The first thing I realized upon waking up was that dreams in Shanghai didn't end when you opened your eyes – they just got a lot more complicated.
The sun was an unapologetic blade of light cutting through the gap in the heavy curtains of Room 402. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, a lingering gift from the jet lag, and for a moment, the scent of jasmine perfume made me think I was still back at the gala.
Then, a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack snapped me into focus.
I rolled over to find Chen Lu sitting at the vanity we were supposed to share. She was already fully dressed in a crisp, white tennis skirt and polo that probably cost more than my plane ticket. She was buffing her nails with a mechanical intensity, her eyes fixed on my reflection in the mirror.
"You drool when you sleep," she said, her voice like a splash of ice water. "It's hardly the 'American Grace' the brochure promised."
I sat up, pushing my tangled hair out of my face, feeling every bit the 'headache' Lin Xuan had labeled me. "Good morning to you, too," I managed, my voice raspy. "I didn't realize you were moving in so late last night."
"I was at the after party. The one Lin Xuan skipped because he had to 'dispose' of his baggage." She said, finally putting the nail buffer down. She turned her chair to face me, her gaze sweeping over my wrinkled Chicago t-shirt with a look of pure clinical observation. "Let's be clear, Allie. This room is a temporary arrangement. Don't touch my skincare, don't try to speak to me before I've had my tea, and most importantly…don't think that just because Xuan is your 'guide' that he belongs to you. He's a legacy. You're just a tourist."
She stood up, grabbed her designer tote, and walked out without waiting for a reply. The door clicked shut with a finality that left me shivering in the humidity.
I didn't have time to cry or even process the venom. My phone buzzed on the nightstand with a notification that made my stomach drop: Quantitative Analysis – Room 304. Starts in 20 minutes.
I scrambled. I threw on a simple denim skirt and a tucked-in blouse, swiped some mascara on, and grabbed my bag. I barely had time to check the map Gu Huashu had marked for me before I was sprinting through the courtyard.
The campus was a blur of ancient stone and cutting-edge glass. I found Room 304 just as the bell began to chime. I slipped inside, breathless, and my heart stopped.
The room was a steep amphitheater. At the very bottom stood a professor who looked like he could solve differential equations in his sleep. And right in the center, in the "Power Seat," sat Lin Xuan.
He looked impeccable. His laptop was open, a stylus in his hand, and he was already deep in conversation with a group of students who looked like they were auditioning for a board of directors. Behind him sat Gu Huashu, who was – predictably drawing in the margins of his notebook.
I scanned the room for a seat, but the only empty chair was…right next to Lin Xuan.
I walked down the stairs, the eyes of fifty elite Chinese students following me. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, that familiar shyness threatening to swallow me whole. I reached the row and hesitated.
"Is this seat…taken?" I whispered in Mandarin.
Lin Xuan didn't look up. His eyes remained fixed on his screen, his fingers moving with surgical speed. "It's reserved for the student the Dean told me I had to babysit," he said in English, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Sit down, Allie. You're already thirty seconds behind the lecture."
I sank into the chair, the scent of sandalwood cologne hitting me like a memory. I pulled out my notebook, my hands shaking slightly.
"Hey," a voice whispered from behind him. It was Gu Huashu. He leaned over, sliding a small piece of paper onto my desk.
I opened it. It was a quick, beautiful sketch of me from that morning – but in the drawing, I looked brave. I looked like I belonged. At the bottom, he had written: Don't let the frost bite. You're the only thing in this room with color.
I looked at the sketch, then back at Lin Xuan's head, and then at the professor who was already filling the chalkboard with complex formulas. I realized the "Slow Bloom" wasn't just about me finding my place in China. It was about surviving the people who were already there.
The atmosphere in this Room was sterile, vibrating with the collective anxiety of students who were used to being the smartest people in every room they entered. Professor Zhang moved with the efficiency of a predator, his chalk clicking against the board like a countdown.
"The stochastic model for urban density," Zhang announced, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the hum in the air conditioning. "Most of you have memorized the formula. Few of you understand the soul of the variable."
He turned, his eyes scanning the steep rows of the amphitheater. The silence was absolute. Beside me, Lin Xuan hadn't moved a muscle, his gaze fixed forward, his posture a study in frozen perfection.
"Our guest from Chicago," Zhang said suddenly, his eyes locking onto mine. "Miss Reed."
