The morning sun cut through Beijing's autumn haze like a blade, painting the Arts University campus in shades of gold and amber. Wen Xiaoran stood outside the Performing Arts building, clutching a paper cup of soy milk in one hand and a still-warm jianbing in the other, trying to psychologically prepare himself for his first official day of classes.
Orientation week had been a whirlwind of campus tours, administrative paperwork, and overwhelming introductions. Now came the real test: actual coursework in one of China's most competitive theater programs. His stomach churned with a mixture of excitement and pure terror.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," a voice said beside him. "It's just Introduction to Performance Theory. Professor Qin is supposed to be tough but fair."
Xiaoran turned to find a girl about his height with short-cropped hair dyed a subtle burgundy, wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket that somehow looked both rebellious and expensive. Her Beta scent was neutral and calming—sandalwood and paper, like a bookstore.
"Wen Xiaoran," he introduced himself, awkwardly trying to shake hands while juggling breakfast. "First-year theater major, obviously terrified, please be my friend."
She laughed, a sharp bright sound. "Zhou Mei, also first-year, also terrified but better at hiding it. I like your honesty. Most people try to act cool and confident on the first day."
"I'm a terrible liar," Xiaoran admitted, taking a large bite of jianbing. "My face shows everything I'm thinking. My sisters say it's going to ruin my acting career before it starts."
"Or it means you'll be great at emotional authenticity," Zhou Mei countered. She checked her phone. "We have ten minutes before class. Want to hear what I've learned about our professors through very dedicated social media stalking?"
"Desperately."
They walked into the building together, Zhou Mei providing rapid-fire intelligence on each faculty member while Xiaoran tried to memorize names and teaching styles. By the time they reached the theater classroom—a black box space with flexible seating and a small stage—Xiaoran felt slightly less terrified and significantly more prepared.
The classroom filled quickly with other first-years, all trying to project varying degrees of casual confidence. Xiaoran recognized a few faces from orientation but hadn't yet formed real connections with anyone besides Zhou Mei, who commandeered two seats in the middle section with strategic precision.
"Not too eager in the front, not too invisible in the back," she explained. "Optimum positioning for observing without being constantly observed."
"You've really thought this through."
"I have three older siblings who already went through university. I learned from their mistakes." Zhou Mei pulled out a notebook already organized with color-coded tabs. "Also, I'm slightly neurotic about planning. We'll balance each other out—you bring spontaneity, I bring structure."
Xiaoran was about to respond when Professor Qin entered, and the entire room fell silent. She was a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, wearing all black, her presence commanding without effort. Former leading actress at the National Theater, according to Zhou Mei's earlier briefing, known for producing exceptional talent and accepting no excuses.
"Welcome to Introduction to Performance Theory," Professor Qin said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the space. "Some of you will finish this program and become working actors. Most of you will not. This is not pessimism—it's statistics. The question is: what will separate those who succeed from those who don't?"
She paused, letting the weight of the question settle.
"Talent? Partially. Connections? Sometimes. Luck? Occasionally. But the real differentiator is discipline. The willingness to show up every day and do the work, even when inspiration fails, even when rejection piles up, even when your voice is tired and your body hurts and you're convinced you're terrible at this."
Xiaoran found himself leaning forward, hanging on every word.
"Acting is not about pretending," Professor Qin continued. "It's about truth. Finding authentic human emotion and behavior, then recreating it on command. This requires incredible self-awareness, emotional intelligence, and yes—discipline. Over the next four years, I will push you harder than you've ever been pushed. Some of you will cry. Some will quit. Those who remain will emerge as artists."
The lecture continued for two hours, covering the philosophical foundations of performance theory, the history of Chinese theater traditions, and the intersection of classical training with contemporary methods. Xiaoran's hand cramped from taking notes, but his mind buzzed with excitement. This was exactly what he'd hoped for—rigor, challenge, depth.
When class finally ended, Zhou Mei stretched dramatically. "Well, she wasn't kidding about the tough part. I already have three books to read by next week and we haven't even covered the syllabus yet."
"I love her," Xiaoran declared. "She's terrifying and inspiring simultaneously."
"That's the cocktail that creates either excellence or therapy bills." Zhou Mei gathered her materials. "What's your next class?"
Xiaoran checked his schedule. "Movement and Physical Theater at eleven, then lunch, then Art History and Cultural Expression at three. You?"
