Settled in the back of the car, Xia Zhen looked down at her phone. Her eyes snagged on a pink app icon, and on a whim, she tapped it.
The game interface flickered to life, revealing the same desolate, dark room. A child was curled in the corner, motionless—head buried in his knees, his messy white hair obscuring his face. He seemed to be asleep. It was only then that Xia Zhen noticed a faint, jagged scratch on the boy’s wrist where his sleeve had hitched up.
A sudden, sharp pang of sadness tightened her chest.
In the glass bottle at the top right of the screen, a white, star-shaped candy had appeared. It seemed that in this world, “good deeds” were rewarded with sweets. With an eager swipe, Xia Zhen “fed” the candy to the boy. He didn’t wake, but as the light of the candy faded, the scratch on his wrist visibly began to knit together.
She reached out and gently traced the boy’s digital figure with her fingertip. “What’s the matter with you, little guy?” she murmured to herself.
“Miss, how was the new school today?” Uncle Zhao asked from the driver’s seat. He was still puzzled by the boss’s midnight phone call—the sudden, frantic demand to transfer his daughter and the repeated warnings to watch her “emotional state” [情绪价值 Qíngxù jiàzhí: A popular Chinese term referring to one’s emotional well-being and the support they provide others].
In Uncle Zhao’s eyes, Xia Zhen was the most resilient person alive. Even after being publicly slighted by her crush at a high-society banquet [名媛晚宴 Míngyuàn wǎnyàn: A gala for socialites and the wealthy elite], she had simply taken a walk by the river and returned her usual, sunny self.
“The school is great,” Xia Zhen smiled. “And my classmates are wonderful.”
“That’s good to hear.” While idling at a red light, Uncle Zhao added, “The Boss has picked out a few properties nearby. He’s just waiting for you to choose the one you like best.”
Although No. 1 Middle School was a prestigious public school, but it was far from the Xia family villa. Boarding at the school was out of the question; Xia Zhen had never so much as washed a pair of socks in her life, and her father, Xia Yu, couldn’t bear the thought of her “roughing it” in a dormitory. The solution was simple: buy a “School District House” [学区房 Xuéqū fáng: Highly expensive apartments purchased solely to grant children access to elite nearby schools] so she could live comfortably with a nanny during the week.
“Uncle Zhao, can we go see them now?” Xia Zhen’s eyes lit up.
“But dinner…”
“It’s fine! I’ll just grab a bite at a convenience store [便利店 Biànlì diàn].”
Xia Zhen was a “woman of action.” After a quick text to her busy father, Uncle Zhao pulled into a familiar-looking residential complex.
“Have we been here before?” she asked.
“The boy you helped the other day lives in this neighborhood,” Uncle Zhao noted. Though these apartments were a drop in the bucket for the Xia family, they were the pinnacle of luxury for most families striving for a good education.
Inside one of those brightly lit apartments, the atmosphere was thick with resentment.
Lu Huiming poked at his dinner, his brow furrowed in a permanent scowl. “Why are we having stir-fried pork liver [熘肝尖 Liū gān jiān: A traditional dish believed to ‘replenish’ the blood, often cooked for health benefits] again?”
“Doesn’t Xiao Ci like it?” Hao Hui snapped back.
“Xiao Ci isn’t coming home for dinner tonight.”
“How was I supposed to know? He only told me after I’d finished cooking! Do you want me to throw it out? We aren’t made of money.”
To get their “golden son,” Lu Ci, into a top school, the couple had drained their life savings for the down payment on this tiny apartment. They were frugal to a fault with themselves, saving every scrap of warmth and wealth for Lu Ci.
In the corner, the weak, rhythmic meowing of a kitten broke the silence.
Lu Huiming slammed his bowl onto the table. “Lu Jin! If you can’t shut that thing up, throw it out! It’s driving me crazy!”
“Don’t get your blood pressure up,” Hao Hui said, though her eyes were cold.
“I told you he couldn’t stay,” Lu Huiming spat, gesturing toward the closed door. “Does he even look like a human being? I was demoted the year he was born. Because of him, we’ve been the laughingstock of the neighborhood for years. He’s a ‘jinx’ [扫把星 Sàobǎxīng: Literally ‘broom star,’ a Chinese term for someone who brings bad luck to their family].”
Hao Hui didn’t disagree. This child was the “stain” on her perfect life also.
The door creaked open, and Lu Jin pushed his wheelchair out. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, his snowy hair and translucent skin looked almost ethereal—and to his parents, utterly glaring. He looked at them with a hollow, frozen indifference.
“Where are you going?” Hao Hui asked, her voice softening only out of a sense of obligation.
Lu Jin cradled a tiny white kitten wrapped in a threadbare blanket. “I’ll come back when it stops crying.”