My heart did a violent somersault against my ribs. I felt fifty heads swivel in unison. Beside me, I saw Lin Xuan's hand pause over his keyboard.
"Tell me," Zhang continued, stepping toward our row. "In the context of developing a Tier-1 city, how would you adjust the coefficient of friction to account for cultural resistance? Answer in Mandarin, please. We are not in Illinois."
Professor Zhang's gaze was a physical weight, but the silence coming from the seat next to me was heavier. I looked at Lin Xuan out of the corner of my eye. He was staring straight ahead, his expression as unreadable as a marble statue. He didn't move. He didn't whisper a hint. He didn't even acknowledge that I was drowning inches away from him.
"I.. wǒ rènwéi..." I stammered again, my voice trembling. I looked down at my hands, wishing the floor would simply open up and swallow me. "The…the variable…"
"Is the air in the Midwest so thin that it starves the brain of vocabulary?" Zhang's sneer was audible. A few students in the back snickered, and I felt a hot, prickly wave of shame climb up my neck.
I waited for Lin Xuan to say something – anything. He was top of the class. He was my 'guide.' But as the seconds ticked by, he simply adjusted his cufflink, his eyes fixed on the professor's equations as if I weren't even there.
To him, my struggle wasn't a tragedy; it was a nuisance.
A flaw in his morning schedule.
"If you can not answer a fundamental question, Miss Reed, perhaps your 'dream' of studying here was a bit premature," Zhang said, reaching for his book.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over my desk from behind.
"She's talking about the Kàngjù xìshù, Professor," Gu Huashu's voice broke through the tension. It wasn't sharp like Lin Xuan's; it was calm, melodic, and draped in a casual confidence.
I felt a rush of air return to my lungs as Huashu leaned forward, his sketchbook resting on the back of my chair. He didn't look at the professor; he looked at me with a small, encouraging wink.
"Allie was just about to explain how the resistance coefficient in Chicago's grid compares to Shanghai's high-density model," Huashu lied smoothly, his Mandarin perfect yet warm. He tapped a finger on my notebook. "Right, Allie? Page 42. You were just looking for the technical term."
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. "Yes," I whispered, finding my voice. "The Kàngjù xìshù…"
With Huashu's silent support behind me, I managed to stumble through the rest of the explanation. When Zhang finally turned back to the board with a dissatisfied grunt, I collapsed back into my seat, my muscles feeling like jelly.
I turned to Lin Xuan, expecting to see some flicker of reaction – maybe annoyance that he hadn't helped, or even a hint of relief that I hadn't failed.
Nothing.
He was already typing, his fingers flying across the keys in a blur of mechanical efficiency. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Huashu.
"Thank you, Gu Huashu," I whispered, leaning back slightly.
"Anytime, Chicago," Huashu murmured back, his eyes darting to the back of Lin Xuan's head with a look of frustration.
I turned back to the front, but I couldn't focus on the numbers anymore. I looked at Lin Xuan's profile – the sharp jaw, the cold, distant eyes. He hadn't just watched me struggle; he had been indifferent to it. I realized that to him, I wasn't a person to be befriended or a guest to be welcomed. I was a line item on a budget.
A task to be completed.
When the bell finally rang, Lin Xuan stood up instantly. He didn't wait for me to pack my bags. He didn't check to see if I was okay.
"The Special Collections Library," he said, his voice flat as he looked at his watch. "Three o'clock. Don't be late. I have no intention of extending our tutoring session because of your poor time management."
He walked away without a second glance, leaving me standing in the emptying hall with Huashu, who was watching Lin Xuan's retreat with a dark, contemplative expression.
"He's a piece of work, isn't he?" Huashu asked softly, tucking his charcoal away.
"I don't think he even sees me," I admitted, the slow bloom of my excitement feeling very much like it was withering in the frost.
The contrast between the Computer Science department and the Art building was like stepping from a refrigerator into a sunlit garden. The high ceilings of the lecture hall were stained with the ghosts of old turpentine, and the walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling canvases.
For the first time since landing in Shanghai, my heart stopped its frantic, anxious pace.
"Welcome to my world," Gu Huashu said, pulling out a chair for me at a long, scarred wooden table. "No stochastic models here. Just paint, history, and people who actually remember how to smile."