"Voice and Speech at eleven, different building. But I'm also in that Art History elective!" Zhou Mei's face brightened. "Apparently it's popular with students from all departments. The professor is supposed to be amazing—connects everything to broader cultural contexts."
They exchanged phone numbers and WeChat information before parting ways, Xiaoran feeling significantly better about his first day than he had an hour ago. Having at least one friend made the massive, intimidating campus feel slightly more manageable.
Movement and Physical Theater was held in a dance studio with wall-to-wall mirrors and wooden floors that creaked pleasantly underfoot. The instructor, a lithe woman in her thirties who introduced herself as Teacher Lin, had them spend the first class exploring spatial awareness and body consciousness through various exercises.
"Your body is your instrument," she explained as students moved through the space like molecules in suspension. "You must know it intimately—its capabilities, its limitations, how it occupies space, how it communicates without words."
Xiaoran found himself enjoying the physicality, the way movement could convey emotion as powerfully as dialogue. His body had always been expressive—his sisters teased him constantly about his inability to maintain a poker face—and here that trait was valuable rather than embarrassing.
By the time lunch rolled around, Xiaoran was pleasantly exhausted and ravenously hungry. He grabbed a tray at the campus canteen—braised pork with rice, stir-fried vegetables, and soup—and found a seat near the windows overlooking the central quad.
His phone buzzed with messages from his family group chat. His mother: *First day! How are classes? Are you eating enough? Did you remember to take your suppressants?*
Xiaoran smiled, typing back: *Classes are great, Mom. Very intense but exciting. And yes, I took my suppressants this morning. I'm responsible.*
His second sister: *Did you meet any cute classmates? Any romantic prospects?*
*Why is everyone in this family obsessed with my romantic life?*
His eldest sister: *Because you're our baby brother and we need entertainment. Also Mom and Dad won't let us meddle in each other's lives anymore so you're all we have.*
His third sister: *Also you have terrible taste so we need to pre-approve anyone you date.*
*I'm not dating anyone! I've been here for ONE WEEK.*
His father's message appeared, cutting through his sisters' chaos with typical brevity: *Focus on studies first. Relationships can wait. Make us proud, xiaobao.*
Xiaoran felt warmth spread through his chest. His family was overwhelming and nosy and occasionally drove him crazy, but their love was unconditional and fierce. He knew how lucky he was—many Omegas faced families who saw them as burdens or bargaining chips. His parents had always supported his dreams, even when those dreams led to an unstable career path like acting.
He was halfway through his meal when Zhou Mei appeared with her own tray, accompanied by a tall Alpha guy with bleached blonde hair and multiple ear piercings.
"Xiaoran, this is Zhang Wei, music production major and my childhood friend who I'm legally obligated to tolerate," Zhou Mei introduced him with fond exasperation. "Wei-ge, this is Wen Xiaoran, my new theater friend who I'm adopting."
"Adopting?" Xiaoran laughed. "We met four hours ago."
"I'm efficient." Zhou Mei sat down, immediately stealing a piece of his braised pork. "Wei-ge and I grew up in the same hutong. Our mothers are best friends, which means we were forced to play together since birth."
Zhang Wei rolled his eyes affectionately. "She makes it sound like torture. I'm delightful company." He turned to Xiaoran with a friendly grin. "Warning: Zhou Mei collects people. By the end of the semester, you'll be part of her ever-expanding social empire."
"I prefer 'curates friendships,'" Zhou Mei corrected. "And yes, Xiaoran is officially part of the collection. He has good energy."
They fell into easy conversation, Zhang Wei explaining the differences between the music production and performance tracks, Zhou Mei sharing gossip she'd already accumulated about various professors and students. Xiaoran found himself relaxing, the nervous energy of the morning gradually dissipating.
"So what electives are you guys taking?" Zhang Wei asked. "I've got Audio Engineering Fundamentals and that Art History course everyone raves about."
"Same Art History class!" Zhou Mei perked up. "Xiaoran's in it too. Apparently half the campus tries to enroll—it fulfills requirements for multiple departments and the professor is supposed to be incredible."
"Professor Huang," Zhang Wei confirmed. "My roommate took it last year and said it completely changed how he thinks about creative work. Fair warning though—lots of music majors take it, and some of them are..." he made a vague gesture, "intense."
"Intense how?" Xiaoran asked.
