Situ Jie had buried herself in the study room at the School of Pharmacy all afternoon. Senior year now, and for students in her major, graduation was already in sight. Plenty of her classmates were making forward-thinking plans about job hunting — talk about so-and-so who supposedly had connections to get into one of the city’s top hospitals after graduation, or which pharmaceutical company had better prospects, cropped up in conversation more and more often. Those who felt secure were naturally full of ambition, while those who saw no bright future ahead began to grow anxious. Xiao Gen was the poster child for the latter.

As for finding work, Situ Jie wasn’t in any hurry — quite the opposite, she almost wished graduation day would never come. Situ Jiu’an had brought it up more than once, hoping she and Qiyun would graduate soon. It wasn’t that the company lacked talent, but no outside talent, however sharp, could compare to family in his eyes — not to mention that, though he never said it aloud, he’d always taken quiet pride in these two accomplished young people, and saw Jiu’an Hall passing into their hands as a fitting continuation of his life’s work.

Situ Jie saw clearly the “high hopes” her father had placed on her, but she genuinely had little interest in them. It wasn’t that she felt no sense of responsibility toward the family business at all — she simply longed for a free, unconstrained life, and the cutthroat scheming of the business world held no appeal for her. Joining the family company after graduation, being groomed for years under her parents’ close supervision, then smoothly inheriting the empire her father had built with his own hands, becoming some decisive, formidable businesswoman steadily growing Jiu’an Hall bigger and bigger — that kind of life was about as far from what she wanted as it was possible to get.

Situ Jie had told her parents outright, more than once, that she wasn’t cut out to run a company. She’d much rather work in a purely technical role, something in research and development. Situ Jiu’an’s response was that it didn’t matter what she wanted to do, so long as it served the family company in the end — as for management, well, wasn’t Qiyun there? By the time he and Xue Shaoping were too old to keep working, Situ Jie and Qiyun could simply split the load, one handling operations and management, the other technical development. Jiu’an Hall would belong to the two of them sooner or later anyway.

Whenever the conversation reached this point, Xue Shaoping would cut in with a smile. She always told Situ Jie: “Don’t forget, Jiu’an Hall carries the Situ name. You’re our only daughter — this responsibility is yours to carry, whether you like it or not. Nobody’s born loving something right away; whatever you don’t know how to do, you can learn slowly. While your father and I can still teach you hands-on, what couldn’t you manage? Qiyun studies medicine — that’s his own interest. If he’s willing to assist you, all the better.”

Whenever Xue Shaoping said this, she always gave the words “only” and “assist” unusually crisp, deliberate emphasis. Situ Jiu’an could only smoke sheepishly, while Situ Jie rolled her eyes inwardly, stealing an amused, helpless glance at Qiyun, who sat silent through it all as if none of it concerned him.

In truth, in what Situ Jie thought of as “her side” of things, it was never just herself alone — she always, without quite meaning to, folded Qiyun into that “I.” She knew he genuinely loved his field, unlike Wu Jiang, who’d been pushed into medicine by his parents. She’d seen Qiyun in the lab and on hospital rotations, the focus and quiet satisfaction in his eyes above his surgical mask — it let her see, truly and plainly, that his work made him happy, and for someone as burdened by caution as Yao Qiyun, that kind of happiness was precious. She thought he would make a good doctor, and that he ought to become one.

When they stole time alone together, Situ Jie would rest her head on Yao Qiyun’s lap, and the two of them would drift into aimless daydreams — a game they called “our future.” In this dream, Qiyun, after graduating, really did pick up a scalpel. He wouldn’t necessarily work at some prestigious big-city hospital — maybe somewhere more out of the way, a less coveted position, but also free of all the shady dealings and backroom deals. He’d feel good about the work he put in every day, and every yuan he earned, he’d have earned honestly. And Situ Jie — she’d work as a pharmacist at his hospital. After a long day, exhausted, they’d come home and fall asleep in each other’s arms, and when the morning sun spilled across the bed, they’d open their eyes to find each other, hair a mess… It was usually Situ Jie who painted this scene, elaborating endlessly on the details until she made herself laugh out loud. Yao Qiyun listened with a smile, never interrupting. But even Situ Jie understood — however much he longed for it, he always believed it could only ever be a dream. If Situ Jiu’an wanted him to devote himself to Jiu’an Hall, one word from him and Qiyun wouldn’t be able to refuse.

