The school day dragged to its final hour, but for Jian, time felt strangely uneven— sometimes rushing past him in frantic seconds, sometimes slowing into long, echoing minutes where every breath hit the cold air too sharply.
Cleaning duty had left a knot in his chest that refused to loosen. Every time he blinked, he saw Wei stepping away from him, shoulders stiffening beneath that perfect uniform, a small wince hidden behind lowered lashes.
Wei had left without speaking. Without looking. Without giving Jian even a second chance to explain —or apologize —or breathe properly.
And Jian hated it.
He hated the way Wei's silence had become heavier, colder,
quieter, as if the distance between them was now a thick wall Jian had built himself without realizing.
After the final bell rang, students shoved notebooks into their bags, crammed half-finished snacks into their pockets, and rushed out the doors in chaotic groups that flooded the hallway with noise and restless energy. Yanyan lingered near Jian's desk, her fingers nervously tapping together as if rehearsing courage she wasn't sure she had. "Jian-ge… want to go home together?" she asked softly, almost hopeful.
"Later," he muttered without looking at her. He didn't mean to sound cold, but something inside him was burning—anger, confusion, worry—everything tangled into a tight knot he couldn't even begin to untie.
He stepped into the hallway where the fading winter light spilled through the high windows in pale streaks of gold, stretching long shadows across the floor. Students rushed past him in waves, laughter echoing off the walls as phones buzzed and locker doors slammed shut in uneven rhythm, the noise rising and falling like a tide that refused to calm.
And then—over the chaos—he heard the sharp sound of running footsteps cutting through the crowd.
"Jian-ge—!! JIAN-GE—!!"
Yanyan's voice.
Yanyan's voice was sharp and panicked, nothing like her usual self, and Jian turned instantly, his heart jerking violently in his chest. She sprinted toward him with her hair in disarray, breath coming in broken gasps, her eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear. Grabbing his sleeve with trembling hands, she struggled to steady her voice. "Jian-ge—your friends… they're in the locker room—and they're hurting Wei—"
The world snapped.
Everything inside Jian went terrifyingly still, so still it felt as if someone had frozen time around him. For a brief second, he forgot how to breathe. Then he moved.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for details.
He just ran.
He tore through the hallway, pushing past students who turned to stare, ignoring teachers calling out warnings behind him, taking the staircase two steps at a time as his heart pounded so violently against his ribs it felt like they might crack under the force. Images exploded in his mind, wild and uncontrollable—
Wei walking away from him. Wei refusing to look at him. The faint bruise hidden beneath the pale wash of morning light. Wei's silence during cleaning duty. The way he had stepped back from Jian's touch as if it burned. The images collided violently inside Jian's mind as he ran, teeth clenched, legs burning, panic tightening around his chest like a fist that refused to loosen.
Wei would fight back. He always fought back. That night in the alley—he hadn't been weak, he hadn't—
But Jian didn't know what terrified him more: the thought of Wei getting hurt… or the possibility that Wei might not defend himself at all.
The hallway leading to the locker room felt narrower with every step, the overhead lights dimmer, the air heavier against his lungs as his breathing grew harsh and uneven. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.
He reached the door and shoved it open with a violent bang.
And froze.
The locker room was nearly empty, its wide space echoing with a hollow chill under the flickering fluorescent lights that cast everything in a harsh, unflattering glare. The air smelled faintly of metal and sweat, and the silence felt heavier than it should have. Wei stood near the back beside an open locker, his bag half-slipped onto the floor as if it had been knocked from his hand mid-motion.
A thin line of blood traced down from his forehead toward his eyebrow, startlingly bright against his pale skin, the red too vivid beneath the cold white lighting.
Three boys stood around him—Jian's friends. One held Wei's fallen books loosely in one hand, flipping one open as if it were a joke. Another wiped sweat from his forehead with exaggerated ease. The third leaned casually against the lockers, arms crossed, wearing the kind of expression that suggested he had just finished something mildly entertaining.
Jian had expected fire.
He had expected Wei's anger to explode, expected shouting, fists flying, lockers dented and broken from the impact of a fight spiraling out of control.
But—
Wei wasn't fighting.
He was simply standing there, breathing softly, his expression blank and his eyes disturbingly empty. There was no trembling in his shoulders, no visible fear, no flash of anger rising to the surface. Instead, he looked… tired. Not physically exhausted, but tired in a way that settled deep into the bones—like someone who had lived through this exact scene too many times before. Like someone who had stopped expecting help long ago. Like someone who had learned, slowly and painfully, that swallowing humiliation in silence was safer than igniting chaos that would only burn him harder in the end.
One of the boys stepped forward and shoved Wei lightly in the shoulder—not hard enough to knock him down, just enough to mock the stillness of his body.
"Look at him," the boy smirked. "No reaction. Dead fish."
Another burst into laughter, waving Wei's book lazily in the air as if it were a prop in some cheap performance. "Try hitting me now, genius. Come on. Show us that psycho temper."
Wei didn't move.
He didn't look at them.
And he didn't look at Jian.
Wei slowly bent down and picked up his fallen bag with steady, deliberate movements, holding it close against his chest as though it were something fragile he needed to protect. The action was calm—too calm—and it only seemed to amuse them further.
One of the boys laughed louder. "What? No comeback? Nothing? Damn, you're boring."
"Bro, he didn't fight back at all," another scoffed, shaking his head. "All that cold attitude for nothing."
"Useless," the last one added, making sure his voice carried clearly enough for Wei to hear.
Wei didn't blink.
He simply turned away, pressing a hand lightly against his bleeding forehead to stop the thin stream of blood from slipping into his eye. Then he began walking toward the exit—not limping, not rushing, not even glancing back.
Just walking.
Slowly. Quietly. Alone.
Like a boy who had learned a long time ago that silence was the only shield the world couldn't take from him, because it was the only thing he had left to control.
Jian's chest tightened painfully.
He had expected Wei to be angry. To fight back. To explode the way he had that night in the alley, fierce and unrestrained. But seeing him like this—quiet, hurt, bleeding, enduring everything without a single word—broke something inside Jian that he hadn't even realized was fragile.
Wei walked past him without hesitation.
He didn't look at him. He didn't slow down. He didn't acknowledge Jian's presence in the slightest.
He simply walked out of the locker room—bleeding, in pain, alone—as if Jian were nothing more than air occupying space.
Only after the door swung shut did the laughter behind him rise again.
"He didn't even fight back this time."
"Told you—he's not scary at all."
"Just some quiet loser pretending to be cold."
Each word landed heavier than the last.
Jian's hands curled into fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, the sting grounding him just enough to keep from losing control too soon. His heartbeat roared violently in his ears, drowning out the echo of their voices, until it felt like the entire room was pulsing in rhythm with his rage.
He turned.
Slowly.
Dangerously slowly.
His gaze lifted toward the boys he had once called friends, and in that suffocating silence, something inside him finally snapped.