"The performance students can be competitive and cliquey. Especially the traditional instrument and composition students. They take themselves very seriously." Zhang Wei shrugged. "Not all of them, obviously. But there's definitely a hierarchy thing happening in that department."
Zhou Mei snorted. "As opposed to theater, where everyone is totally humble and down-to-earth?"
"Fair point."
They finished lunch while debating the relative pretentiousness of different arts majors—a conversation that devolved into increasingly absurd comparisons ("mime students are secretly judging everyone's posture," "installation artists think they're too cool for furniture") until all three were laughing.
Xiaoran checked the time. "I should head to the Liberal Arts building. Don't want to be late for the famous Art History class."
"We'll walk with you," Zhou Mei said. "It's on our way to the library anyway."
The Liberal Arts building was older than the performing arts facilities, with traditional architecture and courtyards that felt transplanted from historical Beijing. The classroom for Art History and Cultural Expression was a tiered lecture hall with excellent acoustics and afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows.
Students were already filtering in, and Zhang Wei's assessment proved accurate—Xiaoran spotted several people carrying instrument cases, others with the particular posture that marked serious music training. The energy felt different from his theater classes: more reserved, more formal, weighted with unspoken competition.
Xiaoran chose a seat near the middle, pulling out his notebook and trying not to feel intimidated. He'd worked hard to get into this university. He belonged here as much as anyone else.
The seat next to him remained empty as the room filled. Xiaoran was mentally reviewing his notes from earlier classes when he felt it—a shift in the air, a change in atmospheric pressure. He looked up.
Lin Yuze stood at the end of the row, scanning for empty seats. Their eyes met for exactly two seconds before Yuze's expression went completely blank, then cold. Without acknowledgment or greeting, he turned and found a seat three rows back on the opposite side of the room.
Xiaoran felt his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. Really? They were going to pretend last night hadn't happened? He hadn't expected friendship, but basic acknowledgment of prior interaction seemed reasonable.
"That's Lin Yuze," a voice whispered beside him. Xiaoran turned to find a petite girl with glasses sitting in the previously empty seat. "Top student in the composition track, already has pieces performed by professional musicians, comes from a prestigious Alpha family of classical musicians. Also known for being completely antisocial and kind of an asshole. No offense if he's your friend or something."
"He's definitely not my friend," Xiaoran said, perhaps more emphatically than necessary.
The girl laughed. "Good call. I'm Chen Lili, by the way. Music history major. I've learned to identify all the music department drama by osmosis."
"Wen Xiaoran, theater major, brand new and already accidentally making enemies, apparently."
"Oh, you're the one who wandered into his practice room last night!" Chen Lili's eyes widened. "The whole music building was gossiping about it this morning. Lin Yuze never lets anyone hear his unfinished compositions, and apparently, he was working on something important."
Xiaoran's embarrassment intensified. "I got lost during orientation. I apologized. He was incredibly rude about it."
"That tracks," Chen Lili said sympathetically. "Don't take it personally. He's like that with everyone. Last semester, a first-year Beta asked him for composition advice and he literally said, 'If you need advice, you shouldn't be composing,' and walked away."
"That's horrible!"
"That's Lin Yuze." Chen Lili shrugged. "Brilliant but has the social skills of a particularly unfriendly cactus. The professors love him, though. Apparently, his technical ability is extraordinary."
Their conversation was cut short by Professor Huang's arrival. She was a woman in her forties with long hair streaked with silver, wearing a flowing silk blouse and multiple jade bracelets that clinked softly when she moved. Her presence was warm where Professor Qin's had been commanding—inviting rather than intimidating.
"Welcome to Art History and Cultural Expression," she began, her voice melodic and engaging. "This course exists at the intersection of multiple disciplines because art does not exist in isolation. Music, theater, painting, sculpture, dance, literature—all are in conversation with each other, with history, with culture, with the human experience itself."
She clicked to the first slide: a Tang dynasty painting of musicians at a banquet.
"Look at this image. What do you see?"
Students called out observations: the instruments, the clothing, the composition, the use of color. Professor Huang nodded, building on each comment, weaving connections between visual art and musical traditions, between historical context and contemporary interpretation.
"Now," she continued, "I'm going to play a piece of music. Close your eyes and listen. Then we'll discuss how the painting and the music relate to each other."
