The morning air still carried a bite of cold when the bell rang, but inside the classroom it was already a restless storm. Desks scraped against the floor, students laughed too loudly, voices overlapped in shrill gossip. Someone tossed a ball of paper across the room. Another boy leaned back in his chair, kicking the leg of the desk in front of him until the poor thing groaned.
An Ran sat at her corner desk, as she always did, her pink thermos of warm tea steaming faintly by her elbow. The noise didn't touch her. She flipped open her battered script book, the one she had borrowed from the drama club library, and silently mouthed lines under her breath.
Her lips moved carefully, her voice inaudible, but every so often she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to feel the emotion behind the words. "The stage isn't only about speaking," she remembered one of the seniors saying last week. "It's about breathing, pausing, even silence."
She practiced silence now, holding the page open as though her heart could bleed into it.
But her body betrayed her, her vision blurred, the letters swam. With a frustrated sigh, she took off her glasses and rubbed at her tired eyes. The rims left faint red marks against her pale skin. Had her eyesight grown worse? Or maybe it was just the long nights again, sitting hunched under the lamp rehearsing monologues no one would ever hear.
She pressed her palms into her sockets until stars danced in the dark, then set her glasses back on. The noise around her grew sharper again, voices pricking at her like needles.
"Look at her, still acting like she's too good for us."
"Practicing? What's the point, does she think she'll ever be on stage?"
A ripple of laughter followed, some mocking, some pitying.
An Ran's shoulders hunched slightly, but she did not raise her head.
Jiang Cheng's voice floated faintly from the back row, low and detached as always. He wasn't mocking her, but he wasn't defending her either. Somehow, that quiet indifference stung worse.
The volume in the classroom climbed higher, like a tide about to break its banks.
BANG!
The classroom door slammed open.
"Quiet!" the homeroom teacher barked, striding in with a stack of folders under her arm. Her sharp voice cracked like a whip, slicing the noise in half. The students shrank instantly, some half-standing, some smugly dropping back into their seats.
And behind her, he walked in.
Qin Mo Ran.
The black of his uniform clung to his tall, lean frame, neat lines emphasizing a thin figure that carried no warmth. His steps were even, soundless, his expression carved from stone.
The air shifted. A hush fell, broken only by the shuffle of shoes as students turned to look.
Some stared at him with open curiosity. Others with pity, whispers traveled quickly: "That's the one… the heir whose parents—" "Such a tragedy, poor boy…"
A few girls smoothed their hair, lips curling into rehearsed smiles, hoping he might glance their way.
He didn't.
He walked like a machine, gaze locked ahead, ignoring greetings and sidelong looks alike. His presence was too heavy, too untouchable, like a shadow that swallowed light.
An Ran lifted her head without meaning to.
Her gaze found him instantly, framed against the door, the pale morning light falling across his sharp jawline, his ash brown hair messy, his empty eyes. For one second, one dangerous second, it felt as though the entire room dissolved around her.
And then, unexpectedly, Qin Mo Ran's gaze turned.
He looked at her.
No flicker of recognition, no change in expression. Just a void, black and hollow, as if he were staring through her.
An Ran's heart stumbled, a strange pressure filling her chest. She couldn't tell if it was fear or something else.
"Qin Mo Ran," the teacher announced briskly, unaware of the tension in the room. "He will be joining our class starting today. Everyone behave yourselves and make him feel welcome."
No one moved.
Only An Ran felt the weight of that gaze linger a second longer before it slipped away, leaving her breathless, as though she had just been seen by someone who wasn't really looking at all.