I sat down, feeling the heavy knot in my chest loosen. Huashu didn't sit across from me; he sat right beside me, invading my personal space in a way that felt warm and inclusive rather than cold and clinical like Lin Xuan.
The professor, a woman with silver hair tucked into a messy bun, began the lecture on the Six Canvases of Chinese Painting. As she spoke, the room dimmed, and vibrant slides of ancient landscapes filled the screen.
"The most important principle," the professor whispered into the dark, "Is Qì yùn shèng dòng. The spirit resonance. Without it, a painting is just ink. It has no life."
Besides me, I saw Huashu's hand moving. He wasn't taking notes. He was sketching the way the light from the projector caught the side of my face. I caught him looking, and I felt a shy flush creep up my neck.
"You're doing it again," I whispered.
"I can't help it," he murmured back, his eyes dancing with a light I never saw in Lin Xuan's. "You have a lot of 'spirit resonance,' Allie. Most people here are too busy trying to be statues. You're actually alive."
"For the midterm," the professor announced, snapping the lights back on, "you'll work in pairs. I want a collaborative piece that bridges the traditional with the modern. Find your partner."
Before the professor had even finished the sentence, Huashu had already written my name next to his on his sketchbook page in bold, elegant strokes.
"Don't even look around," he joked, nudging my shoulder with his. "You're stuck with the best artist in the year. It's a heavy burden, I know."
I laughed – a real, genuine laugh that felt like it had been trapped in my throat for days. "I think I can handle that. But I should warn you, my brushwork is…enthusiastic at best."
"Perfect," he said, his expression turning more serious, more grounded. He leaned in, his voice dropping so the students around wouldn't hear. "Listen, Allie. I know Xuan is…a lot. He's my best friend, but sometimes he forgets that people aren't made of numbers. Don't let his coldness make you feel small."
He reached out and gave my hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. "You've got me now. If he's the frost, think of me as the sun. I'm not going to let you drown in that class, and I'm definitely not going to let you spend your time in China feeling like a 'chore.' Consider us a team. For the project, and for everything else."
I looked at him, feeling a lump of gratitude in my throat. I had spent so long dreaming of this country, but I hadn't realized that the people would be the hardest to navigate.
"Thank you, Huashu," I said softly. "I really needed a friend today."
"You don't just have a friend," he corrected, tapping his pencil against the table. "You have a partner in crime. Now, let's talk about this project. I was thinking something with emerald silk and Chicago grit…"
We spent the rest of the hour whispering over his sketchbook, planning a mural that felt like a bridge between two homes. For the first time, I felt like I wasn't just a guest in Shanghai – I was a creator.
But as the clock ticked toward three, the shadow of my next appointment began to loom. I had to leave the warmth of the art studio and head towards the Special Collections Library. I had to go back to the frost.
The walk from the Art Building to the library was the first time Allie felt like she could breathe the Shanghai air without it sticking in her throat. Beside her, Gu Huashu moved with a rhythmic, effortless grace that felt almost cinematic.
As they crossed the stone bridge, Allie found herself stealing glances at him. It wasn't just that he was handsome; it was the way he occupied the space around him. While Lin Xuan was all sharp angles and iron-pressed creases, Huashu was soft, fluid, and draped in a linen shirt that fluttered in the breeze.
With his charcoal-stained fingers and the way his hair fell haphazardly over his brow, he looked less like a student and more like the lead in a high-budget historical drama – the poetic scholar artist who lived by the moon. He didn't just walk; he composed a scene.
He really should be in front of the lens, not behind the sketchbook, she thought, mesmerized by the way his jawline caught the afternoon light.
"You know Chicago," Huashu said, his voice a low, melodic purr. He didn't turn his head, but a slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face. "If you stare any harder, I'm going to have to start charging you a modeling fee. I thought I was supposed to be the one drawing you."
Allie's heart leaped into her throat. "I – I wasn't staring! I was just…looking at the architecture."
"Right. The architecture of my face. I get it. It's a national treasure." He laughed, a light, teasing sound.
Flustered and turning a shade of pink that rivaled the sunset, Allie looked down at her feet, trying to regain her dignity. But in her haste, her sandal caught on a raised paving stone. The world suddenly tilted.
"Whoa!"
