Hangzhou – Day Fourteen
The hall was full, the sounds muffled, students' whispers intersecting with the scratching of their pens on paper. The smell of fresh ink and paper mingled with a faint scent of sweat, while the weak air conditioner failed to ease the pressure of the outside heat.
The old unit sputtered with a broken rhythm, as if panting rather than cooling, while an ancient fan in the corner spun with nerve-grating slowness, producing only the faintest stir of air.
On the walls, faded chalk stains lingered, and the scent of new paper mixed with old dust, as though the place itself carried the memory of countless generations of past exams.
From beyond the window came a muted noise: car horns, the cry of a street vendor, the hurried steps of passersby. Distant, yet enough to remind them that the world went on out there, while they were trapped in the silence of this hall.
Liu Shao sat at his usual seat by the window, though he barely noticed the daylight filtering through the glass… his mind was fixed on the mysterious loading bar that kept advancing.
Professor Tang, the microbiology teacher, a man in his mid-fifties, began distributing the exam papers. His voice was deep and reserved:
"Today's test covers RNA viruses, replication mechanisms, and airborne diseases. Begin when you are ready."
As the students turned the pages of their exams, Liu Shao looked at the questions—each one appearing to him more intricate than reality itself.
As he wrote, he felt the words on the paper tremble, their letters overlapping as though morphing into familiar symbols from the END.exe screen.
Each question was no longer just a printed line, but a hidden warning only he could see.
"Describe the life cycle of the virus…" looked to him like:
"Describe the life cycle of the sun…"
He shivered, closed his eyes for a moment. But when he opened them again, the text was back to normal, just scientific questions. Still, the feeling lingered that the exam was testing him personally—not his knowledge.
And every time he wrote about a scientific mechanism, it felt as though he was setting off a chain of events.
When he wrote the word isolation, he imagined entire cities shutting their gates, empty streets, and suffocating silence.
When he wrote vaccination, he saw in his mind millions of arms outstretched, needles piercing skin all at once, a single vast cry echoing across the globe.
Even the word surveillance made him imagine countless eyes watching from the sky, tracking every movement, every breath—just like the eyes following the green bar as it advanced.
His answers were no longer simple solutions, but small keys altering the shape of the end.
Liu Shao smiled faintly, half in irony:
"Even here, I can't escape… even scientific solutions are not enough."
---
As his gaze drifted across the students, his eyes fell on Chen Yue, seated not far away. The latter looked pale, holding his head in his hands, tension etched on his face.
At first, Liu Shao thought his friend was drowning in exam anxiety. But then he noticed the familiar movement of his fingers—the way he tapped on the desk as if keeping track of a rhythm.
Then he realized the truth: Chen Yue wasn't worried about the questions. He was nearly suffocating because he had been forced to stop reading his novel at a decisive moment right before entering the hall.
Liu Shao's faint smile deepened. Even here, under this cosmic weight, someone else's problem could be simpler… and more human.
The moment he understood that his friend's anxiety had nothing to do with the exam or the green bar—just the frustration of being cut off at a thrilling part of a story—he felt a strange burden lift from his chest.
His breathing calmed, his heartbeat slowed.
He looked at him again, watching those restless fingers moving with a childlike impatience that seemed so out of place in this heavy atmosphere.
An overwhelming urge to laugh rose in him—not mocking his friend, but laughing at life itself.
How could one person sit here, burdened with the fate of the world, while the one next to him worried only about a fictional hero paused mid-adventure?
At that moment, Liu Shao chose to ignore everything weighing on his mind, and clung to that fleeting irony, as though it were a hidden lifeline reminding him he was still human, no matter how close the universe seemed to collapse.
---
The final minutes of the exam dragged by slowly. Liu Shao glanced now and then at his teacher, at his classmates, then out the window where the sun glittered over the city—reflecting the world's march toward its fate. As if whispering to him: "The end is coming, and every choice here mirrors everyone's destiny."
But this time he chose to ignore it. He wanted at least a fragment of rest. So he lowered his head, resting it on his right arm, while the exam minutes ticked away.
At last, when the professor announced the end, Liu Shao lifted his head slowly.
His papers were not just scientific answers, but a silent attempt to grasp his role—to balance knowledge with fate, the real with the unknown, the exam with the cosmos itself.
He sat for a moment, staring at the classroom window, trying to breathe in something natural amid the heat and pressure. Then he quietly reached for his bag—where his phone was waiting, along with the advancing bar:
ꪤ Solar Collapse — Module Loading ‐ 14%