1:50 PM.
Down south, the autumn tiger—that late-season heatwave—showed no signs of letting up. Instead, it grew even more ferocious, like a short-tempered shrew in menopause, churning the air until it was thick and scorching hot.
Tenacious and fiery, its temper had yet to cool.
Inside the Year One, Class One classroom at City No.1 Middle School.
Even with the two sets of extra-thick blackout curtains Old Zhao had specially approved, the all-pervasive heat wave could not be kept at bay.
Four old-fashioned ceiling fans spun for their lives overhead, the sound of their whirring blades punctuated by the grinding of oil-starved bearings.
The breeze they circulated was hot, too, carrying a suffocating stuffiness.
It tried to disperse the mixed smell of sweat, chalk dust, and that certain indescribable scent of adolescent hormones.
But aside from stirring up gusts of hot air, it had little effect.
The warning bell signaling the end of the lunch break had yet to ring.
The classroom was quiet. Most of the students were still slumped over their desks in various positions, catching up on sleep.
Chen Zhuo was awake.
More accurately, he’d been woken by the feeling of being steamed alive, as if in a sauna.
Chen Zhuo slowly straightened up, feeling his school uniform was already quite damp.
It clung unpleasantly to his back.
He took off his glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his desk.
A pure cotton, highly absorbent handkerchief printed with a Donald Duck, which Ms. Liu Xiuying had insisted he take.
He wiped the fog from his lenses, then casually wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Then, his gaze fell upon the corner of his desk.
A slip of paper was pinned beneath the neatly stacked pile of textbooks.
A shabby-looking slip of paper.
It wasn’t a scented letter, nor was it one of those secret notes folded into a heart shape that the girls passed around.
It was just a scrap torn haphazardly from the cheapest kind of exercise book, its edges jagged as if gnawed on by a dog. It even had one of the red lines printed in the notebook.
There was no signature, no salutation, not even any punctuation.
On it, two large words had been scrawled with an extremely sloppy hand in a thick black pen.
[Afternoon. Physics.]
Chen Zhuo stared at the two words for a couple of seconds, the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily.
The handwriting was a wild scrawl, carrying a "take it or leave it" attitude.
In the entire school, besides Old Zhou—lounging in his wicker chair, sipping strong tea, and waving a cattail fan—there was probably no one else who would do something like this.
’As for the location, where else could it be but the physics lab he mentioned a few days ago?’
Chen Zhuo folded the note and casually stuffed it into the pocket of his school uniform trousers.
He glanced at the wall clock.
The first class of the afternoon would be starting in a few minutes.
There was a double period of language arts this afternoon, and according to the schedule, they were supposed to be covering Zhu Ziqing’s "Spring."
"Longing, longing, the east wind has come, the footsteps of spring are near..."
Chen Zhuo didn’t dislike "Spring," nor did he dislike literature.
Of course, he had always treated this kind of purely sentimental writing—the kind that required an emotional, intuitive understanding—as a sort of after-dinner dessert.
’Now, though, it was time for the main course.’
Chen Zhuo began to pack his things.
His movements were light and slow, not even disturbing his deskmate, who had a bit of drool glistening at the corner of their mouth.
He gathered a few pens and a scratchpad, then took the water bottle from the corner of his desk and filled it to the brim with warm water from the dispenser at the front of the room.
Chen Zhuo stood up and slipped silently out the back door.
The hallway was empty, with only the chirping of cicadas from the sports field washing over him in waves, like the sea.
He pushed up his glasses and headed for the science building on the other side of the field.
Sunlight instantly enveloped Chen Zhuo.
The stifling heat wave began to slowly, bit by bit, awaken his mind, still sluggish from his nap.
Like a precision instrument warming up.
「The science building, physics lab.」
One of the few places in the school equipped with a floor-standing air conditioner.
Even before he entered, he could hear the roar of the old outdoor AC unit, like a tireless old ox.
Chen Zhuo pushed the door open.
WHOOSH—
A blast of cold air mixed with the faint smell of ozone washed over him, instantly dispelling the sticky layer of heat from his body.
The lab was large, furnished with over twenty black lab tables.
It was deserted.
Except for a spot near the teacher’s desk, where two people were sitting.
One was a boy, and the other was also a boy.
Hearing the door open, the two of them looked up in perfect unison, like a pair of groundhogs warily surveying their surroundings.
To his left and right were Li Hao, a third-year, and Zhang Wei, a second-year.
Chen Zhuo stood in the doorway, two pens peeking out from his school uniform pocket. One hand was tucked into his jacket pocket, the other holding his water bottle.
Six eyes met.
For a moment, the air seemed to take on a strange, viscous quality.
Chen Zhuo didn’t know them.
But they knew Chen Zhuo.
Or rather, on this not-so-large campus, there was hardly anyone who didn’t know about Chen Zhuo—the kid who had skipped a grade at nine and tested into first place.
No sparks flew, as if rivals were meeting in a shonen manga, nor were there any of the polite pleasantries—"Hello, classmate, let’s get along"—typical of a school drama.
There was only the pure, awkward silence unique to good students—a mixture of pride and social anxiety.
Li Hao didn’t know what to say, so he just gave a slight nod, so small it was almost imperceptible.
Then he quickly lowered his head again, refocusing on the difficult problem about convex lens imaging on his desk.
Zhang Wei, on the other hand, lingered with his gaze for a moment. His pen paused, and he seemed about to say hello, but seeing that Li Hao had remained silent, he swallowed his words.
He just grimaced at Chen Zhuo, an expression that could have been a smile or a toothache.
Chen Zhuo didn’t speak either. He just nodded and naturally withdrew his gaze.
He was quite satisfied with this atmosphere.
’Quiet. Studious. Mutually undisturbed.’
He gently closed the door, sealing the heat outside.
He didn’t make for the front row; he didn’t care about sitting there.
Besides, that spot was already taken.
He walked straight to the last row of the lab and found a corner spot by the window.
It was a perfect distance from the air vent—not too close, not too far. The cold air wouldn’t blow directly on his head, but the temperature was just right.
The curtains were drawn, making the light dim and soft.
Chen Zhuo set his things on the table, then plopped down onto the slightly-too-hard lab stool.
The lab returned to its previous quiet.
There was only the hum of the air conditioner and the SHUFFLE of Li Hao turning pages in the front row.

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