Before she could meet the pavement, Huashu's arm snapped out with surprising strength. He caught her by the waist, pulling her against him to steady her. For a heartbeat, she was tucked against his chest, her hands resting instinctively on his shoulders. He didn't let go immediately; instead, he held her there, looking down at her with a grin that was half-concern, half-triumph.
"Careful. I can't have my partner breaking a leg before we even start the mural," he teased, his face inches from hers.
"Thank you," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs – not from the fall, but from the sudden proximity to someone so…vibrant.
"Are you finished?"
The voice was like a guillotine blade, cold and sharp, cutting through the humid afternoon.
Allie stiffened and pulled away from Huashu, her face burning. Standing ten feet away, leaning against the heavy oak doors of the Special Collections library, was Lin Xuan.
He was the perfect antithesis to Huashu's warmth. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression one of bored, clinical detachment. He looked at his watch, the silver face glinting under the library's stone archway.
"You're four minutes late," Lin Xuan stated, his gaze flickering over Allie's disheveled hair and then over to Huashu's hand, which was only just leaving her arm. He didn't look angry. He didn't even look jealous. He looked as if he were observing a particularly dull biological experiment.
"She tripped, Xuan. Relax," Huashu said, his tone turning protective as he stepped slightly in front of Allie. "We were talking about our Art History project. We're partners."
"How touching," Lin Xuan replied, his voice flat. He pushed off the wall, his eyes never truly meeting Allie's. He acted as if the display of affection – the holding, the laughter, the closeness – meant absolutely nothing to him. "But her 'spirit resonance' won't help her pass Quantitative Analysis.
Huashu, go back to your coloring books. Allie, get inside. I have a lab report to finish by six, and I don't intend to waste another second."
He turned and pushed the heavy library doors open without waiting for her.
Allie looked at Huashu, who gave her a sympathetic squeeze of the shoulder. "Go on," he whispered. "Just remember, he's only cold because he doesn't know how to handle the heat. See you at the studio tomorrow?"
Allie nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into the library. The heavy doors groaned shut behind her, cutting off the sunlight and leaving her alone in the shadows with the Ice Prince.
The Special Collections library was a cathedral of silence. Rows of floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves held leather-bound scrolls and ancient texts, the air heavy with the scent of vanilla, dust, and aged paper.
Lin Xuan sat at a long, green-shaded lamp table in the far corner. He didn't look up when I approached. He simply tapped a stack of thick, intimidating textbooks with his pen.
"Sit," he commanded. "We've wasted enough time on theatrics outside. We're starting with the derivative functions of market volatility."
For the next three hours, the only sound was the scratching of pens and the occasional, sharp snap of Lin Xuan's voice when I hesitated over a calculation. He was a brutal teacher. He didn't offer encouragement; he offered corrections. He didn't explain concepts; he dissected my errors until I felt like a child learning to count.
"Again," he would say, his voice flat line. "Your logic is emotional. Numbers don't have feelings, Allie. Stop trying to find a 'rhythm' in the data and look at the proof."
I worked until my fingers ached and my eyes blurred. I tried to channel the "spirit resonance" Huashu had talked about, but it was hard to find a soul in a spreadsheet. I stole a glance at Lin Xuan. His focus was terrifying. He was working on his own senior thesis while simultaneously catching every single mistake I made in my peripheral vision. He was a machine in a charcoal suit.
The shadows in the library lengthened, the golden afternoon fading into a deep, bruised purple dusk. We had lost track of the world outside.
Just as I was trying to solve a complex equilibrium problem, the silence of the room was shattered by a loud, unmistakable sound.
Gurgle.
My stomach betrayed me with a long, echoing growl that seemed to vibrate against the wooden table. I froze, my face instantly turning the color of a ripe cherry. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that the ancient walls would just crumble and bury me. I hadn't eaten since the small, tense breakfast with Chen Lu, and the adrenaline of the day had finally run out.
Lin Xuan's pen stopped. He didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at me. His expression was the same as always – calculated and cool – but his eyebrow arched just a fraction of a millimeter.
"Is that your 'spirit resonance'?" he asked, his voice dry.
"I…I'm sorry," I whispered, clutching my stomach as if I could stifle the hunger. "I forgot to eat. I'll keep working."
I leaned back over the book, but my brain was foggy. I stared at the numbers, but they just looked like tiny black ants crawling across the page.
