The rain made ghosts of the campus lights, smearing the pathways into liquid gold. He stood under the awning of the biology building, watching droplets fracture against his phone screen—$197,843 had become $205,291 in the span of a single lecture. The numbers coiled in his gut like a live wire. He hadn't touched the trades. Someone else was moving his money.
A shadow detached itself from the columns to his left. The male lead—Zhang Wei, though no one dared use his first name yet—leaned against the brickwork, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. "You're interesting lately," Zhang said, conversational, as if discussing the weather. The sophomore from earlier was nowhere in sight. Another deviation.
He kept his eyes on his phone. "Don't know what you mean."
Zhang's lighter clicked. Once. Twice. No flame. "Lin never looks at anyone twice." A pause. "She looked at you four times today." The unlit cigarette crumpled in his grip. "Who are you?"
The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been. In the novel, Zhang's intuition was infallible—a protagonist's sixth sense for threats to his destiny. But this wasn't the novel anymore.
He pocketed his phone. "Just a guy who paid attention in class."
Zhang's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Funny. The guy who owned that seat last semester failed Chen's midterm." He pushed off the wall, close enough that the rain on his jacket dripped onto their shoes. "You're not him."
The downpour intensified, drumming against the awning like a thousand frantic fingers. Somewhere in the storm, a car horn wailed—three short bursts, the signal the heiress used in Chapter Nine when summoning Zhang for midnight drives. But Zhang didn't twitch. His focus was absolute.
"Midnight," Zhang murmured. "The old physics building." His hand shot out, grasping the front of his jacket. "Whatever game you're playing with Lin—"
A notification chimed. His phone screen lit up with a transfer confirmation: $50,000 moved to a Swiss account he'd never accessed. The timestamp read tomorrow's date.
Zhang's grip loosened. "What the hell—?"
He yanked free, backing into the rain. "You're asking the wrong questions." The cold water seeping through his collar grounded him. "Who's moving my money, Zhang? Who's rewriting the script?"
The protagonist flinched—just once, barely perceptible—before his expression hardened. "You're insane."
"Maybe." He turned away, letting the rain fill in the space between them. "But I'm not the one following a dead story."
The walk to the physics building took seventeen minutes. He counted each step, each breath, each irregularity—the library closing two hours early, the security guard who should've been patrolling this sector already napping at his post. The rooftop access door groaned when he pushed it open, rust flaking onto his sleeve. Lin stood at the edge, her silhouette backlit by the city's glow. She didn't turn.
"Your account gained another $12,000 while you walked here," she said. Her voice was calm, almost bored. "Zhang intercepted you. He's on his way now."
He froze. "How—?"
Lin finally faced him. The scar on her wrist glowed pale in the moonlight. "Because I've read the book too," she said. "Page 622. The scene where Zhang corners the minor character who dared disrupt his narrative." Her lips curved. "Except that scene doesn't exist anymore."
The wind howled through the gaping elevator shaft behind her. Somewhere below, a door slammed. Footsteps echoed—too fast, too angry. Zhang.
Lin stepped closer. "So tell me," she whispered, "are you here to survive the story—" Her fingers brushed the folded brokerage statement in his pocket. "Or burn it down?"