After dinner, Yang Zhenggang led everyone to the second-floor auditorium to watch past fire safety promotional videos. When the last one ended, the group sat in silence.

It was essentially a documentary — reporters and photographers from National Report had followed numerous rescue operations, and the footage was staggering.

Towering walls of flame. Howling, spiraling wind. Mountain collapses. Flash floods and tsunamis. Famine and plague.

In every scene, a few figures could always be made out — in through wind, out through rain, unafraid of what lay ahead, embracing death without flinching.

One particular sequence was especially breathtaking.

An eighth-floor apartment in a run-down residential building. Peeling walls. Plumbing rusted and loose, barely holding together. An eight-month-old infant wedged in a security grate. The firefighters worked at it the whole morning — one man hanging inverted, another gripping the air — until, with great effort, the infant was freed.

The firefighter handed the child back to its parents.

The parents fell to their knees, touched their foreheads to the ground, sobbing as they expressed their gratitude, voices lost in the surrounding chaos. The firefighter gave a routine salute as he left.

The infant, cradled in its parents’ arms, stared out with wide, dark eyes, taking in the world — then, three seconds later, mimicked the firefighter’s salute: imprecise, lopsided, but the reverence in the gesture was unmistakable to anyone watching.

Nan Chu thought of a line from the Avatamsaka Sutra:

Do not seek your own comfort and happiness, but only that all living beings be freed from suffering.

Nothing could describe them more fittingly.

When the documentary ended and everyone was still caught in their emotions, unable to surface, Lin Luxiao brought them back to earth with a single sentence.

He stood before the screen — bearing upright, posture precise.

“Training begins formally tomorrow. Hardship is unavoidable. Don’t let this trip go to waste. Rest well tonight.”

The new recruits looked as if they were facing an execution.

Yan Dai still hadn’t recovered from the afternoon’s two thousand meters. Hearing it hadn’t even started yet, she made up her mind, poked Nan Chu, and whispered: “Hey. Let’s both withdraw — okay? With a frame like yours, you won’t hold up anyway. No need to put ourselves through this. We know they work hard — let’s go back and make good films and not add to their burdens.”

Nan Chu swept her a look: “You can go. I’m staying.”

“If I go back alone I’ll get skinned by Han Beiyao! You’re not leaving, so what’s keeping you here? What is there here that you actually want?”

Nan Chu’s gaze was fixed ahead. “Something I like.”

Yan Dai followed her line of sight. The stage was empty except for Lin Luxiao standing at the front and the footage still rolling on the screen behind him. She genuinely could not identify what about either of those two things was worth staying for.

Lin Luxiao? Surely not. The squad captain was undeniably masculine and striking, but which female celebrity wasn’t after a wealthy family or powerful connections? A mere unit captain would never attract women like them — at least she herself would never go for that type.

Though if it were just for something casual, that was a different matter.

The thought led her, against her will, to imagine Lin Luxiao without his uniform.

Nan Chu sensed something was off and glanced sideways at her. “What are you thinking about?”

Yan Dai’s face flushed pink. She had been staring with slightly hazy eyes in a particular direction, but Nan Chu’s voice yanked her back. Her gaze skittered away. “Nothing.”

Nan Chu held the look for a moment, then very slowly pulled her gaze back forward.

Yan Dai, convinced she hadn’t been caught, let out a quiet sigh of relief and cleared her head of wayward thoughts.

The first night in the fire station passed quietly enough. All three slept soundly and solidly until five-thirty — though by then, morning assembly had been over for half an hour.

Nan Chu was the first to wake. Still half in a daze, she had only just sat up when the bedroom door was shoved open. Her bunk was directly across from the door, lower level. The harsh light poured straight in. She raised a hand to shield her eyes.

And through the gap in her fingers, she peeked.

Morning light came in at an angle. In the doorway stood a slender, upright silhouette — pressed, clean uniform, even the brim of his cap edged in light.

Someone once said: the greatest happiness in the world is to open your eyes in the morning and find his face the first thing you see.

The girl sat cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, leaning against the wall behind her, the blanket twisted and draped in a loose heap over her legs, her hair loose and soft, fair skin catching the light.

A scene like something from a dream.

She was still lingering in that impression when a steady set of footsteps brought Lin Luxiao — somehow already beside her bunk — hands in his pockets, bending slightly so that his eyes were level with hers, and he said with unhurried ease: “Would Your Highness like me to bring breakfast to your bed?”

As if that were a genuine service being offered.

“…”

He lowered himself a fraction more, still smiling, eyes now lit with something teasing: “Or shall I just call a car to take you home? Hmm?”

“…”

The suppressed mood in the room was palpable.

Nan Chu rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

Squad leader Shao Yijiu’s voice came weakly from outside the door: “Five-thirty. Morning assembly ended half an hour ago.”

Lin Luxiao stood straight, hands still in pockets, looking down at her, eyebrow raised.

The other two woke.

Xu Ya, rubbing her eyes, startled: “Squad captain?”

Yan Dai’s face went pink.