Lin Xuan let out a long, slow sigh. He checked his watch, then closed his laptop with a definitive click.
"It's 7:45 PM," he said, standing up and smoothing his slacks. "At this rate of cognitive decline, you will spend thirty minutes on a single equation. It is a poor return on investment."
I started to pack my bag, expecting him to dismiss me so I could crawl back to my dorm and find a granola bar. But instead, he reached out and took the heavy textbook from my hand, placing it back on the shelf.
"Come," he said, grabbing his blazer.
I blinked, confused. "Come where? Am I…am I dismissed?"
He paused at the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. For the first time, his gaze wasn't resting on my mistakes. It was just resting on me. "The faculty dining hall is closed, and the student canteen will be serving leftovers. There is a small noodle shop three blocks from the north gate that stays open late. It is…acceptable."
My jaw nearly dropped. "Are you…taking me to get food?"
Lin Xuan adjusted his lapel, his face returning to its impenetrable mask. "I am fulfilling my duty to ensure the exchange student doesn't die of malnutrition on her second day. It would be a significant amount of paperwork. Don't make it more than it is."
He walked out into the hallway, his pace brisk. I stood there for a second, stunned, before scrambling to catch up. The Ice Prince was actually treating me to a meal.
The walk to the north gate was a study in contrast. The campus was bathed in the blue-black ink of night, punctuated by the yellow glow of stone lamps. Lin Xuan walked a precise half step ahead of me, his shadow long and imposing. He didn't speak, but he didn't rush either, seemingly cognizant of my shorter stride and the exhaustion weighing down my limbs.
The noodle shop was tucked into a narrow alleyway, identifiable only by a steaming red lantern and the rhythmic thwack-thwack of dough being pulled by hand. It was a world away from the mahogany library – cramped, humid, and smelling of star anise, ginger, and slow-simmered beef.
Lin Xuan didn't ask for a menu. He spoke to the elderly woman behind the counter in rapid-fire Shanghainese, a dialect far more musical and fluid than the sharp Mandarin he used in class.
We sat at a small, scarred wooden table in the back. The air was thick with steam, which instantly began to wilt the careful curls I had put in my hair that morning. Lin Xuan removed his blazer, draping it precisely over the back of his stool, revealing the stark white of his shirt sleeves rolled up twice – a rare glimpse of informality that felt almost scandalous.
"This place has been here for forty years," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register to compete with the bubbling vats of broth. "My grandfather used to bring me here when I was a child, before the city became…vertical."
A moment later, two steaming bowls of Lanzhou Lamian were placed before us. The broth was clear but rich, topped with cilantro, radish, and tender slices of beef.
"Eat," he said, handing me a pair of wooden chopsticks. "Your brain cannot function on an empty stomach."
I took a sip of the broth, and the warmth spread through me, momentarily silencing the jet-lagged ache in my head. I looked at him across the table. The steam was softening the harsh lines on his face, making him look less like a statue and more like the boy his grandfather had brought here.
"Since you're being… 'acceptable' tonight," I started, testing the waters. "Can I ask you something? Not about market volatility?"
Lin Xuan paused, a single noodle suspended from his chopstick. He looked at me, his eyes cool and analytical. "You have been struggling with focus all day. I suspect if I don't allow you some level of curiosity, you will spend tomorrow's session daydreaming."
He set his chopsticks down and leaned back, crossing his arms. "Three questions. That is the limit of my patience. Choose them wisely, Allie."
I leaned forward, my heart racing.
"Question One," I said. "Why Computer Science? You're clearly brilliant, and you seem to care about history – you brought me here, after all. But when you talk about code and logic, you sound like you're building a fortress, not just a program."
Lin Xuan's expression didn't flicker, but he looked away, toward the red lantern at the door. "Systems are reliable," he said. "In code, if there is an error, it is because of a logic flaw that can be found and fixed. The world is chaotic; human emotions are unpredictable. But a well-written algorithm? It dictates its own reality. I don't love the screen, Allie. I respect the order. Next."
I nodded, fascinated by the cold logic of it.
"Question two. Gu Huashu said you're the only person here I could truly count on. If you hate being my guide so much, why didn't you just tell the Dean no?"
Lin Xuan's gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and piercing. "I don't 'hate' the assignment. Hate is an inefficient emotion. I accepted because the university asked, and I do not want to fail my obligations. If I am your guide, you will be the most well-informed student on this campus. My personal feelings on the 'headache' of it are irrelevant to the quality of work."