“You—” Lu Huiming started.
“I know,” Lu Jin interrupted, his voice flat. “If the neighbors ask, I’ll say I’m just out for air. I won’t tell them I was kicked out. I won’t embarrass you.”
He opened the door and rolled into the hall. Behind him, he heard his father slam his chopsticks down. “Look at that attitude! That cat is just as cursed as he is!”
The heavy door clicked shut, muffling the venom. The motion-sensor lights [感应灯 Gǎnyìng dēng: Common in Chinese apartment hallways, they turn on when they hear a sound or detect movement] flickered on with a soft click.
He moved to the hallway window, where a small patch of the night sky was visible. The kitten in his arms meowed piteously—it was starving. He knew his parents would never spare a drop of milk for a “stray.”
So Lu Jin reached into his pocket. He knew sugar wasn’t good for cats, but it was the only thing he had in the world. He pulled out the pink-packaged peach toast Xia Zhen had given him, tore a small piece of the soft bread, and offered it to the kitten.
The kitten sniffed it, then began to nibble hungrily. Lu Jin watched, a rare, fragile smile ghosting across his lips as the tiny creature licked his fingers.
“I’ll buy you real food soon,” he whispered. “I promise.”
“Miss?”
The sudden voice of Uncle Zhao shattered the moment. Lu Jin’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, hunted wariness. He looked up and froze.
Standing there was Xia Zhen.
Her eyes fell on the pink bread in his hand—the gift she had given him, now being shared with a cat. Lu Jin felt a wave of hot, suffocating shame. The bread felt like a coal in his hand. He lowered his head, his pale lips trembling slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Xia Zhen blinked. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I… I fed the gift you gave me to Xiaobai [小白: A common pet name meaning ‘Little White’].”
Xia Zhen didn’t scold him. Instead, she let out a bright, melodic peal of laughter.
When she laughed, her eyes sparkled like stars, her joy completely unshielded. “Lu Jin,” she beamed, “you are so cute!”
“Miss!” Uncle Zhao hissed, embarrassed by her bluntness.
Xia Zhen immediately clasped her hands together, looking like a pleading angel. “Uncle Zhao, please don’t tell my dad I said that!”
Uncle Zhao rubbed his temples. Neither of them seemed to notice the boy by the window, whose ears had turned a vivid, burning crimson against his snow-white hair.Xia Zhen’s presence was like a shooting star—blazing, sudden, and leaving everyone breathless before she vanished into the night. She had left behind that haunting word, “cute,” and a casual goodbye, leaving Lu Jin to toss and turn in a sleepless fever.
He arrived at school earlier than usual. The classroom was a hollow shell, occupied only by the students on duty [值日生 Zhírì shēng: Students assigned to clean the chalkboard, sweep, and take out trash]. Lu Jin didn’t offer a greeting, and they, in turn, treated him like a piece of furniture. He moved with a practiced, ghost-like silence, unfolding his books as if trying to merge with the shadows.
But the world wouldn’t let him be a ghost anymore. Not since the school’s most radiant “sun” had chosen to sit in his dark corner.
“Lu Jin!” The boy sweeping his row leaned in, his voice thick with gossip. “So, what’s the deal with the new girl?”
Even the strangers were suddenly taking the initiative to speak to him. Lu Jin didn’t look up from his page, his voice cutting like a shard of ice. “There is no deal.”
“Seriously? You don’t like sitting with her?”
“No.”
“Why not?” The boy couldn’t wrap his head around it. The class group chat [班群 Bān qún: Usually a WeChat or QQ group where students gossip and teachers post announcements] had been exploding all night with boys lamenting their luck and placing bets on how long the “Princess” could endure sitting next to the “Cripple.”
Lu Jin’s long, pale eyelashes flickered. “She talks too much.”
“Too much?” the boy repeated, confused. Then, his face went pale as he spotted a figure in the doorway. “Xia… Xia Zhen…”
Lu Jin’s fingers clamped onto his book. As he looked up, his gaze collided with hers. His blood seemed to turn to slush.
Xia Zhen was standing there, her eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. She didn’t say a word, but her silent fury was louder than any shout. The student on duty practically tripped over his broom to flee the blast zone.
Thud.
Xia Zhen’s heavy schoolbag slammed onto the desk. She sat down, her movements sharp and deliberate. Every book she pulled out was greeted with a violent smack against the wood. She was a silent storm.
As the room filled, the Math Rep whispered to the Chinese Rep, “What’s up with the new girl?”
“She’s fuming,” the Chinese Rep whispered back.
“Do girls always get angry for no reason?”