Lin Luxiao gave Nan Chu one last glance and walked out without looking back, pausing at the door to check his watch: “Five minutes. Drill field. One lap for every second late.”

He left without another word.

Shao Yijiu waited until Lin Luxiao was out of earshot, then signaled urgently from the doorway without making a sound: “Hurry! Whatever you do, don’t be late!”

His dark face, arms waving, expression a mix of panic and urgency — it was genuinely a bit comical.

Xu Ya shot Nan Chu a faintly accusing look: “Why didn’t you wake us up?”

“I just woke up myself.” A flat reply. Nan Chu threw back the blanket and got up. She normally slept without anything on top; in here, she’d had to layer on a short-sleeved shirt. In a situation like today, otherwise she’d have been exposed. She’d worn a pair of shorts, leaving her long, evenly proportioned legs bare. Xu Ya’s eyes flicked over once, and she pressed her lips together and said nothing more.

There were no cameras in the female dormitory — there had been one set up originally, but Xu Ya and Yan Dai had strongly insisted the production team remove it.

The three of them sprinted to the drill field in the final minute.

Several camera operators all turned their lenses on the trio at once. A few crew members looked like they were barely suppressing their glee.

“See that? The director practically wants us to embarrass ourselves more. That’s what gives them ratings.” Yan Dai muttered.

Yan Dai had been dragged away mid-lipstick by Xu Ya. Nan Chu had simply skipped it entirely. The three of them stood outside the formation. Lin Luxiao glanced at his watch, voice level, and told them to fall in.

Seeing no expression on Lin Luxiao’s face, she exhaled in cautious relief.

Then he opened his mouth — tone perfectly even, as though announcing something entirely ordinary: “One more late arrival, and I’ll submit the paperwork for your removal.”

Day one was fitness training.

Fitness training meant various forms of running: short sprints, long runs, and weighted runs. Today’s drill was weighted. Lin Luxiao had Shao Yijiu distribute sandbag packs to each person.

Men: two kilograms per leg. Women: one kilogram per leg.

Shao Yijiu strapped his own on as a demonstration: “There’s a technique to this. When you tie it, you need to wrap it around in circles. Watch carefully — where you secure it matters. If it’s done wrong, the sandbag slips off easily and can also scrape your ankle.”

Three minutes of instruction. The recruits’ results were an absolute mess.

Lin Luxiao held the stopwatch, surveyed the scene, and said: “One minute to adjust.”

Everyone made a show of adjusting. When they looked up, Lin Luxiao had already walked directly to one of the male recruits, patted his shoulder, and said: “Run a few steps.”

Mu Ze had barely taken two steps when — clunk — his sandbag fell.

Lin Luxiao pointed at Xu Ya: “Lift your leg.”

She lifted it. Her sandbag fell straight off.

He bent down, picked up Xu Ya’s sandbag, pressed it against his own ankle, wrapped the tie in a fast series of loops, secured it, and asked: “Everyone see that?”

They nodded.

The moment the words were out — clunk — a sandbag fell.

Lin Luxiao looked over.

Nan Chu’s.

As she bent to pick it up, she said with total candor: “I still don’t quite understand.”

Lin Luxiao regarded her without a word.

Nan Chu asked with an expression of complete sincerity: “You said to do what, exactly? How many loops around here? What kind of knot?”

Lin Luxiao stood a moment, unable to find a trace of guile anywhere in her expression — she looked entirely, genuinely focused on learning. Only then did he walk up to her, crouch down, and say: “Foot out.”

Nan Chu complied.

He crouched before her, took hold of her ankle, picked up the sandbag from the ground, pressed it against her leg, then looked up — when he raised his head, the corners of his brow tilted slightly, a characteristic expression of his — and his voice was flat and cool: “Watch.”

The camera moved to a close-up.

Nan Chu composed her face into attentiveness.

His hands were broad and sure. He gripped her ankle. The fabric of her military trousers was somewhat thick. When Lin Luxiao made contact, the material pressing against Nan Chu’s skin gave an odd, almost tickling sensation — a warmth built in her chest. As he bowed his head again, Lin Luxiao took the sandbag tie and wound it around her foot — his thumb pressed over her bone and muscle. He used no real force, yet her whole body felt faintly electric.

“Clockwise and counterclockwise, three loops each.”

As he said this, his head was tilted slightly up. The mid-point of his throat was distinctly visible — a sharp protrusion that bobbed gently as he spoke. Nan Chu had always found that particular moment most charged: when he took a drag of a cigarette and it reached the tip of his throat, and then he breathed out, and his throat moved with that exhale — she always felt an almost irresistible pull toward him.

“Thread it through here…” Lin Luxiao looked up as he explained, as if genuinely, patiently teaching her.

As long as he lifted his head, their eyes would meet.

Her gaze was frank and undisguised. Nan Chu kept her head angled low, her hair falling forward over her face, and the camera stayed focused on her foot and Lin Luxiao’s expression — no one had the angle on her face. So she stared at him openly, brazenly, in full view of everyone, and no one noticed.

Nan Chu blinked at him. Her eyes were full of light.

The interest was unmistakable.

