If it weren’t for the glowing game interface still hovering on her phone, Xia Zhen would have surely thought she was suffering from a midnight hallucination. She tried to exit the app, and this time, the software complied. A pink, heart-shaped icon had taken up permanent residence among her apps.
Curiosity piqued, she tapped the heart and was transported back to that bleak, windowless room.
The boy was still curled into a ball, his posture a defensive fortress against the world. But this time, he tilted his head just enough for a few strands of hair to fall away, revealing eyes that were startlingly clear and light-colored. They were beautiful, yet hidden in a gloom so profound that no light could reach them.
If only there were a lamp…
Xia Zhen thought of the boy she had encountered earlier that night, bathed in the ethereal dance of moonlight and streetlamps. She reached out and gently brushed the boy on the screen with her fingertip. He stared blankly into the void, his gaze empty and unfocused.
“If only I could light a lamp for you someday,” Xia Zhen murmured, a pang of melancholy striking her heart. “My poor, little Snow White.”
In the depths of the night, when the world was swaddled in silence, the boy on the narrow cot stirred. A soft, rhythmic rubbing against his arm pulled him from the edge of sleep. He opened his eyes to find the little white cat nuzzling him. They were a pair of snowy creatures, perhaps that was why the cat didn’t seem to find him repulsive.
The window had been shattered for a long time with a jagged tooth in the wall that no one bothered to fix—along with the biting night wind seeped in like a ghost in the room.
Through some miracle of his restless sleep, the exquisite blanket had remained draped over him. He sat up, his scarred hands trembling slightly as he pulled a corner of the plush fabric over the cat. He held the animal close, stroking it softly, though he couldn’t tell if he was seeking comfort from the cat’s fur or the blanket’s silken touch.
In the dim light, the fresh scars on his arms were vivid—angry red marks made more striking by the porcelain paleness of his skin. He didn’t look at them; he was used to the map of pain on his body. Instead, by the silver moonlight streaming through the glassless frame, he traced the patterns on the blanket, blinking in confusion.
How strange. It didn’t feel cold tonight. Was he finally losing his mind?
-------------------------Sheng Yi Middle School was the crown jewel of schools in Qiong City—an elite institution where “rich” wasn’t enough; you had to be “old money” or “titan of industry” wealthy to walk its halls as a student.
On this day the ever-energetic Tang Susu arrived at school chatting and laughing with her hard-won circle of friends, only to be met with a wall of silence. She froze at the classroom door, the weight of dozens of gazes pinning her in place. She checked her reflection in the glass:her blazer was crisp, her plaid skirt straight—she was wearing the standard uniform to the tee. Everything seemed perfect to her except for these gazes.
“Why is everyone staring at me?” Tang Susu whispered to her friend, Yue Xiaoyue.
“The ‘School Bully’ [(Xiao Ba / 校霸): A common C-drama trope referring to the rebellious, wealthy, and often handsome ‘king’ of the school who rules through intimidation or charisma] invited you to dance at Song family banquet! Of course they’re staring at you because of it!”
School bully? Tang Susu memory flashed back to the banquet night. She knew the boy she danced with was named Song Heng, and that he was devastatingly handsome, but she hadn’t realized he was a legend of the school. It was said he rarely graced a classroom with his presence; in fact, the seat at the very back had remained a dusty mystery since she’d arrived.
She felt a sudden urge to cry. She had wanted a quiet, invisible high school life, but one dance with Song Heng had painted a target on her back.
Suddenly, the ambient chatter died out completely as the air in the room grew heavy. Yue Xiaoyue scrambled to the side, her eyes wide with fear. Tang Susu turned stiffly and found herself looking up into a flawless, icy face.
“Were you waiting for me at the door?” Song Heng asked, his voice a calm, low vibration.
“N-no! Of course not!” Tang Susu stammered, her face erupting in a brilliant crimson. She clutched her backpack straps and scurried to her desk, head bowed low.
To the shock of the onlookers, Song Heng didn’t explode in anger at her tone. Instead, he simply followed her inside with an expression of bored indifference. The classroom exploded into hushed, frantic whispers.
“Did the sun rise in the west today? Since when is he so patient?”
“He’s actually on time for class!”
“Is the rumor true? Does he have a crush on the ‘Transfer Student’ [(Zhuanxue sheng / 转学生): Often a trope for the ‘commoner’ girl who enters an elite world]?”
“But what about the ‘School Beauty’ [(Xiao Hua / 校花): Literally ‘School Flower,’ the most beautiful and popular girl in the grade]?”