“What if we found a way to go abroad together?” Situ Jie said, blinking.

Yao Qiyun would just laugh it off. “Silly. Even at the edge of the world, wouldn’t you still be the Situ family’s daughter? And wouldn’t I still be the one they raised?”

True enough — however much she talked about telling Jiu’an Hall to go to hell, when it came to her parents, how could she bear to let them down? Situ Jie could only reluctantly drift back from the dream to reality. Fortunately, Qiyun’s program ran seven years, so graduation was still a long way off. Situ Jie set her mind on the graduate program at their own school, so she could stay close to him — her parents were still young and capable enough; she might as well stay in school as long as she could.

After registering for the graduate entrance exam, Situ Jie felt fairly confident about getting in. But her sights weren’t set low — if she was going to do this, she wanted the very best advisor in the department. Getting into Professor Zou Jin’s program would be ideal. Though Zou Jin hadn’t taken on a single graduate student since Qu Xiaowan, let alone any female ones, Situ Jie didn’t think she was in any way inferior to Qu Xiaowan. If he continued taking no students at all, so be it — but if he ever decided to take someone, and her grades far outstripped every male candidate, surely he’d give her serious consideration. Buoyed by this “hopeful vision,” Situ Jie threw herself even harder into her studies.

The phone lying on the desk suddenly buzzed. Situ Jie glanced at it — a text from Qiyun. They’d recently been assigned short-term clinical rotations at the university’s affiliated hospital, keeping them busier than usual; it occurred to her now that it had been a full week since she’d last had any real time with him.

“Wait for me after study session tonight.” His texts never seemed to run past fifteen characters.

Situ Jie texted back eagerly: “Sure, let’s grab a late-night snack. What do you want to eat?”

His reply came quickly, just as terse: “Braised pork ribs.”

Sitting in the crowded study room, Situ Jie felt her face flush slightly. She snapped her phone shut, thinking privately that he was worse than her — the ones who looked so proper on the surface were always the real scoundrels underneath.

This particular joke traced back to a day not long before, when Yao Qiyun had been flipping through an Eileen Chang novel Situ Jie had borrowed from the library. One line compared certain regional beauties to different styles of cooked pork. At the time, Situ Jie had asked him which style he preferred, and he’d flatly refused to answer. Then that evening at dinner — with Auntie Yao away visiting family for a few days, Xue Shaoping, worried the two of them might have gone without proper meals over the weekend, asked what they’d had for lunch.

Without missing a beat, Yao Qiyun said, “Braised pork ribs.”

Xue Shaoping assumed he meant they’d ordered takeout. In truth, that day the house had happened to be empty of everyone else, and Yao Qiyun and Situ Jie had spent the whole time after breakfast fooling around in her room — they’d skipped lunch entirely, and he’d thoroughly “devoured” her instead.

Situ Jie fought to hold back a laugh, and at first thought about kicking him under the table the way she usually did, but thankfully she didn’t get the chance — because what Xue Shaoping said next nearly made them both drop their chopsticks in shock.

“Qiyun, don’t mind your auntie asking, but — are you seeing someone these days?” Xue Shaoping asked, smiling.

Situ Jiu’an looked over at him, equally surprised. “Really? Why haven’t we heard about it?”

Yao Qiyun froze on the spot, clearly about to deny it. But Situ Jie knew her mother wasn’t the type to go fishing for gossip on a whim — if she was asking outright, she had to have some solid grounds for it. Though from her expression, she didn’t seem to have fully seen through their own secret either — if she had, she’d surely have gone after Situ Jie first.

So Situ Jie jumped in before Yao Qiyun could deny anything: “Mom, you’re amazing! Qiyun, don’t blame me — it wasn’t me who told her.”

She’d decided to gamble on it, and sure enough, Xue Shaoping’s expression stayed pleasant, only turning curiously toward her. “You knew too?”

Situ Jie shoveled a big mouthful of rice. “Heh, caught them once, by accident.”

