The sound of a blow echoed down the hallway before Zhiyu even understood what was happening. The metallic echo against the walls made him shudder, as if the entire building had fallen silent just to amplify that brutal impact.
When he reached the spot, the scene unfolded before him with a rawness that seemed straight out of a fever dream: Zhou Mingkai was already on top of another student, a junior boy known for his arrogance and for bragging about being untouchable thanks to the gang he always hung out with. Now, that same boy was on the floor, his face disfigured and covered in blood, moaning raggedly as he tried unsuccessfully to protect himself.
Mingkai held him by the collar of his shirt, punching him again and again with his open knuckles, already stained red. Each punch was like a hammer blow to the skin, a wet crack that made the murmurs of the students multiply like an uncontrolled swarm. Some shouted for him to stop, others recoiled in terror, and there were those who raised their cell phones, recording as if it were a show and not a lynching.
Zhiyu felt his blood run cold. He wanted to move, to say something, but the invisible weight that always kept him paralyzed near Mingkai pinned him to the ground.
"Enough!" The principal's voice boomed like thunder, cutting through the air with unquestionable authority.
Immediately, two teachers rushed to push the students away. The murmuring stopped abruptly, as if someone had pulled the plug on the world.
Mingkai raised his head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving beneath his uniform stained with someone else's blood. Yet there was no trace of fear or regret on his face. His black eyes shone with an eerie calm, a serenity that was far more disturbing than his unleashed violence.
"My office. Now."
The principal's order brooked no argument.
In the office, the atmosphere was thick, heavy with the metallic smell of blood and disinfectant from the nearby infirmary. The other student was being treated by the nurse, his face swollen and his lips split. Mingkai, meanwhile, sat in a chair as if he were taking a break between classes: legs spread, arms loose, back leaning back with an air of natural insolence.
What baffled Zhiyu was that he himself was also there, as if he had been dragged into the eye of the storm against his will. The principal looked at him sternly.
"Lin Zhiyu," he said, adjusting his glasses. "Zhou Mingkai claims you were present during the altercation. Is that true?"
Zhiyu swallowed hard. His heart was pounding violently, and yet, when he looked up, the first thing he saw were Mingkai's eyes. A faint smile curved the corners of his lips. That look wasn't asking for anything; it was commanding.
"I..." Zhiyu took a deep breath, summoning courage he didn't feel. "Yes, I saw it."
The principal's brow furrowed, deepening the wrinkles on his face.
"Then can you confirm who started the fight?"
That question fell like a dead weight on Zhiyu's chest. He knew that if he answered truthfully, Mingkai would never forgive him. And if he lied... he would carry a guilt that would devour him from within. Both options were chains, and neither offered him an escape.
His gaze returned to Mingkai, searching for a loophole, some sign. A slight arch of the eyebrow was enough to seal his answer.
"It was the other boy." The words tore at his tongue like knives. He felt that each syllable stained him more. "Mingkai was only defending himself."
The silence that followed was unbearable. The principal looked at him as if he could read his soul, as if he knew he was lying. But in the end, he just sighed and nodded, resigned, as if that outcome had been written from the beginning.
Mingkai settled into his chair, stretching his legs indifferently, and said in a tone that bordered on boredom:
"My parents will be very interested to hear what happened. I'm sure they'll make a generous donation to the school... to reinforce security."
The director cleared his throat, uncomfortable. No one replied.
"You may go."
As he crossed the doorway, Zhiyu felt the cool air of the hallway hit him like a slap in the face. He had barely stepped outside when he heard Mingkai's dry laughter, a laugh that was not at all relieved, but full of contempt.
"Old hypocrite," he spat, staring at the closed door of the director's office. "I bet he's already calculating how many zeros will be on the check."
Zhiyu lowered his head and walked quickly. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and that shadow that seemed to absorb everything around it. But Mingkai's strides were longer, more determined. In seconds, he caught up to him, throwing a heavy arm around his shoulders as if they were lifelong friends.
"Good job in there." His voice was soft, too soft for the context, which made it even more unsettling. "You did well."
Zhiyu tensed his muscles under that contact. The heat of the arm burned him, a reminder of the strength he had seen minutes before.
"I didn't do it for you," he whispered, barely audible.
"Of course you did." Mingkai tilted his head, bringing his lips close to his ear. The whisper brushed Zhiyu's skin like a forbidden secret. "And that's why I'm going to leave you alone today. Consider it a reward."
With his other hand, he gently tousled his hair, a strange, almost tender gesture, as if two irreconcilable people coexisted within him: the relentless executioner and the boy capable of smiling sweetly.
Zhiyu looked at him, confused, caught up in that contradiction. He didn't know whether to hate him or... give in to that dark fascination that was pulling him in irrevocably.
Mingkai gave him a broad, perfect smile, the kind that could fool anyone. Anyone except him.
"See you later."
And with the same ease with which he had thrown punches minutes before, he walked away toward the courtyard. His friends were waiting for him, laughing, cigarettes in hand. Mingkai lit his, exhaling the smoke with insulting calm, as if what had happened had been nothing more than a pastime.
Zhiyu watched him from behind, a whirlwind of emotions pounding in his chest: fear, anger, confusion... and that forbidden attraction he refused to name.
It was like watching a fire from too close. He knew it was going to burn him. But he couldn't look away.