Jian woke to sunlight already slicing across the far wall of his bedroom, bright and accusing. The digital clock blinked 7:42 a.m.—twenty-seven minutes past his usual alarm. His phone lay face-down on the nightstand, screen dark; it had buzzed itself into silence sometime before dawn.
He sat up too fast. The room tilted once, head throbbing with the dull ache of too little sleep and too much memory. His mouth tasted like stale soy milk and something metallic he couldn't place. For a single disorienting second everything felt wrong—off-kilter, as though the night had crawled inside his skull and refused to leave.
Then the images detonated quietly behind his eyes:
Narrow alley shadows. A sharp slap echoing off brick. Blood blooming at the corner of a mouth. A low, controlled voice slicing through the cold: "Now listen clearly. I don't like repeating myself. But for you… I'll make an exception."
Jian shook his head hard, as if the motion could scatter the replay like dust.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
He lunged for his uniform hanging on the chair, yanked on the shirt without buttoning it properly, grabbed his bag, and bolted downstairs. Toothbrush in mouth, he scorched his tongue on the first scalding sip of soy milk from the pot. Nearly tripped on the third step from the bottom. Burst out the front door still tying his shoelaces.
He ran the last block to school, lungs burning, heart hammering—but the frantic rhythm in his chest had nothing to do with sprinting. It was something else entirely. Someone else.
The school gate was already crowded when he slipped through. Morning light filtered through the banyan trees in golden shafts, catching dust motes and the edges of students' scarves. Clusters formed everywhere: girls re-tying hair ribbons near the notice board, boys kicking loose pebbles in lazy arcs, someone's too-loud laugh bouncing off the courtyard walls.
Jian spotted his usual group lounging on the benches beneath the oldest banyan. They were deep in morning gossip, voices tumbling over each other.
"—heard he got detention again for sleeping in math—""—did you even finish that stupid worksheet? I left half blank—""—Coach is gonna kill us today, he's in one of those moods—"
Jian slid onto the bench edge, forcing his breathing to even out. He pitched his voice casual.
"Morning."
Two heads turned.
"Yo, Jian! You're actually late—what happened, oversleep?"
"Stayed up too late again?" another teased, grinning. "Out with Yanyan? You two are glued together lately."
Jian rolled his eyes, shoved the guy's shoulder with practiced ease—the same easy motion he'd done a thousand times. It felt automatic, normal. A perfect mask over the storm still churning under his ribs.
But the question wouldn't stay buried.
He glanced toward the classroom windows on the second floor—curtains half-drawn, silhouettes moving behind glass—then looked away too quickly. Cleared his throat. Asked, too casually:
"Hey… did anyone see Wei today?"
The group stilled for half a second.
One eyebrow lifted. "Wei? You mean Cheng Wei? That quiet guy who sits by the window?"
"Yeah," Jian said, shrugging like it didn't matter. "Haven't seen him around this morning."
A shrug from across the bench. "Probably already inside. He's always here stupid early—studies in the empty classroom or something."
Another voice chimed in. "He barely talks to anyone anyway. Maybe he's in the library again."
A girl tilted her head. "Yesterday he left right after the bell too. Didn't wait for anybody. Just walked out alone."
Jian's spine stiffened.
Didn't wait for anybody. Walked out alone. Of course he did. Of course he hadn't noticed Jian standing frozen in the alley shadows with Yanyan clinging to his arm.
Someone nudged his elbow. "Why? You need him for something? Group project?"
Jian forced a short laugh. "Nah. Just asking."
But the truth sat heavy and unspoken: he wasn't asking for any practical reason. He wanted evidence. Proof that the boy who'd dismantled five older students without raising his voice was sitting in homeroom right now, doodling in margins like always. Proof that the alley version of Wei and the classroom version were the same person. Proof that last night hadn't cracked something open that couldn't be closed again.
The first bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Books thumped onto desks. Teacher Lin entered with her steel thermos and her perpetually tight ponytail, already launching into roll call before everyone was seated.
Wei's desk—the one in the back row beside the window—remained empty.
Jian tried not to stare at it. Tried not to flick his gaze to the sliding door every time footsteps echoed in the corridor. Tried not to imagine Wei limping, bruised, exhausted from whatever came after the fight.
Teacher Lin's chalk tapped the blackboard in steady rhythm. Students bent over notebooks. Jian stared at the blank page in front of him and saw nothing but the memory of blood on concrete.
His knee bounced under the desk. His fingers drummed an uneven pattern against his thigh. Every hallway sound made his head snap toward the door—then jerk away just as fast, cheeks burning with something like shame.
He told himself it wasn't worry. He told himself it wasn't obsession. He told himself he just wanted to make sure Wei hadn't gotten suspended, or hurt worse than he let on, or—
He told himself too many lies.
A soft knock at the door.
It slid open.
And there he was.
Wei stepped inside with the same quiet, unhurried posture he always carried—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, dark hair slightly mussed from the morning wind. His uniform was neat except for the collar he never quite bothered to fold properly. No visible bruises. No split lip. No shadow under his eyes.
He looked… normal. Utterly, infuriatingly ordinary. Too calm.
Jian's breath snagged in his throat.
Wei bowed slightly toward the front.
"Sorry, I'm late."
The voice was soft. Polite. Almost gentle. The same tone he used when answering roll call or handing in homework.
The class barely registered it—Wei was background noise most days—but Jian felt something sharp twist behind his sternum.
He searched Wei's face for evidence: a faint purple shadow along the jaw, a scab at the corner of the mouth, even a slight wince when he moved.
Nothing.
Wei walked down the aisle without hesitation. No limp. No stiffness. No protective hunch. He passed Jian's desk—close enough that Jian caught the faint scent of winter air and laundry detergent—and didn't glance sideways. Not even for a fraction of a second.
He sat. Pulled out a black pen. Opened his notebook to a fresh page.
As though the night before had never happened. As though the blood, the slaps, the cold threat had been erased like chalk from a board. As though Jian—standing ten meters away in the alley shadows—hadn't existed at all.
Teacher Lin resumed without comment. Chalk scratched. Pens moved. Whispers drifted under desks.
Jian stared at the back of Wei's head.
At the slight, even rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. At the neat line where hair met neck. At the calm curve of his ear.
And beneath it all, Jian saw the overlay: the same boy gripping a collar, palm cracking against bone, voice dropping to something lethal and low
Everything. Jian remembered everything.
But Wei?
Wei sat there behaving as if the violence had been a minor inconvenience—a spilled drink, a missed bus—already forgotten.
Jian's fingers tightened around his pen until the plastic creaked.
Who are you? What are you made of? How can you walk into morning looking untouched after something like that?
A cold, quiet realization settled into his chest like frost:
He wasn't simply watching Wei anymore.
He was studying him. Dissecting him. Trying to crack the code of a boy who could contain violence and calm in the same heartbeat, who could shed blood one night and wear perfect composure the next.
Trying to understand the person who had walked out of an alley storm and straight into ordinary daylight—without ever once looking back.