“So I’m the only one who didn’t know?” A flicker of something like disappointment crossed Situ Jiu’an’s face. Situ Jie thought, Mom’s probably cheering inside — Dad’s last hope of making Qiyun a live-in son-in-law had apparently just gone up in smoke. “When did this happen? What’s the girl like?”

Yao Qiyun forced a smile. Situ Jie jumped in before he could answer. “Not as pretty as me, obviously. Pretty average, really. But Mom, how did you even find out?”

“Look at you, so full of yourself — anyone else would laugh at you for that.” Xue Shaoping pursed her lips, smiling. “You think something like this can stay hidden? I’ve seen Qiyun sitting on the sofa at night, texting away nonstop, that little smile at the corner of his mouth — I don’t think he even noticed it himself. Your mother’s been through this too, you know, I can spot it a mile away. I was only guessing at first, just asking on a whim — didn’t expect to actually be right. Qiyun, really, why hide something this big from us? Bring the girl by sometime so your Uncle Situ and I can meet her.”

Situ Jie relaxed inwardly — thank goodness her mother, sharp as she was, had only caught the “lovestruck glow” of Qiyun texting away, without guessing that those texts were going straight to her own precious daughter upstairs on the computer. She put on a show of indignation instead: “He gets a girlfriend and everyone’s all understanding about it. Where’s my sympathy?” Then, feigning curiosity, she turned to the visibly flustered Yao Qiyun. “Is that red mark on your neck from your girlfriend?”

Everyone’s eyes immediately fixed on the faint red mark on Yao Qiyun’s neck, barely visible — while the very person responsible for it looked on with perfect innocence, thoroughly enjoying the show. Yao Qiyun clapped a hand over his neck and ducked his head lower, though if anyone could have seen his eyes just then, they’d have found nothing but murderous intent.

Thinking back on it now, Situ Jie couldn’t help smiling again — that man was hopeless at lying. She should be grateful her mother wasn’t around right now, or the look on her own face would be no different from Qiyun’s the moment he’d been caught out. Sometimes she almost hoped her parents would find out someday — so what if there was a storm over it? Once it blew over, she’d still be with Qiyun. Nothing could pull them apart.

“Situ! Situ!”

Someone beside her was determined to yank her out of her bittersweet reverie.

Situ Jie looked up. It was Xiao Gen.

Some people found it hard to understand how someone as dazzling and proud as Situ Jie could count someone like Xiao Gen — so different from her in every way — as a close friend. Four years into college, Xiao Gen still spoke with an awkward accent, still wore that same timid, ingratiating smile for everyone he met. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, his grades were unimpressive — maybe his study habits were just off, since he always started reviewing earlier than anyone else and still couldn’t escape makeup exams and repeated courses — and on top of that, his family was badly off, the shadow of being a scholarship-dependent student never quite leaving him. Friends like Wu Jiang and Situ Jie were practically the brightest thing he had to be proud of. Situ Jie herself couldn’t quite explain why she liked him — maybe she simply wasn’t the type to ask “why” when it came to feelings and friendship. She believed in fate more than reason: the universe had put Xiao Gen in her group during freshman orientation camping, so why not just let the friendship carry on? She saw no reason it shouldn’t. She never denied that some of it was sympathy — whenever she thought of Qiyun’s own past, she felt an extra measure of warmth and understanding toward Xiao Gen. Not to mention that, however weak-willed he could be, he never harbored a shred of malice toward anyone. Situ Jie liked kind people.

“Spit it out, don’t just stand there summoning ghosts.” Situ Jie set down her book.

“I’ve got something going on — could you help me drop off this work-study application form at the department office?” Xiao Gen asked, a little embarrassed.

The department office was in another building just ten meters away — the time it took to ask for the favor was practically as long as the errand itself. Situ Jie found it a little odd, but figured he must have his reasons, and since it wasn’t much trouble, she agreed readily without asking further.

She didn’t waste time, gathered her things, took the form Xiao Gen needed submitted, and headed for the department office. As she crossed the small lawn with the rockery near the Pharmacy building, a figure lingering behind the rocks made her slow her steps. Could it be… she had a sudden inkling why Xiao Gen had specifically sent her on this errand.

