Chapter 24

Wen Fu didn't live in this area, and Fei Baolin had no impression of him before. Since the other had left heading toward the main street outside, he ran out that way too.

The buildings here were packed tight—residential blocks lined both sides of the road, most people already asleep, barely a light on in any of the apartments.

The rain had stopped. The street was empty. Only at the far end, under a streetlight, a dark silhouette was walking slowly forward.

Fei Baolin recognized the plastic bag of instant noodles in the other's hand. He was about to call out, then worried about disturbing the residents, so he just stepped forward to chase.

In a blink, that silhouette turned into a side alley on the right.

Fei Baolin let out a soft sigh and hurried forward.

Before stepping into the alley, he paused. It looked like a path leading to another main street—no streetlights, moonlight couldn't reach in, pitch black as could be.

Fei Baolin gripped the ten-yuan bill in his hand, turned on his phone flashlight, and slowly stepped into the dark.

His phone was old, the flashlight pretty weak—it lit up maybe two or three steps ahead at most.

Raindrops speckled his pure white sneakers. His feet picked their way around puddles inside the halo of light. Then, suddenly, a pair of canvas shoes appeared in his field of vision.

Fei Baolin figured the other had noticed the missing money and come back. He was about to raise the phone to light up the face in front of him when—out of nowhere—he got slammed head-on.

His collarbone throbbed with pain, and his phone went flying to the ground.

Fei Baolin let out a grunt. Before he could even see what was happening, the other shoved him aside with everything they had and bolted.

That shove was no joke. Fei Baolin's vision went white, he tumbled sideways, dropped to his knees by the flower bed at the corner, his chin catching right on the edge of the tile.

Something sharp pierced his skin, slicing a cut open. A rust smell drifted into Fei Baolin's nostrils.

He touched his chin on instinct. Big warm drops of liquid ran down his fingertips onto his hand. Now he couldn't tell if it was rust or blood.

Fei Baolin carefully pushed himself up using the flower bed, picked up his phone from the wet ground, wiped his chin with his School Uniform collar—and found the blood still wouldn't stop.

No way to return the money now. The other had clearly pegged him as some stalker pervert, deliberately led him into the alley, and launched this attack when he wasn't prepared.

What kind of person was this? Guard up that high.

Fei Baolin walked toward the alley's exit, stepping unevenly, his lower pants almost completely soaked through by the water on the ground.

No disinfectant at home. He'd have to make a hospital trip tonight.

Thinking this, Fei Baolin stopped for no real reason.

A second later, he turned around, raised his phone, walked back to the flower bed, found where he'd hit himself, and examined it carefully with the flashlight.

A rusty iron nail was stuck diagonally in the brick gap of the flower bed.

There were still spots of blood on the nail.

This was what had pierced his chin. Fei Baolin frowned slightly.

Looks like he'd need a tetanus shot too.

-

One in the morning. Fei Baolin was getting his wound treated in the ER.

The doctor finished the injection and was pressing gauze onto his chin: "Two stitches. Don't get it wet for a week, eat light, come back for the second tetanus shot a month after the stitches come out."

Fei Baolin listened quietly, head held high to make it easier for the doctor: "Okay, thanks, doc."

Left the hospital, got home—it was already 2 AM.

No one else at home. To save electricity, Fei Baolin habitually only turned on one dim yellow desk lamp. His jacket and pants, soaked from the fall, stuck to his body. He sat at his desk for a moment, looking down at the ten-yuan bill in his hand—tonight's freak accident had left him so exhausted he felt almost dazed.

He caught his breath, dragged himself to the bathroom to shower, threw the dirty clothes in the washing machine—and before the wash was even done, fell asleep leaning against the headboard.

Four hours later, his body clock dragged him awake. The desk lamp by the window was still on. Fei Baolin grabbed his phone in a rush and found it was dead. He plugged in the charger, waited two minutes, turned it on—6:10 on the dot, and the alarm went off right then.

He killed the alarm, rushed through washing up, hung the clothes to dry, boiled the last pack of noodles from the cabinet, ate, and headed out with his backpack.

The breakfast stalls at the School Gate were bustling.

Fei Baolin pulled a slip of paper from his bag and squeezed into a stall, following the notes on it:

"Auntie, one liang of burning noodles, two liang of ginger duck, packed separately."

"You got it."

After that one, Fei Baolin backed out and squeezed into the next stall.

"Auntie, one chicken-fried rice ball, add a crispy one, no cucumber."

"Sure!"

"Auntie, one hand-grabbed pancake, add sausage and fried egg."

"Coming right up."

"..."

After buying breakfast for four or five people, Fei Baolin took out a big bag he'd prepared, packed everything in, and tucked it into his backpack's inner pocket. The bag's weight jumped a whole level.

Good thing he was tall—the heavy bag didn't throw off his posture.

Fei Baolin usually carried his backpack on one shoulder, but with his straight back and long legs—one step of his equaled two of anyone else's—any rush job looked calm and orderly on him, always wrapping things up with apparent ease.

His unhurried pace, plus his standout looks, always made him pretty noticeable in a crowd.

The discipline department and security at the entrance had spotted him doing this from the start, but they basically turned a blind eye—as long as day students didn't brazenly carry breakfast in their hands, they looked the other way.

