The credits rolled in dim golden light, but the theatre emptied slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth. Jian checked his phone—11:47 p.m. Later than they'd planned. Yanyan stretched beside him, coat already half-on, cheeks still flushed from laughing at the film's final scene.
Outside, winter had claimed the city completely.
The sky wasn't black; it was a bruised, heavy indigo that pressed down on rooftops and streetlamps alike. The cold bit instantly, sharp enough to make breath plume white and visible. Streetlights burned with a softer, almost liquid glow, their halos pooling on wet pavement like spilled moonlight. Jian zipped his jacket higher. Yanyan slipped her gloved hand through the crook of his elbow without asking.
They walked the main road first, past shuttered boutiques and neon signs flickering goodnight. Yanyan chattered brightly about the movie—the way the male lead had hesitated before the confession, how the soundtrack swelled at exactly the right moment. Jian murmured agreements at the proper intervals, nodding when she glanced up, but his thoughts kept drifting sideways.
He'd barely registered the plot. Every time the on-screen couple leaned in, lips brushing in slow motion, it wasn't Yanyan's soft profile that surfaced in his mind. It was sharper angles, darker eyes, a mouth that rarely smiled. The image came uninvited and left him unsettled, chest tight with something he refused to name.
The wind picked up, rattling bare branches overhead. A few crisp leaves cartwheeled across the sidewalk. Yanyan pressed closer, hugging his arm.
"Jian-ge, today was really fun," she said, voice small and sincere against the cold. "Thank you for coming with me. I know you're busy with college apps."
He managed a small smile—the one he'd practiced in mirrors since middle school, polite and unthreatening. "Mn. It was okay."
But it wasn't. Something had been pulling at him since the last bell rang, a quiet restlessness he couldn't shake. Yanyan's warmth felt distant even when her fingers laced with his. He kept his gaze on the sidewalk, counting cracks to avoid looking too long at her expectant face.
They turned off the main road onto the narrower street that led to her bus stop. The buildings closed in, blocking most of the wind but trapping the chill closer to the skin. Every exhale left ghostly clouds. Yanyan tugged his sleeve.
"Jian-ge, it's freezing. Can we walk a bit faster? Or... closer together?"
He nodded absently. "Yeah."
They rounded the final corner.
And the night shattered.
Voices—harsh, overlapping—erupted from the narrow alley just ahead.
"YOU BITCH—ANSWER PROPERLY!"
"Talk, asshole! Don't just fucking stand there!"
"Who the hell do you think you are?!"
Yanyan stopped dead, fingers digging into Jian's sleeve. "Oh my god… Jian-ge, they're—they're hitting someone—"
Jian's head whipped toward the sound.
Five boys, jackets bearing the crest of a rival vocational school, formed a loose semicircle. In the center stood a single figure—perfectly still, hands loose at his sides, head slightly bowed as though listening to distant music.
One of the five lunged forward, jabbing a finger at the boy's face. "Hey! I'm talking to you! You deaf or what?"
The boy in the middle lifted his gaze slowly.
"I heard you," he said. The voice was low, measured, almost gentle. "You just didn't like what I said."
Jian's lungs seized.
That cadence. That flat calm.
He knew it.
The group exploded again.
"What kind of fucking attitude is that?!"
"Acting all tough now?!"
"Say sorry properly, prick!"
The boy tilted his head, hair falling across one eye. His tone never rose. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why apologize?"
The leader—taller, broader, silver chain glinting at his throat—stepped right into his space. "You little shit. Do you even know who we are?"
"I don't care."
Jian blinked, stunned. Yanyan whispered, voice trembling, "Jian-ge… his voice… isn't that—"
Before she could finish, the leader's hand flashed.
SMACK!
The sound ricocheted off brick walls like a whipcrack. The boy's head snapped sideways; dark strands whipped across his face. A thin thread of blood welled at the corner of his mouth, gleaming wet under the single flickering bulb overhead.
Yanyan gasped, hand flying to her lips. "Jian-ge… that's—Cheng Wei?!"
Jian took an instinctive step forward.
Then everything reversed.
The leader opened his mouth to taunt again—"You—!"
Wei moved.
It wasn't rage. It was precision.
His palm cracked across the leader's cheek—louder, harder, a sound that made Jian flinch. Blood sprayed in a fine arc, spattering concrete. The leader staggered, clutching his face, eyes wide with shock.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Wei wiped his own split lip with the pad of his thumb. A slow, cold smile curved his mouth—not cruel exactly, but utterly devoid of warmth. Amusement edged with steel.
"What?" he said softly. "You hit me first. I'm just returning the favor."
Another boy charged, fists raised. "You fucking bastard—"
Wei barely turned his head. "Oh, shut up."
The boy shoved him hard. "Say that again, asshole!"
Wei's jaw flexed once. Then he spoke, slow and deliberate, like correcting a slow learner: "You interrupt people too much."
Confusion rippled through the group.
Wei stepped closer, voice sharpening. "I was answering your question. You interrupted me with that ugly voice of yours. So I answered again. You interrupted again." He paused. "Are you stupid, or just deaf?"
Silence stretched, brittle.
One of them snarled, "You fucking mother—"
Wei's gaze snapped to him like a blade. His voice dropped into something low and lethal. "Say 'motherfucker' one more time. I'll break your jaw."
The alley went deathly quiet.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Yanyan pressed against Jian's side, whispering, "J–Jian-ge… he looks… terrifying…"
Jian couldn't answer. His throat had closed. This wasn't the Cheng Wei from class—the one who doodled in margins, answered questions in monosyllables, disappeared during breaks. This was something else entirely.
Wei turned back to the leader, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him forward with casual brutality.
"Now listen clearly," he said, each word measured. "I don't like repeating myself. But for you… I'll make an exception."
The leader trembled, bravado gone.
Wei leaned in until their faces were inches apart. "I answered your stupid question. You didn't like the answer. You hit me. Now I hit you." His voice was almost gentle. "That's fair. You want more? Come."
Panic broke across the others' faces.
"Bro, leave him—"
"He's fucking psycho—"
"Let's go—GO!"
Wei released the collar like dropping garbage. The leader stumbled back. "Get lost."
They fled—shoes slapping pavement, voices high and panicked as they disappeared around the corner.
Yanyan stared, stunned. "He… he scared all five of them away. Alone…"
Jian didn't hear her.
He watched only Wei.
The boy stood motionless in the center of the alley, breath steady despite the cold. Blood still glistened at his lip. His eyes—dark, sharp—scanned the empty space as though checking for stragglers. Then he tilted his head back, exhaled a long white plume toward the sky.
"Fucking idiots," he muttered. "Wasted ten minutes of my time."
Hands slid back into pockets.
"Now I'll have to stay up later to finish that history paper. What a pain in the ass."
The words were casual, almost bored. As though the violence had been nothing more than a minor interruption. As though splitting someone's lip was equivalent to missing a bus.
Yanyan whispered again, "Jian-ge… he's this scary? But in class he's always so quiet…"
Jian's throat worked. He couldn't speak. Emotions collided inside him—shock, unease, and beneath it all, something heavier. A pull. A gravity he hadn't noticed until now.
Wei turned, walking toward the alley's mouth without glancing left or right. He hadn't seen them standing there, half-hidden in shadow.
As he passed under the dim streetlamp, light carved his profile in sharp relief—high cheekbone, bruised mouth, lashes casting faint shadows. Lonely. Dangerous. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
A volcano wrapped in a winter school uniform, quiet until it wasn't.
And in that suspended second Jian understood something irreversible:
Wei wasn't someone he hated.
He was someone he couldn't understand.
And maybe—maybe—that was worse.