Chapter 35

Ruan Xiao was the last to arrive. She wore a classic Burberry trench coat and had her long hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked much more professional than when I first met her, but her smile was still as sweet as ever.

“Today is the second episode.” Ruan Xiao walked over and smiled at Shang Siyi, saying, “You’re definitely going to trend on social media. I’ve even thought of the hashtag: [Shang Siyi’s acting is off the charts].”

“Isn’t it supposed to be [Shang Siyi playing the fool to catch the tiger]?” Xia Xiqing joined in on teasing Shang Siyi.

　 Shang Sirui puffed out her cheeks, swayed her body, and bumped into Xia Xiqing, “Who’s the tiger? You or Zhou Zhen?”

Xia Xiqing glanced at Zhou Zhen, who was looking down at his phone and didn’t seem to want to respond, so he smiled, “I’ll be the first to die, so of course it’s not me.”

　 “Maybe you’ll be the first to die tonight,” Shang Sirui teased with a smile.

Ruan Xiao also laughed, “Don’t go around setting flags like that.”

　 “Zi-heng hasn’t said much today,” Shang Sui deliberately changed the subject. “Maybe he’s guilty and actually the killer.”

　 “When has he ever been talkative?” Ruan Xiao added a cutting remark without thinking.

Zhou Ziheng, who was being teased, lifted his head, glared sharply at Shang Sirui, and said calmly, “Fine, I’ll kill you first tonight.”

　 Shang Sirui immediately walked over with a smile and hooked her arm around Zhou Ziheng’s neck, “Don’t do that, handsome. Spare me. Hey, didn’t you say last time that if you were the killer, you’d kill Xi Qing first? Don’t forget your promise.”

　 Upon hearing the name Xia Xiqing, Zhou Ziheng’s expression changed slightly. He deliberately pushed Shang Sirui away with a look of disgust, “What oath? You’re crazy.”

After being pushed away, Shang Sirui turned to Xia Xiqing, “You too. No matter who among you two is the killer, you must kill the other. Keep your word.”

　 Ruan Xiao crossed her arms. “Fine, if I’m the killer, I’ll kill you first. I promise.”

Seeing Ruan Xiao speak so seriously, Shang Sirui immediately retorted, “Why? We have no grudges against each other. How can you say that, Xiao Xiao…”

　 “Because you talk too much.”

Everyone was chatting and laughing. Xia Xiqing noticed that Zhou Ziheng had taken off his sunglasses and pinched his nose bridge.

He looked good without makeup, but the dark circles under his eyes were quite severe.

Probably from studying too hard? Xia Xiqing speculated.

　 Several people boarded the plane together, and their seats were arranged together. Before boarding, Xia Xiqing guessed that his seat would be next to Zhou Ziheng, and sure enough, he saw Zhou Ziheng sitting next to his corresponding seat.

Shang Sirui pulled him along behind, “Xiqing, I’m in the row behind you.” He hurried over and sat next to Ruan Xiao by the window, smiling and saying, “I might fall asleep, so maybe we should switch seats—it’ll be more convenient for you.” Ruan Xiao gladly agreed and pulled out a steam eye mask from her bag, “You can use this to sleep—it blocks out the light and is comfortable.”

　 Shang Sirui happily took one, said thank you several times, and then reclined his seat and lay down.

　 Zhou Ziheng’s long legs, which had no place to rest, were taking up too much space. He moved them inward to let Xia Xiqing pass.

“Thank you.”

　 This distant and insincere politeness made Zhou Ziheng feel uncomfortable. Who would have thought that just a few days ago, this person had been having a flirtatious lunch with him in the school cafeteria, teasing each other?

“You’re welcome,” Zhou Ziheng smiled back.

　 As Xia Xi passed by him, Zhou Ziheng caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent—something like lemon, with a cool, woody undertone, reminiscent of cedar. This was completely unlike Xia Xiqing’s style; it seemed more like another man’s taste.

