The persistent smell of 84 Disinfectant in the hallway made it a bit hard to breathe.
The door to Dorm 215 was ajar, left open a crack for ventilation.
Wang Dayong squatted by the outlet near the balcony door, his eyes glued to the stainless steel electric heating mug on the floor.
The edge of the mug was already somewhat blackened. The water inside had just come to a boil, bubbling and churning, making the flimsy lid rattle against the rim.
He clutched two unopened seasoning packets for pickled vegetable instant noodles. Dayong turned his head and glanced at Chen Zhuo, who was sitting at the desk.
Chen Zhuo sat at his desk, his back to the balcony.
A thick, large-format Russian book lay open on his desk, its pages slightly yellowed.
The dorm room was quiet, the only sounds being the boiling water in the heating mug and the faint rustle of pages as Chen Zhuo occasionally turned them.
He wasn’t reading quickly. Although he had read Russian books before, it was inevitable that he would still encounter some difficult vocabulary.
When he came across a long sentence or an obscure technical term, his eyes would linger, and he would habitually tap his fingers on the desk twice.
Then he would open the dictionary beside him, patiently find the root word by following the Russian alphabetical order, and mentally process its precise meaning within the context of physics.
This copy of the *Theoretical Physics Tutorial* by Landau, published during the Soviet Union era, was notoriously difficult in the physics community.
This wasn’t only because of its high theoretical threshold, but also because the author had a habit that drove every beginner insane.
In the hands of this physics titan, the process of deriving formulas was often drastically abbreviated.
Often, one line would be a complex partial differential equation, followed by a blank line, and the next would simply state the Russian word Очевидно (obviously), followed by a neat conclusion.
Chen Zhuo always felt a little helpless whenever he saw that word.
The great man was not only brilliant, but also exceptionally good at saving on typesetting costs.
Others might see "obviously" and feel frustrated or just skip it, but not Chen Zhuo.
Since the author had skipped steps, filling in the blanks was an excellent mental exercise for Chen Zhuo.
Chen Zhuo casually pulled a sheet of printer paper from the pile of clutter on the corner of his desk.
It was a piece of scrap paper from when Chu Ge had tested the printer a couple of days ago; the front was covered in dense C-language functions, while the back was completely blank.
He picked up the black fountain pen at his side, uncapped it, and began to work out the derivation on the blank side.
There were no pauses, no need for a rough draft.
He peeled back the complex manifold boundary conditions layer by layer, the algebraic matrices spreading and interlocking across the paper with a kind of symmetrical beauty.
It was like solving a rather interesting puzzle.
After filling about half the page, he finished the final mapping step. The resulting algebraic expression matched the conclusion in the book perfectly.
Chen Zhuo put down his pen. Looking at the formulas on the page, he felt a surge of accomplishment.
He capped the pen, set it aside, and reached for his water cup, taking a sip.
The water had gone a bit cold, but he didn’t mind.
Just then, the door to Dorm 216 across the hall was yanked open.
Immediately followed by the sound of flip-flops slapping urgently against the floor, heading straight for 215.
The door to 215 was flung wide open.
Chu Ge walked in, his hair a tangled mess that looked like a bird’s nest.
He had dark circles under his eyes and a pallid complexion. His T-shirt was crumpled, and he radiated the frazzled, anxious energy of someone who’d just pulled a three-day-all-nighter at an internet cafe.
As the door opened, the sounds from Dorm 216 spilled in clearly.
It was the sound of two old, custom-built PC towers, their case fans roaring at full load like tractors struggling up a hill.
Amid the roaring, you could also hear Lu Jia sighing from the other side of the room.
"Brother Zhuo."
Chu Ge flopped into the empty chair beside Chen Zhuo, leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and let out a long sigh.
Chen Zhuo put down his water cup and turned to look at him.
"Stuck?"
Chen Zhuo’s question was matter-of-fact; ninety percent of the time Chu Ge came looking for him, it was about this.
Wang Dayong, still squatting by the balcony, also turned his head. He held up the seasoning packets he still hadn’t opened and asked.
"Boss Chu, this water is about to boil off. Are we making the noodles or not? I just went over to your room, and Lu Jia wouldn’t even say a word to me. I didn’t dare ask him how many packs he wanted for dinner."
Chu Ge scrubbed his face hard with his hands, his voice listless.
"Dayong, just unplug it for now. Don’t let it burn out." Chu Ge gave a wry smile. "It’s still up in the air if we’ll even be able to eat tonight."
Wang Dayong froze for a second, then quickly reached out and yanked the plug from the wall.
The churning water in the heating mug, now without a heat source, gradually grew still, with only a thin wisp of white steam rising from it.
"What’s wrong now?"
Chen Zhuo swiveled around to face Chu Ge. He closed the Landau textbook, pushed it to the side, and cleared a little space for them to talk.
Chu Ge pointed toward Room 216 across the hall, his brow knitted into a tight knot.
"It’s an infinite loop. We’re completely stuck."
Chu Ge sighed.
"You know that boss in the city who does pharmaceutical wholesaling? He’s been making a killing recently. Major hospitals, township clinics, and pharmacy chains are hounding him every day for 84 Disinfectant, masks, and Banlangen granules. His old standalone Access inventory database completely crashed, so he hired us to rebuild the whole thing with SQL Server."

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