It was a classic Lin Xuan answer. Shrouded in duty to hide whatever was underneath.
"Last one," I whispered, looking down at my bowl. "Do you ever…just do something because it makes you happy? Not because it's a duty, or an obligation, or part of a ten-year plan?"
The silence stretched between us. The sounds of the shop – clinking of bowls, the hiss of the stove – seemed to fade. Lin Xuan stared at me, and for a second, the frost in his eyes seemed to thin, revealing a profound, quiet tiredness.
"I am here, aren't I?" he said softly.
He didn't explain. He didn't say it was for the noodles, or for the Dean, or for the duty. He just picked up his chopsticks and began to eat again, the wall clicking back into place with a finality that told me the interview was over.
But as I ate my noodles, I realized that for a man who claimed to have no feelings, Lin Xuan had just given me the most honest answer of the night.
The steam from the noodles had long since dissipated, replaced by the cool, night-blooming jasmine scent of the alleyway. Lin Xuan sat back, his fingers tracing the rim of his tea cup.
"I have fulfilled your curiosity," he said, his voice regaining its analytical edge. "In the interest of equilibrium, I require the same. Three questions, Allie. I want to understand the logic behind your presence here, because so far, my calculations are coming up short."
I shifted on the wooden stool, feeling the sudden weight of his undivided attention. "Fair enough. Ask away."
"First," he began, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why art? You have the cognitive capacity for more…structural fields. Yet you spend your time in a studio with Gu Huashu, chasing 'spirit resonance.' What is the utility of it?"
I smiled, though it wasn't a shy smile this time. "It's not about utility, Xuan. It's about storytelling. Back home, I don't just paint landscapes; I draw manga. I want to create worlds where art and words work together to make people feel something they can't put into words. It's not a 'fortress' like your code. It's a bridge.
He looked at me for a long beat, as if trying to parse a line of code that didn't follow the standard syntax. "Manga," he repeated, the word sounding strange coming from him. "You want to draw stories for children?"
"For everyone," I corrected gently. "Stories about people who feel out of place. Like they're in a city that's too big for them."
He didn't acknowledge the hit. "Second question. Why China? If you want to draw, Japan is the obvious choice for your medium. Why come to Shanghai, to a university that prioritizes finance and technology, just to be looked down upon by professors like Zhang?"
I looked at the red lantern swaying in the breeze. "Because my mother used to tell me stories about the 'Old Shanghai' – the poetry, the ink washes, the history that feels like it's breathing under the pavement. I didn't want the 'obvious' choice. I wanted a place that felt like a challenge. I've had dreams about these streets since I was ten. I had to see if the colors in my head matched the real thing."
"And the third?" I prompted when he remained silent.
Lin Xuan stood up, reaching for his blazer. He didn't ask the third question immediately. He waited until he had draped the jacket over his arm and settled the bill with the elderly woman. As we stepped out into the quiet street, he finally spoke.
"Question three," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Do you actually believe that a 'dream' can survive reality? Or are you just waiting for the cold to prove you wrong?"
The question felt like a lead weight. Before I could answer – before I could tell him that the dream is what keeps the cold away – we reached the gates of the international dorms.
The lobby was dimly lit, the marble floors reflecting the overhead lights like a sheet of ice. Standing in the center of the room, her arms crossed and a designer bag draped over her shoulder, was Chen Lu.
She wasn't alone. Two of her friends were whispering-chatting behind her, but they went silent the moment we walked through the doors. Chen Lu's eyes didn't go to me. They went straight to Lin Xuan – specifically to his rolled-up sleeves and the fact that he was walking beside me at nearly eleven at night.
"Xuan," she said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that didn't reach her cold eyes. "I didn't realize the 'tutoring' sessions required late-night excursions to noodle shops. You smell like cheap broth."
Lin Xuan didn't flinch. He didn't even slow down. "She needed to eat, Chen Lu. Malnutrition interferes with data retention. It's a matter of efficiency."
Chen Lu stepped into our path, forcing us to stop. She looked at me, her gaze traveling from my messy hair down to my denim skirt, lingering with a look of profound distaste.