Passing the rockery, Situ Jie deliberately quickened her pace, ignoring the person beside it who looked as though they wanted to speak but held back.

“Situ, wait.” Sure enough, Tan Shaocheng’s voice came from the side. “Could you not leave yet? I need to talk to you about something.”

Situ Jie turned around, making no effort to hide the faint impatience on her face. She didn’t like Tan Shaocheng — disliked her thoroughly, top to bottom, inside and out. Take today, for instance — if she had something to say to her, why not just say it outright, instead of going around in circles, using Xiao Gen to lure her here, putting on this whole mysterious act? That was just how Tan Shaocheng always struck her — too calculating, full of hidden agendas she insisted on keeping hidden, one face shown openly and another kept in the dark. It wasn’t necessarily malice; it was simply that she was used to operating that way, indirectly. But that exact manner was precisely what Situ Jie found most contemptible, and even her petite, so-called “gentle and demure” charm wasn’t remotely to Situ Jie’s taste.

Situ Jie was nothing like Wu Jiang. Wu Jiang might mutter “not my type” under his breath, but his face never lost its easy smile — even knowing full well that Tan Shaocheng’s “gratitude” toward him concealed other feelings, so long as she never said it outright, he couldn’t be bothered to reject her openly, which was exactly why Tan Shaocheng still hadn’t fully given up on him even now, occasionally sending him little gifts during his hospital rotations. Among Wu Jiang’s close friends, this whole business was something of an open secret, quietly treated as a running joke. As Wu Jiang’s confidante, Situ Jie not only knew about Qu Xiaowan, but understood clearly that even without Qu Xiaowan in the picture, Tan Shaocheng was worlds apart from the type of girl Wu Jiang actually liked — not even remotely close. She’d told Wu Jiang more than once to keep his distance from Tan Shaocheng, better to be firm about it than let that lingering girlish infatuation cling on like some parasite. But Wu Jiang always laughed at her for taking it too seriously; he had his own philosophy of “let things run their course, don’t force anything.” Why bother hurting anyone, he’d say — if someone liked him, that was their business, not something he needed to trouble himself over. Maybe one day she’d come to her senses, her feelings would cool, and she’d naturally drift away on her own.

Wu Jiang had also theorized that much of Situ Jie’s wariness toward Tan Shaocheng came from the fact that Tan got along reasonably well with Yao Qiyun, so Situ Jie had cast her as an imagined romantic rival. And so, even though Tan Shaocheng was in the class right next door, the two of them often sat through the same lectures together, and despite Tan’s repeated friendly overtures — and despite Situ Jie’s own close friends Xiao Gen and San Pi both getting along well with her — Situ Jie remained consistently cold toward Tan Shaocheng.

In truth, Wu Jiang’s theory wasn’t entirely right. Given how proud Situ Jie was, she never once considered Tan Shaocheng a rival at all, never imagined anyone could replace her place in Yao Qiyun’s heart. Her imagined enemy was never any particular girl — it was the doubts and hesitations lodged in Yao Qiyun’s own heart. As for Tan Shaocheng, it wasn’t so much hostility as wariness — Situ Jie always felt the girl was riddled with hidden calculations, the kind that could swallow you whole the moment you let your guard down.

“What is it?” Situ Jie had no intention of wasting time on Tan Shaocheng.

“Um, do you have a minute? I… I’d like to talk to you.”

Perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable to say the two of them simply didn’t click — the more Tan Shaocheng hedged and hesitated, the more impatient Situ Jie grew. If something needed saying, just say it; all this hemming and hawing only made her dislike the person more. She genuinely couldn’t imagine having anything worth discussing with her, so she said bluntly, “Sorry, I don’t really have time.”

She said it and kept walking, not waiting for a response. That finally spurred Tan Shaocheng into action — she hurried forward and grabbed hold of Situ Jie’s backpack. “Wait, I really do need to talk to you!”

Situ Jie twisted around, trying to shake off her grip. Was this about Wu Jiang? If Tan Shaocheng actually expected Situ Jie to plead her case for her, that would be beyond absurd.

