The next day, by the time most of the other parents had arrived, there was still no sign of Zhou Haiyan.

I couldn’t help wondering if he’d backed out at the last minute.

On my thirtieth glance out the window, a familiar figure finally appeared in view.

The man wore a black leather jacket, sunglasses on his face, Martin boots on his feet, striding forward on long, powerful legs—the whole picture sharp and unrestrained, like a mob boss out of a Hong Kong crime film.

The moment he sat down beside me, the once-noisy classroom went noticeably quiet.

I patted my chest and said quietly, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

He said, deadpan, “Almost didn’t. The security guard at the gate wouldn’t let me in for the longest time.”

Then he took off his jacket, revealing a plain black short-sleeved shirt underneath.

Two full-sleeve tattoos were exposed—a green dragon on the left, a white tiger on the right.

The group led by the tall girl had been secretly watching this whole time, and they all sucked in a breath at once.

The effect was clear. I secretly gave Zhou Haiyan a thumbs up.

During the break, some boys in class were staring at Zhou Haiyan’s tattoos, discussing in low voices.

“Why does it kind of look like his tattoo is reflecting light?”

“Could it be fake?”

Hearing that, my whole body tensed.

The man beside me leaned back in his chair and flicked his sunglasses down with one hand, his eyes full of disdain.

“What do these idiots know? Bunch of country bumpkins. This is the latest tattoo technology out there.”

“……”

“……”

I straightened my back and chimed in. “Exactly! What do they know! Bunch of country bumpkins!”

The group of boys behind us turned red in the face, blaming each other.

“I told you it’s not a tattoo sticker, and you insisted it was.”

“Bullshit, I thought it wasn’t from the start, you’re the one who wouldn’t believe me.”

No sooner had the parents been called out by the teacher to discuss the monthly exam scores than my seat was suddenly surrounded by people—girls who’d never bothered with me before were crowding around, as if they’d forgotten all the times they’d bullied me before.

They chattered all at once.

“Your brother is so handsome!”

Me: “He’s very fierce.”

“Your brother’s so tall!”

Me: “He’s really good at fighting.”

“How come we never knew you had a brother?”

Me: “He runs with a gang. Bullets flying all day, every day. He just wiped out a rival gang recently, that’s why he finally has some free time.”

“……”

Me: “His temper’s really unpredictable, and there’s nothing he hates more than cliques and group bullying—one wrong word and he’ll start swinging.”

“……”

Rebellious middle schoolers will believe anything they hear, and with Zhou Haiyan’s intimidating looks and mysterious, unclear background, they believed every word.

They stared at me, thoroughly convinced, eyes darting nervously.

Just as I was getting into the swing of my own bragging—

Zhou Haiyan came back, one hand in his pocket, standing behind me.

I quickly grabbed his hand and cried out in mock terror, “Brother, don’t be rash, don’t be rash, we can talk this out, don’t shoot!”

The crowd in front of me scattered like a swarm disturbed.

Him: “……”

His reputation was made in one shot, and combined with whatever Zhou Haiyan had apparently said to their parents, they all gave me a wide berth from then on.

I was so happy I ate an extra bowl of rice that night.

But I’d celebrated too soon.

That evening, Zhou Haiyan pointed at my math test with a score of 17, his voice ominously flat.

“Didn’t know I had such a little attention-seeker on my hands.”

My face flushed instantly red.

Last month during the math exam, they’d kept kicking my chair, demanding I show them the answers. In a fit of anger, I’d simply written for five minutes and spaced out for the rest of it.

The tallest tree in the forest is the first to catch the wind.

Good grades, being quiet and reserved, having no one to rely on—all of that would only make my situation worse, so I’d always kept myself average, kept my presence as low as possible.

Zhou Haiyan set aside his sketching, dragged a small stool over to sit beside me, and picked up the test paper, ready to teach me math.

I’d thought at first he was joking, but the more I listened, the more astonished I became—he broke down complex problems into simple, easy-to-understand terms, drawing effortless connections between them.

I was stunned. Since when did being a small-time hoodlum require this kind of education?

Maybe my expression gave too much away, because he gave me a flick to the forehead.

“What are you staring at? My education is more than enough to teach you.”

I said, bewildered, “But you don’t look like the studious type.”

He said, meaningfully, “And you look plenty studious to me.”

Me: “……”

So, every night after that, he’d carve out time to tutor me in math.

I was decent at school overall, but math happened to be my weakest subject.

So I didn’t refuse.

By the second monthly exam, I’d risen from five hundredth in the grade to third.

He looked at my report card and laughed, scolding me. “You really can study, huh? Been playing your brother for a fool this whole time?”

I blinked, pressing my palms together. “No, no, it’s all because you taught me so well, brother!”