Monday's classes went smoothly for almost everyone. Everyone except Lin Zhiyu. In the literature classroom, the scratching of pencils and the rustling of pages accompanied the teacher's voice as she recited verses by Du Fu. The poem spoke of loneliness and loss, of the weight of time on a man's shoulders. The words were laden with a dense melancholy, but to Zhiyu they were like slippery fish escaping through his fingers. He tried to catch them, to fix them on the page, but his mind wandered far, too far.
Because even though he denied it, even though he wanted with all his might to root those thoughts out, he still saw Zhou Mingkai in his head.
He saw him in fragmented images, scenes that seemed to haunt him even in his dreams:
Mingkai in the principal's office, his knuckles stained with blood and his gaze cold, as if violence were nothing more than a natural extension of himself.
Mingkai at the ramen table, surrounded by laughter and that energy that gravitated around him, the king of everything without having to try.
Mingkai in that mansion, standing, his silhouette outlined against the night, smoking as if he wanted to set the air itself on fire.
Zhiyu slammed the book shut, the thud echoing on the wooden table.
It's not because of him; he repeated to herself with a lump in his throat. It's because of what he does to me. Because of how he drags me into his world.
But even that excuse sounded hollow inside his head.
Elsewhere in the city, Zhou Mingkai found himself trapped in one of those scenes he hated more than anything: a business dinner organized by his father.
The dining room table was long, covered with a spotless white tablecloth and laden with dishes that looked too expensive to actually eat. The smell of spiced meat, imported wine, and elaborate sauces filled the stifling atmosphere. Glasses clinked every time someone made a toast, and the deep voices of the men talked about contracts, figures, and market projections as if there were no other world beyond numbers.
Mingkai sat next to his father, wearing a suit he hated. The tie suffocated him, the jacket weighed on him like invisible chains. He had learned from an early age to remain silent, to nod at the right moment, to play a role he never asked for.
One of the guests, a man with a prominent belly and a well-groomed mustache, watched him with interest.
"Zhou, your son is already at the age to think about college," he said in a cheerful tone. "Does he have any plans yet?"
Mingkai's father smiled, that political smile that never reached his eyes.
"Of course. Business. As it should be."
Mingkai clenched his teeth, keeping his eyes fixed on his glass of water.
"And what does he think?" insisted another guest, tilting his head curiously.
The silence that followed was brief, but as heavy as lead.
Mingkai's father cut him off firmly:
"He will do what the family needs. As long as he keeps his image clean and is prepared to work in the company, there is nothing else to worry about."
The conversation continued as if nothing had happened, with laughter and comments about corporate mergers. But in Mingkai's ears, those words rang like a verdict.
His life reduced to two demands: be impeccable on the outside and be ready to take on the family empire. Nothing else. Nothing that was his.
Mingkai drank the water in his glass in one gulp, his jaw tightening with contained rage. At that moment, he felt like an actor trapped in a script that someone else had written for him. A script with no room for improvisation.
At school, Zhiyu tried to distract himself with Yining's company in the library. The air was filled with the smell of old paper and the faint scent of pine trees coming in through the half-open windows.
"You have to focus for the entrance exams," she said as she reviewed her math notes. "You can't let anything get in your way."
Zhiyu nodded, but his gaze was lost in the blurred letters in his notebook.
"I know," he replied, unconvincingly.
Yining watched him out of the corner of her eye, as if she could read him beyond his words.
"Are you thinking about him again?"
The air caught in his throat.
"Who?"
She didn't look away, as if she knew she had hit the mark.
"Don't play dumb. Zhou Mingkai."
Zhiyu's heart skipped a beat, so much that he had to look down.
"Of course I think about him." The words came out faster than he had planned. "He makes my life miserable. How could I not think about someone like that?"
The silence that followed was strange. It weighed heavier than any argument.
Yining narrowed her eyes, as if her thoughts were too dark to say aloud. Finally, she murmured,
"Just make sure you don't confuse hatred with something else."
Zhiyu opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. It was as if his tongue had turned to lead. The accusation hung in the air, invisible but impossible to ignore.
That afternoon, as he walked home, the breeze swept dry leaves across the ground, and the sky was tinged with a dull gray. Zhiyu walked with the quick pace of someone who just wants to take refuge in routine, but something stopped him in his tracks.
In front of the school exit, leaning against a shiny black car, was Zhou Mingkai.
His shirt was half-buttoned, his tie loose, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he owned the world. The evening light fell on him, giving him an almost cinematic air. There was no one who did not look at him as they passed by.
"I was waiting for you," he said, with a calmness that sounded like both a threat and a promise.
Zhiyu frowned.
"Why?"
Mingkai smiled, a dangerous glint in the curve of his lips.
"Because I wanted to see your face after what you did for me with the principal."
Zhiyu's heart raced with anger and something else he didn't want to name.
"Again, I didn't do it for you."
"But... you did." Mingkai stood up and took a step toward him. The smoke from a recently extinguished cigarette still surrounded him, permeating his clothes. "And you're going to keep doing it. Because you and I are more tied together than you think."
The word fell between them like a stone thrown into water.
Tied.
Zhiyu took a step back, but the distance did nothing to help. The echo of that word followed him home, resonated in his head even when he tried to study, and enveloped him in the darkness of his room when he went to bed.
Tied.
And he understood, with a fear that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, that Mingkai was right.