The Chinese Rep rolled her eyes. “You clearly don’t understand the ‘Heart of a Needle’ [女人心，海底针 Nǚrén xīn, hǎidǐ zhēn: A proverb meaning a woman’s heart is as hard to find as a needle at the bottom of the sea].”
Even morning self-study [早自习 Zǎo zìxí: A mandatory period before classes for quiet reading or memorization] passed in a suffocating chill. Xia Zhen didn’t utter a single syllable throughout.
“Is Lu Jin out of favor already?” someone snickered.
“Good. Maybe it’s my turn to be the ‘Consort’ [上位 Shàngwèi: Slang derived from palace dramas, meaning to rise in rank or replace a favorite].”
Suddenly, a Chinese textbook was slid into Xia Zhen’s line of sight.
“I took notes,” Lu Jin murmured. He remembered her “bribe” from the day before—the excuse that she needed his help to be a good student.
Xia Zhen let out a sharp, derisive snort. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she propped her chin on her hands and stared into the distance, treating his book like invisible dust. Lu Jin’s lips pressed into a thin, pained line.
The absurdity peaked during Biology. When the teacher called for partner discussions, Xia Zhen finally “spoke.” She ripped a page from her notebook, scribbled a line in bold, aggressive ink, and shoved it at him:
[I think this experiment will fail because the control group is problematic.]
Lu Jin looked at her. She blinked her large, beautiful eyes at him—determined to honor his complaint that she “talked too much” by remaining deathly silent.
“Xia Zhen,” he called softly.
She tilted her head, her ponytail swaying like a pendulum, but she wouldn’t even grant him the sound of his own name.
A heavy, indescribable gloom settled in Lu Jin’s chest. He had wanted peace; he had complained about her noise. But now that the silence had returned, it felt like he was drowning in it.
During the break for Physical Education, the Chinese Rep circled back to Lu Jin’s desk. “Look, man, just give a girl a little gift. Even a wildflower from the curb will work.”
“Why bother giving him tips?” the Math Rep asked as they walked away.
The Chinese Rep sighed. “If I don’t give that Straight Man [直男 Zhínán: Used here as slang for a man who is socially oblivious or lacks romantic ‘clues’] a hint, he’ll be single for the rest of his life.”
Lu Jin sat alone as his classmates streamed toward the playground after the advise. He watched them through the glass—a sea of uniforms, laughter, and easy movements. A world he wasn’t invited to join.
The PE class ended with the dreaded 800-meter run. To everyone’s shock, Xia Zhen finished first, her stamina betraying her “delicate” appearance. Not wanting to stay with the crowd, she wandered onto a secluded, tree-lined path.
There, she saw a familiar silhouette.
Wasn’t he supposed to be too weak for the sun? Why was he out here?
Lu Jin saw her and panicked. His hands flew behind his back, his calm eyes fracturing with anxiety. Xia Zhen marched up to him, trying to peek behind his chair, but he blocked her view.
She reached into her pocket for her pen and paper to continue their “silent” war, but Lu Jin’s courage finally broke. His hand trembled as it extended from behind his back and with it a burst of bright yellow hit her eyes.
It was a common wildflower but Lu Jin’s knuckles were white from the force of his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, the words catching in his throat.
The sun was brutal today. For a normal person, the light was a blessing; for him, it was a slow burn. His wrists were already mapped with angry red sunburns, and his face was flushed a dangerous, feverish hue.
Xia Zhen didn’t answer.
Lu Jin’s eyes dimmed. He began to pull his hand back, the flower drooping as his hope withered.
Suddenly, a darkness fell over him. Xia Zhen had draped her school jacket over his head, shielding him from the glare.
With her porcelain skin, raven hair, and a smile that could restart a heart, she leaned down, adjusted the sleeves of the jacket around his face and met his gaze.
“I forgive you,” she whispered, taking the flower.
The scent of her was clean, floral, and warm which flooded the small tent formed by the jacket. Lu Jin gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his breath hitching. He felt like he was caught in a tide, bobbing between oxygen and the deep blue sea.
Overwhelmed, his defenses finally crumbled. He reached up and pulled the jacket lower, covering his eyes completely, hiding his vulnerability from her piercing gaze. Only his mouth was visible, his thin lips trembling.
“Please…” his voice was a broken plea. “Don’t play with me like this anymore.”
It wasn’t a rebuke; it was a confession of how easily she could destroy him.
Xia Zhen didn’t pull away. Instead, she lifted the edge of the coat and slipped her own head inside the makeshift tent.
In the dim, shared shade, their faces were inches apart. Lu Jin stopped breathing. He had never seen anyone so close, so vivid. She looked like something out of a fairy tale.
She leaned in, her voice a low, honeyed seduction [撩 Liáo: To flirt or entice]. “Tell me, Lu Jin… I haven’t even touched you yet. How exactly am I playing with you?”