The wealthy heirs of Sheng Yi weren’t much for academics, but they were Olympic-level gossipers.
Tang Susu buried her face in her books, dying of shame. When the bell rang for ‘Morning Self-Study’ [(Zao Zixi / 早自习): A standard period in Chinese schools for quiet, independent study before lessons begin], she noticed the seat next to her was still empty. It was her cousin Xia Zhen’s spot. Her grandfather had pulled strings to seat them together, hoping Xia Zhen’s poise would rub off on her.
When the ‘Homeroom Teacher’ [(Ban Zhuren / 班主任): The teacher in charge of a specific class’s welfare and discipline] stepped onto the podium. A student immediately raised their hand. “Teacher, where is Xia Zhen?”
The girls in the group chat had already been betting that Xia Zhen was home crying her eyes out over the banquet snub.
The teacher adjusted her glasses and said . “Xia Zhen has transferred schools.”
Transferred?
The class collectively pivoted to look at the boy in the back. Song Heng was leaning lazily against his chair, twirling a pen with practiced ease. At the mention of the transfer, his fingers hitched. The pen stopped mid-spin.
Meanwhile, across the city at No. 1 High School—the legendary fortress of academic excellence—the atmosphere was vastly different. Here morning study was a sacred, silent ritual.
A young teacher stood at the podium with a bright smile. “Class, we have a new student joining us today.”
Heads rose from stacks of practice exams. Transferring into the top class of the city’s best public school during the high-stakes ‘Senior Year’ [(Gao San / 高三): The final, most stressful year of high school leading up to the Gaokao] was nearly unheard of.
“Come in,” the teacher beckoned.
A girl stepped into the room. She wore a high ponytail with softly curled ends, her face radiant and sun-kissed. When she smiled, her eyes sparkled like captured starlight. With snow-white skin, delicate features, and long, graceful legs peeking out from her skirt, she was a visual shock to the students present.
“My God, she’s stunning,” someone whispered.
“I must have saved a galaxy in my past life to deserve this classmate!”
“It’s like being hit by a thousand volts!”
The room buzzed with a sudden, electric energy, but the excitement didn’t reach the far corner.
A boy in a wheelchair sat in the shadows, his eyes never wavering from the book in his lap. He remained a statue until a voice rang out from the podium—clear, melodic, and strangely familiar.
“Hello everyone, my name is Xia Zhen. I hope we can get along well.”
The boy’s hand, resting on the edge of his book, stiffened. He looked up, and his light-colored eyes collided with the girl’s beaming smile.
Amidst a thunderous wave of applause, she saw him. Out of a room full of the city’s brightest minds, she had locked onto him instantly—the most insignificant speck of dust, tucked away in the dark.
The boy looked down immediately, his fingers numbly turning a page.
“Now,” the teacher scanned the room, “where should you sit…”
“Teacher, may I choose my own seat?” Xia Zhen asked.
“Of course. Where would you like to go?”
“There.”
The room went deathly silent.
And this very time the boy felt the prickle of dozens of eyes on him. He had spent his life perfecting the art of being invisible; so this sudden spotlight was a physical weight. He raised his eyes one more time. Through a solitary shaft of gold sunlight dancing with dust motes, he saw her.
Her finger was pointed directly at him.Ms. Wen, the homeroom teacher of Class 1, was young—only three years into her career. She was the type of teacher who preferred being a friend to her students, but there was one riddle she could never solve: Lu Jin.
Tucked away in the furthest corner of the room, Lu Jin was a ghost in a tracksuit. He was pathologically withdrawn, a boy who treated group activities like a contagion and kept a cold, measured distance from everyone. Ms. Wen had tried every trick in the pedagogical book to draw him out, but his armor was impenetrable. His aura of “Leave Me Alone” was so potent that the seat beside him had become a No Man’s Land.
Ms. Wen hesitated. She knew Lu Jin possessed a fragile, jagged kind of self-esteem; he loathed being the center of attention. “Actually, Xia Zhen,” she said softly, “there are plenty of other seats. You might want to reconsider.”
Xia Zhen’s smile didn’t waver. Her eyes crinkled into beautiful crescents. “No need, Teacher. The view from here is lovely. I’m set on it.”
The class collectively wondered if she needed glasses. What view? It was the darkest part at the corner—the place where the school’s shadows went to hide, where the sun’s rays usually died before reaching the floor.
