After the monthly exam,
homeroom teacher Zhang made an announcement.
He was opening a special tutoring group—
a small elite class
for "students with potential"
to help them aim for higher scores.
When he finished reading the list—
I stared at every name on the blackboard.
My name wasn't there.
In that moment,
my heart dropped into an ice pit.
The next morning,
I forced myself to walk into the office.
My legs were trembling.
But I still mustered the courage to speak:
"Mr.Zhang… I want to join the special class…"
My voice was so soft,
even I could barely hear it.
Zhang Jianguo looked up,
adjusted his glasses,
and swept his eyes over me
the way someone looks at garbage.
"You? Don't waste my time.
Even if you join, you wouldn't understand a thing."
My heart tightened painfully.
But I still refused to give up.
"I can try… If you could just give me a chance—"
He cut me off immediately.
"Enough. Stop talking.
You'll only disrupt the class. Don't drag others down."
I clenched my teeth,
swallowed every word stuck in my throat,
and turned to leave the office.
But I didn't give up.
After school,
I waited outside the office
for a full two hours.
Until Zhang Jianguo finally walked out.
"Mr.Zhang…"
I gathered all my courage again,
my voice trembling at the edges.
"I really want to work hard…"
His face twisted,
as if he were looking at something filthy.
"A toad wanting to eat swan meat?
Stop dreaming."
—That insult stabbed straight into my chest.
Back in the classroom,
I sat at my desk in a daze.
Anger, helplessness, humiliation…
all tangled together like quicksand,
dragging me down.
So for someone like me—
a "bad student"—
I wasn't even qualified to work hard?
No.
I wouldn't accept that.
If I couldn't join officially—
then I'd "steal."
From that day on,
every afternoon after school,
I slipped quietly to the door of the special class.
Listening through the window.
Peeking through the cracks at their handouts.
Sometimes it was function formulas in math.
Sometimes a breakdown of physics models.
Sometimes a cause-and-effect chain in history.
I memorized every word I could catch,
then went home and turned it into proper notes.
It was terribly inefficient.
And classmates often noticed me.
They pointed and laughed:
"Hahaha! Look at that idiot!"
"Standing outside eavesdropping? He thinks he can understand?"
"Is he delusional? Who does he think he is?"
Every jeer felt like a slap across my face.
But I endured.
I had to.
At home,
I reorganized every fragmented concept I'd managed to grasp,
piecing them into a complete chain of knowledge.
It was exhausting—
but I knew
this was the only chance I could cling to.
But just when I was clawing my way forward…
Fat Tiger—
that ghost who never stopped haunting me—
set his eyes on me again.