"Efficiency," she echoed, her lip curling. "Is that what we are calling it now? I hope you're careful, Allie. In this city, people who chase 'dreams' usually end up getting lost in the dark. And Lin Xuan? He doesn't like being the one to go looking for them."
She leaned in closer to me, her perfume clashing violently with the lingering scent of star anise from the shop. "Don't mistake his 'duty' for an invitation. You're just a line of code he's being paid to debug."
Lin Xuan's jaw tightened. "That's enough, Chen Lu. Go back to your room."
He didn't defend me, but he did end the conversation. He turned to me, his expression reverting to the impenetrable mask I had seen in the library. "Tomorrow. 08:00. Don't let the 'drama' of the dorms affect your punctuality."
He walked away toward the elevators without a backward glance, leaving me standing in the lobby under the blistering glare of Chen Lu's resentment.
I stood frozen in the center of the lobby, the automatic doors sliding shut behind me with a soft hiss. My gaze was fixed on the glowing floor indicator above the elevator bank.
1…2…3…4.
The bell chimed – a pleasant melodic sound – as the doors opened to swallow Lin Xuan and his unwavering stoicism.
A sudden, sharp realization hit me, hotter than the embarrassment Chen Lu had just tried to dish out. The elevators. They worked. They were fast. They were right here, polished and waiting.
My mind flashed back to my arrival – the humidity, my heavy suitcase, and Lin Xuan's cold voice telling me there were "three levels of stairs" and that he wouldn't be helping me past the lobby. He had watched me struggle. He had watched me heave my life's belongings up those concrete flights while he stood there with his hands in his pockets, probably counting the seconds I was wasting.
He hadn't just been cold. He had been a liar.
"Is there a problem, Allie?" Chen Lu asked, her voice snapping me back to reality. She was still standing there, watching me with a smug, cat-like expression. "You look like you just realized you're out of your depth."
"No," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. I gripped the strap of my bag. "I just realized that some people go to a lot of trouble to be difficult."
I didn't wait for her response. I just went into the dorm without another word.
Upstairs, the dorms were quiet, safe for the hum of the air conditioning. I grabbed my shower caddy and retreated into the shared bathroom, needing the steam to wash away the scent of the noodle shop and the sting of the day.
I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water turn my skin pink. I thought about the three questions. I thought about the way he had looked at the red lantern. And then I thought about the stairs. He was a fortress, alright – a fortress with hidden traps for anyone foolish enough to try and enter.
I was drying off, wrapped in my robe and tucked behind the heavy plastic curtain of the changing stall, when the bathroom door creaked open. High-heeled footsteps clicked against the tile.
I stayed silent, not wanting another round with Chen Lu. Then, I heard the beep of a phone and her voice, no longer sweet or performative. It was sharp, calculating.
"Yes, I'm back," she said into the phone. I could hear the muffled voice of a girl on the other end. "Of course it's working. Why else would I agree to live in this cramped room with an American who smells like laundry detergent? The Dean is a family friend; it wasn't hard to 'suggest' the rooming assignment."
I held my breath, my heart sinking into my stomach.
"If I'm her roommate, I'm the first person Xuan sees when he drops her off," Chen Lu continued, her tone bored. "I'm the one he has to coordinate with if she's 'missing' or 'ill.' It's the perfect proximity. She's not a threat, she's a bridge. A messy, clumsy bridge that I'll walk over to get exactly where I want to be."
She laughed – a dry, humorless sound – as she turned on the faucet to wash her hands. "Don't worry. By the end of the semester, she'll be back in Chicago, and I'll be the one sitting in his passenger seat. It's all been arranged."
The door clicked shut behind her.
I stood in the shadows of the stall, the damp towel heavy around my shoulders. I felt a momentary prick of tears, but they were quickly replaced by a weary, hollow sense of clarity.
Of course, I thought. Of course, everything in this city is calculated. Even the girl I sleep ten feet away from is just using me as a variable.
I walked back into the room. Chen Lu was already in bed, her back to me, the glow of her phone the only light. I didn't say a word. I climbed into my own bed, pulled the thin blanket up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling.
I had come here to find the "spirit resonance" of Shanghai. Instead, I had found a liar for a guide and a saboteur for a roommate. But as I closed my eyes, I thought of Gu Huashu's sketch – the one where I looked brave.
The ice was thick, and the players were experienced. But they forgot one thing about people who draw stories: we know how to handle the villain.