Ms. Wen looked at the pale boy, then back at Xia Zhen’s radiant face. On a strange, hopeful impulse, she asked, “Lu Jin, Xia Zhen would like to be your deskmate [(Tongzhuo / 同桌): A significant relationship in Chinese schools, often implying a close bond or shared fate throughout the year]. Is that alright with you?”
The room held its breath. Ms. Wen braced for an awkward rejection that would leave the new girl humiliated.
Sure enough, Lu Jin’s lips barely moved. His voice was a thin shard of ice. “No.”
He didn’t look up. He simply turned another page, his focus retreating back into the safety of his book. The boys in the class bristled. This was a goddess! Unlike the “Tigresses” [(Mu laohu / 母老虎): Slang for fierce, scary, or bossy women] they usually dealt with, she was pure sunlight—and Lu Jin had just slammed the door in her face. If it were them, they’d be polishing the desk with their own sleeves.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the boy’s desk.
“Lu Jin,” a voice sang out.
The boy’s pale fingers caught on the edge of the paper. He looked up, his expression a mask of indifference. He wasn’t classically “Idol-handsome” like Song Heng; his face was hard, his features delicate but frozen.
He was drowning in the standard “Sack-like Uniform” [(Mianyuanfu / 面麻服): The ubiquitous, oversized tracksuits used as school uniforms in China, often criticized for being unflattering]. The blue-and-white fabric hung off his slight frame, making him look even more fragile.
Xia Zhen had seen the best the socialite world had to offer, but this boy struck a chord deep within her. He lacked the rowdy, “Sun-drenched” energy of a teenager. With his white hair and translucent skin, he looked like a prince from a kingdom of ice.
Snow White, she thought again. She leaned in and asked softly, “May I sit here?”
The classroom was a vacuum of silence. She spoke to him with such effortless normalcy, completely ignoring his “abnormal” appearance.
Lu Jin’s gaze dropped back to his book. His wall was still up, but a brick had shifted. “Whatever,” he muttered.
Two words. No emotion. But for Class 1, it was a seismic event.
“Teacher, I’ll sit here,” Xia Zhen announced.
Ms. Wen blinked, stunned. “Oh… alright then.”
Xia Zhen settled in, ignoring the curious burning stares of her new classmates. As she began unpacking her station, a pen escaped her grip, rolling across the “38-Line” [(Sanshiba xian / 三八线): A slang term for the invisible or drawn ‘border’ between deskmates, named after the 38th parallel] and heading for the floor.
A pale hand darted out, catching it just before it plummeted.
He didn’t look at her as he held the pen out. It was a mechanical, almost unconscious gesture.
Xia Zhen took the pen, her fingers nearly brushing his. “Thank you,” she smiled.
He withdrew his hand instantly. Xia Zhen caught a glimpse of his fingers—slender, pale, with elegantly defined knuckles. “Your hands are beautiful, too,” she added truthfully.
Lu Jin’s fingers trembled against the paper.
The students in the row in front of them were paralyzed.
“Wow, the new girl is a ‘Straight-Baller’ [(Zhi qiu / 直球): A sports metaphor used in Chinese dating slang for someone who is incredibly blunt and direct with their flirting or compliments].”
“Too bad Lu Jin is a ‘Wood-Block’ [(Mu tou / 木头): Slang for someone who is emotionally unresponsive or dense].”
By the end of the morning, the “Dark Corner” felt inexplicably alive. During the break, a swarm of students descended on Xia Zhen. They grilled her about her life, her skincare, and her hair. When she mentioned she had transferred from the elite Sheng Yi Middle School, the shock was palpable.
“Sheng Yi? That’s where the ‘Prince and Princess’ types go!”
“My uncle is a CEO and he couldn’t even buy my cousin a seat there!”
“Wait… you’re still wearing the Sheng Yi uniform, aren’t you?”
Xia Zhen nodded, glancing at her tailored blazer. “My No. 1 uniform hasn’t arrived yet.”
“But why leave a palace for… this?” someone asked, gesturing to their utilitarian classroom.
Xia Zhen’s gaze drifted to the boy beside her.
As the sun climbed, a stray beam finally fought its way into the corner, painting the boy’s hand in a rich, golden hue. It was a beautiful sight, but the light was an enemy to his sensitive skin—the very reason he sought the dark.
Xia Zhen smiled at her classmates, but her words felt like they were meant only for him. “I told you… the view here is just too good to pass up.”
Beside her, Lu Jin’s fingers flinched, as if the girl’s words had burned him more than the sun ever could.