“Situ Jie, do I really have to beg? Even if you’re a princess, is it really so hard to spare a few words?” Tan Shaocheng’s brow furrowed slightly, her small, delicate features pale and fine. Situ Jie thought, this was probably the kind of look boys found irresistibly pitiable.

She supposed she had been a bit much. What harm was there in hearing her out?

“Fine, let go of my bag first. What is it you want to say?”

Only then did Tan Shaocheng release her grip, glancing around hesitantly. It was mid-afternoon, close to finals, and everyone was busy with their own affairs — the area outside the department office was quiet, no one else in sight besides the two of them, barely anyone passing by at all.

Tan Shaocheng finally seemed ready to get to the point — and to Situ Jie’s surprise, she didn’t bring up Wu Jiang at all.

“What I wanted to ask is — did you apply for the Fu Xuecheng Scholarship this year?”

Situ Jie was somewhat taken aback.

The Fu Xuecheng Scholarship had been established through a personal donation by Fu Xuecheng, an overseas Chinese benefactor, primarily to reward students of outstanding character and academic achievement. Aside from the national scholarship, it was the most generous award available — though naturally the number of recipients was extremely limited, and even fewer of those went to undergraduates. For a large department like Pharmacy, there was at most one slot reserved each year. It wasn’t just an honor, but a small fortune, and the number of applicants every year was considerable, competition fierce. By department tradition, the undergraduate slot typically went to a graduating senior.

So this was what she’d come to scout out. Situ Jie nodded. “That’s right. Isn’t anyone who meets the requirements free to apply? Unless I’m mistaken, you must have submitted an application too.”

Tan Shaocheng nodded, saying softly, “Yes. That scholarship money would mean a lot to me.”

“Of course it would. Well, in that case, let’s just wait and see how it turns out. It’s a fair competition — neither of us gets to decide the outcome.” Situ Jie suspected she was fishing to gauge her own odds by feeling out Situ Jie’s confidence, so she cut the conversation off right there. Honestly, if the scholarship really did go to a senior this year, the two of them were probably the strongest contenders in the whole department. But since both applications had already been submitted, the outcome wasn’t something either of them could control — no amount of probing on Tan Shaocheng’s part would change that.

Even after all that had been said, Tan Shaocheng apparently had no intention of ending the conversation there.

“Situ, that scholarship really matters to me.” She wrung her hands, murmuring.

Situ Jie laughed. “It matters to everyone who applied for it.”

Her own father, Situ Jiu’an, had been rather displeased that she’d signed up for the graduate entrance exam without consulting the family first, and Situ Jie needed this scholarship to make her case to him — see, your daughter really is cut out for academics, it’d be a waste not to keep going.

“It’s not the same for you. Without this scholarship, you’re still Situ Jie, someone who has everything. But… but if I don’t get it, I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through the rest of the semester. My father broke his leg, and there’s not a single spare cent left at home. I…”

“But this isn’t a need-based scholarship!” Situ Jie cut her off before she could continue. For some reason, hearing all this left her deeply uncomfortable.

“Situ, I know you don’t like me. If I had any other option, I wouldn’t have swallowed my pride to come beg you like this.” As she said this, Tan Shaocheng’s face turned even paler, and even Situ Jie, who held no fondness for her, could sense the desperate resolve behind her forced composure, suppressing her own shame. Could life really grind a person down to this point?

Situ Jie was starting to feel confused. “The problem is, there’s no point telling me any of this. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”

“You can!” Tan Shaocheng cut in without hesitation, a tangled, indefinable mix of desperate hope and abject pleading crossing her face.

“What exactly are you asking for?” An alarm bell went off in Situ Jie’s mind; something felt off.

This time Tan Shaocheng opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first. Under Situ Jie’s suspicious gaze, she seemed to steel herself. “I want to ask you to withdraw your application.”

Situ Jie froze for a second, her first reaction a cold laugh. “Even if I actually agreed to that, I’m afraid it’s too late for that now.”