The music that filled the room was traditional guqin—meditative, spare, each note given space to breathe. Xiaoran closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him, feeling the connection to centuries of Chinese artistic tradition. When it ended, the silence felt full rather than empty.
"What emotions did the music evoke?" Professor Huang asked.
"Loneliness," someone said.
"Contemplation," another voice added.
"Longing for something lost," Xiaoran heard himself say, then immediately felt self-conscious. But Professor Huang smiled.
"Exactly. And notice how that longing is also present in the painting—in the way the figures are arranged, the space between them, the direction of their gazes. Art forms echo each other because they emerge from shared human experiences."
The lecture continued, Professor Huang effortlessly connecting Chinese classical traditions to contemporary art movements, demonstrating how understanding historical context enriched appreciation of modern work. Xiaoran found himself completely absorbed, filling pages with notes and observations.
He was so focused that he didn't notice Lin Yuze watching him from three rows back, expression unreadable, pen motionless above his own blank notebook.
When class ended ninety minutes later, Xiaoran felt intellectually energized in a way that reminded him why he'd chosen to study art despite its impracticality. Professor Huang had given them their first assignment—a short essay exploring connections between a piece of music and a visual artwork from the same historical period, due in two weeks.
"Want to grab coffee and work on the reading?" Chen Lili asked as they gathered their materials. "There's a good café near the west gate."
"Definitely," Xiaoran agreed. He glanced toward where Lin Yuze had been sitting, but the pianist had already disappeared, probably fled the moment class ended to avoid any possibility of social interaction.
Good. Xiaoran had no interest in dealing with cold, rude geniuses who thought basic courtesy was beneath them.
He followed Chen Lili out of the lecture hall, already planning his essay topic, his mind buzzing with connections between music and visual art. The first day of classes had been intense, challenging, occasionally intimidating—but ultimately exhilarating.
This was what he'd come here for. This was where he belonged.
Behind him, three rows back in the now-empty lecture hall, Lin Yuze sat motionless in his seat, staring at the spot where Wen Xiaoran had been sitting. The magnolia scent lingered faintly in the air, mixed with old books and afternoon sunlight.
Yuze's notebook remained blank except for a single line of musical notation sketched in the margin—a melody that had come to him unbidden during the guqin piece, a descending phrase that somehow captured longing and distance and the space between notes where meaning lived.
He closed the notebook sharply and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. This was fine. They had one class together out of dozens. He could handle ninety minutes twice a week in the same room. He'd simply maintain his usual approach: arrive early, leave immediately after class ends, avoid all unnecessary interaction.
Problem managed. Control maintained. Everything proceeding according to plan.
Yuze walked out of the Liberal Arts building into the golden afternoon light, his schedule already planned with precision: practice session until dinner, dinner exactly at 6 PM, composition work from 7 to 10 PM, late-night practice from 10:30 PM to midnight. Structured, predictable, safe.
His phone buzzed with a message from his music theory professor: *Lin Yuze, I'm recommending you for the Winter Composition Showcase. This is a significant opportunity. Let's discuss tomorrow.*
Yuze felt satisfaction settle in his chest. This was what mattered—recognition for his work, advancement toward his goals, building a career through discipline and excellence. Not distractions. Not complications. Certainly not Omegas with expressive faces and scents that made his carefully constructed control tremble.
He headed toward the music building, his stride confident and purposeful, a young man who knew exactly where he was going and why.
Behind him, the campus buzzed with first-day energy—students laughing, forming friendships, navigating new territory. The autumn sun painted everything gold. Somewhere in that crowd, Wen Xiaoran was probably making three new friends and enthusiastically planning collaborative projects.
Their paths had crossed twice now. In a school this large, it was entirely possible those would be the only intersections. Probability suggested they'd have minimal further contact outside their shared elective course.
Lin Yuze was very good at probability, at calculating odds, at managing variables to achieve desired outcomes.
What he didn't account for was fate's tendency to ignore probability entirely, to weave threads between people who thought they could control their own stories, to write music in the spaces between carefully laid plans.
But that would become clear later. For now, two students walked their separate paths through the same campus, each convinced their futures were their own to determine, unaware that their stories had already begun to intertwine like complementary melodies in an unfinished composition.
The afternoon faded into evening. The campus lights flickered on. And in practice rooms and studios across Beijing Central Arts University, students worked on their art, each believing they were the authors of their own destinies.
Sometimes belief is enough. And sometimes, the music writes itself.