The consequence was also unmistakable. By the time everyone else started the weighted run, Nan Chu was running with two sandbags on the same foot — both kilograms, a total weight matching the men’s.

A slight figure tucked into the mass of new recruits — looking, somehow, remarkably tenacious.

Xu Ya glanced over with some concern: “Are you okay?”

She replied in decent spirits: “Fine. Run your own race.”

Yan Dai caught the sound of it, shot her a glance, and continued forward in cold silence.

Two hundred meters in, the hierarchy was fully apparent. Combined with the additional two kilograms on one foot, Nan Chu — never having been physically strong — quickly fell to the back. Shao Yijiu, wanting to support the morale of the new recruits, ran at the back to encourage her: “Keep pushing — once it’s done and you take these off, you’ll feel like you’re flying.”

Nan Chu was breathing hard, face red, her words coming in gasps: “Run your own race. I’m fine.”

Shao Yijiu cheered her on: “Go, Nan Chu!”

Nan Chu was amused despite herself. She lowered her head and spotted the several sandbags tied to his own legs. “Why do you have so many?”

Shao Yijiu ran alongside her at an easy pace: “This is our normal training load. The squad captain already made it easier for you — he didn’t follow the standard new recruit scale. When we first enlisted, it was at least five kilograms.”

“Impressive,” Nan Chu said.

Shao Yijiu was in his mid-twenties and was genuinely flustered by the compliment — he rubbed the back of his head, ears going red: “Honestly, it’s not too bad. The squad captain is the impressive one. Back in military school, his weighted training loads weren’t anything like what we’ve got.”

Nan Chu glanced around — the camera operators were sheltering in the shade of the trees, not following this shot.

“Your squad captain is that remarkable?”

Something like reverence came over Shao Yijiu’s expression: “He was fast-tracked from military school straight into the special tactical unit — you can’t get in unless you’re elite. That’s why it’s called special tactical.”

He paused. “But the higher the position you hold, the greater the responsibility. What others can do, we have to do a thousand times, ten thousand times better — that’s how we justify what we’re worth. Otherwise we couldn’t face the country.”

Nan Chu went quiet.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Shao Yijiu asked.

“I can’t get any air.”

She’d never been much for words or for comforting people. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth she’d break the solemn quality of the moment.

There were times when she was rowdy and careless, but where respect was due, she gave it. That was a line she held.

Shao Yijiu coached her: “Do what I do. Breathe in — deep inhale — let it out. That’s it. Slow. It’ll help.”

Nan Chu noticed this young man had a remarkably genuine quality to him: “Squad leader, why are you called Yijiu?”

“My mom said: one plus nine equals ten. She wanted a complete, flawless life for me.”

“Shao Shiquan wouldn’t be bad either.”

“My mom says you have to keep adding in life — that’s what brings happiness.”

Nan Chu smiled: “…Your mom is a wise woman.”

It happened to be just as they completed another lap.

The man at the finish line, holding his evaluation notebook, was watching the two of them.

Nan Chu didn’t look at him, summoned her resolve, and kept moving.

By the third lap, Nan Chu felt as if her legs had stopped belonging to her — as if she were running on instinct alone. Then a figure dropped into view ahead, coming toward her. Liu Xiahan.

The twenty-nine-year-old with the close-cropped hair. Well-proportioned, clearly defined features, an angular face — radiating a quality that was distinctly soldierly. Of all six of them, only he had that quality.

Liu Xiahan slowed his pace and fell in beside her. Nan Chu was too exhausted to so much as look at him.

Liu Xiahan reached out and took hold of her arm. Her momentum stopped abruptly — she stumbled.

The man in front of her crouched and moved to unfasten the sandbags from her ankles. “Let me take these. If you keep running like this your feet will give out.”

Nan Chu tried to pull away, but her ankle was gripped and she had no choice but to say: “I don’t need help.”

Liu Xiahan hadn’t spent much time with Nan Chu, but two days of observation had shown him that this girl had stubbornness in her bones — whatever she was dealing with, she’d never say, just held herself together by sheer force of will, as if she had a point to prove to someone.

“I don’t know what you did to get on the instructor’s bad side,” he said, “but if we let a girl run with two kilograms the whole way, the men here have no face left to show.”

He finished speaking, glanced back to check that Lin Luxiao hadn’t seen, quickly finished tying the sandbags onto himself, patted her on the shoulder, and was gone.

The “special treatment” had been taken away.

Nan Chu stood in place, torn between laughing and not quite knowing what to feel.

She’d actually been enjoying it. When a man singles you out — when he’s particularly like this toward you, only toward you — it’s because he’s unsettled inside. The more unsettled he is, the harder he tries to prove he feels nothing for you.

The harder he tries to prove it, the more unsettled he becomes.

She’d figured him out completely. She only hoped he’d keep getting unsettled.

Liu Xiahan crossed the finish line.

Lin Luxiao stood with both hands in his pockets, file tucked under one arm, gaze drifting downward to Liu Xiahan’s feet for a moment.

“Liu Xiahan. Five extra laps.”