But it turned out Tan Shaocheng had already worked out a fallback. “Then… could you, during finals… you know, if you’d just let one of your exam scores come in a little… a little lower… I need a good class ranking, please…”

Situ Jie was speechless. Tan Shaocheng’s words came out in a jumbled rush, but she understood well enough. This year’s scholarship evaluation apparently weighed final exam rankings heavily — if Tan Shaocheng could overtake her in this round of results, her odds would improve considerably. Right then, Situ Jie genuinely wished she could rewind to a few minutes earlier and shake some sense into her past self, the one who’d still felt a flicker of sympathy for this woman. She’d never imagined anyone capable of making a request like this — just how thick would someone’s skin have to be, how low would their moral floor have to sit, to even voice something like that out loud? Sheer shock and disbelief left her momentarily unable to speak.

But Tan Shaocheng mistook her silence for consideration.

“I know it’s unreasonable to ask this of you. If you’ll just help me this once, I’ll do anything you want in return. You don’t like me because of how close I am with Yao Qiyun, don’t you? I can tell there’s something between you two… I promise you, there’s nothing between him and me but easy conversation. If you don’t like it, I’ll keep my distance from him from now on, so you don’t have to worry…”

If, up to that point, Situ Jie’s shock had been laced with pure disdain, then the longer she listened, the more she felt something closer to fear — the kind of chill that comes from confronting something utterly alien, someone for whom absolutely anything could be turned into a bargaining chip, a means to an end.

“Situ, will you say something, please?”

“You want to know what I have to say? I’m honestly ashamed to even be your competitor.” Situ Jie felt herself trembling as she spoke. She’d never thought of herself as particularly high-minded before, but standing in front of Tan Shaocheng, she suddenly felt like a moral giant. “I was right about you, then — you really are contemptible. Though I do feel sorry for you, I really do — the exam hasn’t even started and you’ve already decided you can’t win fair and square, you don’t even have the nerve to compete with me honestly. People like you, if you want to win — let me tell you — you never will!”

“No, please, listen to me.” Tan Shaocheng seemed to sense already that she’d botched this badly; facing Situ Jie, she probably hadn’t been confident to begin with — all she had was the desperation of someone with nothing left to lose.

Situ Jie recoiled from her in disgust, not paying attention, and backed straight into the side mirror of a car parked at the curb, the impact jarring painfully into her back. Her temper flared and she snapped, unsparing: “Keep talking and I’ll be sick.”

“Go ahead, be sick, on me, on my face, I don’t care, just don’t leave yet…” Tears streaming down her face, Tan Shaocheng managed to block Situ Jie’s path. “I’d love to have your kind of backbone too, but can I? I can’t even get enough to eat. You talk about fair competition, Situ Jie — there’s never been anything fair. While you were off at English tutoring as a kid, I was working the fields at home. Even now, while you sit comfortably studying, where am I? Riding my bike an hour and a half each way to tutor for money. I’ve got debts I’ll never pay off — mine, my family’s. My father’s foot is practically rotting and all we can do is wrap it in herbal medicine. That’s right — no money means it just rots. Some people are born like sweet potatoes left to rot in the dirt! But I don’t want that. I have to claw my way up out of the ground. I envy you — no, I’m jealous of you, so what if I am? Not everyone gets born with everything the way you did, and even then it’s not enough for you, you want everything. I wasn’t born with your luck, so all I can do is become someone you look down on. Please, help me — treat it as charity if you want, I don’t care!”

“I don’t want to hear this. Nothing you say is going to change anything.” Under her desperate pleading, Situ Jie’s head was splitting, her nerves stretched to the breaking point, one hand braced against the car door behind her. Just then, both of them heard two sharp coughs from inside the car. The car had been parked there a while; through the tinted windows, nothing inside was visible, so much so that both of them had assumed it was empty.

Tan Shaocheng went instantly silent, the last trace of color draining from her face. She staggered back two steps and, without another word, turned and walked away.

Situ Jie, startled too, snatched her hand back. Just then the window rolled down a few inches, and the person in the driver’s seat gave her a faint smile.

Tan Shaocheng had clearly had sharper instincts than her — this was the reserved parking spot for the department office, and the person sitting in the car was no stranger.

Situ Jie could only manage an awkward, strained laugh. “…Oh. Hello, Professor Zou.”