turned to take the breakfast hanging from the edge of her desk. Her fingers had just closed around the white plastic bag when a gust of force came — Li Shengran, eyes blazing, stormed over to slap her.

Lin Weixia saw it coming. She sat there. She didn’t move. She waited for that slap to land.

She deserved it.

A tall shadow fell across the desk. A boy stepped in and caught Li Shengran’s arm, signaling her to stop. Li Shengran wasn’t satisfied — eyes red, she called out: “Brother—”

They were very close, standing right beside Lin Weixia. The girl struggled fiercely, red-eyed, wanting to give her a lesson. The boy applied a little force; the long, clean lines of his arm tensed, white bandages still wrapped around it, a trace of blood seeping through.

The two of them were tangled close, and Lin Weixia caught his familiar tobacco scent — as well as a faint perfume, probably transferred onto him from Li Shengran because they were standing so close together.

“There’s no need,” she heard him say.

Shortly after, Li Shengran’s arm went slack. Ban Sheng brought her away. In the commotion, the books and pens on Lin Weixia’s desk were on the verge of being knocked off — Ban Sheng pushed them back with an offhand gesture as he passed.

Along with the notebooks and other things pushed back onto the edge of the desk, there was also a small dinosaur keychain.

Lin Weixia stared at the keychain, and only felt a tightness in her chest, a difficulty breathing — her heart like a blunt knife cutting back and forth, a dull, heavy ache.

Ban Sheng brought Li Shengran out. Lin Weixia saw Li Shengran seem to be holding something back, talking continuously — until at some point she couldn’t hold it anymore and began to cry.

She’s probably crying for Ban Sheng’s sake.

Ban Sheng lowered his eyes and looked at her, patted Li Shengran on the arm, and handed her a tissue.

The class bell finally rang. The teacher arrived late. After forty minutes of class, Teacher Liu repeatedly stressed that students should go straight home after school and not linger — the school had already notified parents to come pick them up.

“The school has informed the families of those involved in the incident and has immediately escalated the matter to the higher educational authorities for handling. We have also contacted the public security department to initiate an investigation. A fair outcome will be given.”

For the entire morning, Lin Weixia barely absorbed any of her lessons. She sat at her seat throughout. After the morning exercise break, a few girls came back into the classroom arm in arm, still discussing the situation.

“Oh — a friend of mine from Class Eight came to ask me about the post and video. I just told her what I knew.”

“Aren’t you worried Zheng Zhaoxing will come after you?”

“Come on — Zheng Zhaoxing and his lot have the law to thank that their names and photos weren’t made public online. But they’re practically being hunted down by everyone now. And what they did was genuinely monstrous.”

“What about Ban Sheng though — did you tell your friend about him?”

“Didn’t she just say everything?” One girl glanced over in Lin Weixia’s direction.

“I remember — after Liang Jiashu’s accident, Zheng Zhaoxing’s family apparently donated a new swimming pool, and the underground pool was closed off. Ban Sheng hasn’t used the school pool since then. People were suspicious at the time, weren’t they? But everyone was scared of that group’s connections and power. Nobody dared bring it up.”

Fourth period, the teacher had asked for leave and they had self-study. Thick stacks of exam papers were handed out as usual — the classroom smelled heavily of fresh ink.

Lin Weixia pulled out a Chinese language paper. She never followed any particular order when doing questions, and right now she couldn’t settle her mind anyway — so she simply started on the reading comprehension section.

The classroom buzzed with noise; most people were talking about the incident. Lin Weixia read quietly to herself — “The shark, one of the ocean’s creatures, has undergone millennia of change. How did it go from predator to prey…?”

“Oh my god — the police are here. They’re taking Zheng Zhaoxing and his group.”

“What about Ban Sheng?”

“Him too.”

“Why is he being taken in?”

“The rapid extinction of shark species, beyond environmental factors, is also connected to ongoing illegal hunting by humans. Fishermen who head out to sea and catch sharks will quickly slice off the dorsal fin — known as the shark fin — and then throw the shark back into the ocean. Whether the shark, bleeding back into the sea, survives or dies is a matter of unknown probability…”

“Of course — isn’t he one of the perpetrators?”

As she read, a crystalline tear fell onto the Chinese exam paper, spreading rapidly and blurring the black ink beneath it. The characters for “prey” on the reading comprehension page dissolved in the water, slowly going indistinct.