High schoolers don't have much fun. Craving a good breakfast is one of the few small joys in their hellish study life.

Strip away even that little right and it'd be downright inhumane.

Besides, the discipline people need to eat breakfast too.

At 6:55, most of the class had arrived.

Fei Baolin went up to the fifth floor, walked into Class 6 Classroom through the back door, and the moment he sat down, the regulars who'd asked him to bring breakfast during last night's study hall crowded around.

He opened his backpack, pulled out the bag, and sorted the breakfasts to hand to each eager person.

Su Haoran's two liang of ginger duck, Lu Yuqiu's one liang of burning noodles, Meng Donglin's hand-grabbed pancake... While he was distributing, Xie Yining at the desk in front leaned into his view: "Group leader, what happened to your chin?"

Su Haoran had already walked out to the balcony, but hearing this he turned back, leaned against the back door frame, holding his takeout box picking at noodles while chiming in: "Yeah, I wanted to ask the second you walked in—what's up with your chin? Wasn't it fine yesterday?"

Xie Yining bit into her rice ball and rolled her eyes at Su Haoran: "You wanted to ask the second he walked in? Then why didn't you?"

Su Haoran laughed sheepishly: "I was in a rush to eat the noodles, they'd get soggy otherwise."

If they hadn't mentioned it, Fei Baolin wouldn't have noticed—now that they did, the stitched spot throbbed dully again.

He touched the gauze: "Nothing. Rained yesterday, took a tumble on the way home."

"See, this is why I say long legs aren't a good thing," Su Haoran stuffed noodles in his mouth, slowly drifted to the balcony, eating as he talked, "unstable base, easy to fall when walking."

Xie Yining: "You're just jealous."

The group gathered on the balcony, ate breakfast noisily, then drifted back to their seats. People trickled in, and by about 7:10 the class quieted down for the first morning study session.

Nobody noticed that in the minute the morning study bell rang, a figure with a backpack slipped in through the back door and sat in the last row, in the empty seat just one aisle over from Fei Baolin.

Fei Baolin was reviewing the English vocabulary for the dictation in second period. In his peripheral vision, someone appeared in the seat that had been empty. He first thought it was homeroom teacher Gu Mingchun, but after a moment the other started rummaging through a backpack, putting books on the desk one by one. Fei Baolin glanced over instinctively—and the other happened to look his way at the same time, like they'd sensed it—

Those familiar eyes again.

Their gazes crossed in a blink. The other quietly looked away, like they'd never seen him.

Fei Baolin looked away too, figured he must have been mistaken.

After all, last night's person had been wrapped up tight. Even if those eyes were striking, plenty of people in the world have eyes—bound to run into a matching pair.

Until first period, language arts—the teacher and homeroom teacher Gu Mingchun stood at the podium and rapped the desk: "Everyone quiet down. We've got a transfer student in our class today, let's have them introduce themselves."

Over the course of morning study, plenty of people had already noticed the new face. Now that Gu Mingchun brought it up, everyone swiveled their eyes to the last row in unison.

Fei Baolin only then openly let his gaze drift over too.

The chatter stopped. That person stood up from their seat. The moment they spoke, Fei Baolin finally confirmed—this was last night's person.

"I'm Wen Fu."

That same voice—like someone casually plucking a guitar string, clear when it rang out.

Wen Fu.

Fei Baolin silently repeated the name in his head.

So his name was Wen Fu.

Fei Baolin studied Wen Fu's eyes. Right—few people had eyes that beautiful.

Only now did he take in Wen Fu's looks.

Wen Fu's skin had a kind of pallor to it—maybe because his brows and hair were so black, it made his face look whiter than most.

He had delicate features, but something aggressive and distant was baked into his face. Wen Fu's nose bridge was narrow and high, the tip slightly pointed, lips on the thinner side, jawline smooth, and tracing down, the chin tapered into a small point.

Too sharp, pretty but not warm—older folks would call that a face fated for hardship, no blessings.

Silence hung in the air for a full half minute. Everyone thought Wen Fu had more to say, but he himself seemed to have nothing else to offer besides his name.

Gu Mingchun coughed lightly: "Let's welcome Wen Fu. From today, he's a member of Class 6, grade 12."

Everyone politely offered up a sparse round of applause.

After Wen Fu sat down, Xie Yining nudged her seatmate's arm and muttered: "What did he say his name was?"

"Didn't catch it, voice too quiet. Yinfu?"

"Yinfu? Like the musical note?"

"Aren't do-re-mi musical notes..."

Fei Baolin spoke up from behind: "Wen Fu."

Xie Yining turned around: "What? Wen Fu?"

That voice wasn't loud or quiet—Xie Yining hadn't controlled her volume, and Wen Fu happened to hear it.

Fei Baolin instinctively glanced over, and once again met Wen Fu's gaze.

The other's eyes held no warmth or emotion, brushed past his and Xie Yining's faces like a dragonfly skimming water, then withdrew.

Fei Baolin looked down, opened his textbook, twirled his pen.

Maybe Wen Fu didn't remember him at all, or hadn't recognized him. Either way, judging by Wen Fu's attitude, he was just a stranger, same as every other classmate.

But by third period PE that afternoon, Wen Fu personally shattered that guess.