The more he thought about it, the stronger the cedar scent seemed to become, making Zhou Ziheng feel uneasy.

　 Like adding evidence of guilt, he repeatedly argued in his mind about Xia Xiqing’s promiscuity, thinking that this would allow him to distance himself sooner.

　 Out of the corner of his eye, Xia Xiqing’s slender hand rested lightly on the armrest beside the seat. That hand, which had once pressed against his chest, left Zhou Ziheng with lingering fear, causing his mind, which had calmed down over the past few days, to spin once more.

　 After what had happened in the past few days, an irreparable rift had formed between Xia Xiqing and Zhou Ziheng, though their relationship had never been particularly close to begin with. But Xia Xiqing was born proud, and his self-respect had been repeatedly shattered. Even though he harbored a strong desire to conquer the person before him, he needed a period of recovery to regain his strength.

　 Everyone Zhou Ziheng had been with before had succumbed to the illusion he had created, but he refused to sink into it. This fact itself kept reminding Xia Xiqing—a person like you, no one will truly love you.

Though he had long understood this truth.

　 Xia Xiqing, who was reluctant to speak, chose to sleep. He looked at the steam eye mask in his hand, hesitated for a moment, and eventually set it aside, simply closing his eyes and leaning against the window.

Zhou Ziheng looked at the eye mask he had set aside and recalled the first time he recorded a program, when his eyes had been covered.

　 Xia Xiqing was afraid of the dark, and wearing an eye mask in a closed room would probably cause an adverse reaction at first.

So he took a gamble, using the fastest and most direct method to test whether there was another person in the room, to help him escape from the darkness.

Perhaps because of his fluctuating mood, Zhou Ziheng couldn’t sleep well. He flipped through a quantum mechanics book he hadn’t finished reading before.

　 The sunlight at 4:30 PM shone on the pages, making the smooth pages appear fuzzy, as if one could see the tiny white paper fibers gently swaying between the printed words, much like Zhou Ziheng’s heart at that moment, swaying in a way that was almost imperceptible to others.

　 Xia Xiqing, who was in a state of light sleep, adjusted his head slightly, closing his eyes. As his head lifted, his neck stretched out long, resembling a swan in a daze under the sunlight.

　 Zhou Ziheng forced himself not to look at him, but the dark screen of his laptop reflected Xia Xiqing’s sleeping face. The prominent Adam’s apple on his sleek neck resembled a solitary mountain range on a plain, with Zhou Ziheng’s heart buried beneath it. Every time that small protrusion moved slightly, his heart began to tremble uncontrollably.

　 He suddenly found himself deeply immersed in this quiet moment. Though peeping was not exactly a noble act, at this moment, Xia Xiqing would not actively tempt him or make any dangerous moves. He simply existed quietly by his side, like a volcano temporarily dormant.

　 He lingered over the cherry blossom rain and snowlight of Mount Fuji, yet feared the fiery lava that could erupt at any moment.

Human desires are always selfish and complex.

　 Compared to the face reflected on the screen, the book in his hands seemed to be missing something. Zhou Ziheng’s fingers impatiently flipped through two pages, then couldn’t help but feel sorry. It wasn’t that the book was missing something, but that his heart was missing a piece.

A piece had been devoured by the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

　 His gaze kept drifting toward the screen. Zhou Ziheng noticed that Xia Xiqing’s eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and guessed that it might be because the light was too bright. He reached out as gently as possible to pull down the sun visor for him, but just as his fingers touched the window, he heard Xia Xiqing’s voice.

“Don’t close it.”

　 Xia Xiqing didn’t open his eyes, but turned his head toward the window, his voice carrying a hint of drowsiness and hoarseness.

“I can’t sleep without light.”

　 His fingers curled involuntarily, and Zhou Ziheng withdrew his hand.

Xia Xiqing hadn’t fallen completely asleep. His eyes were closed, but his other senses had become hypersensitive. He could hear the sound of Zhou Ziheng turning the pages of a book, deliberately moving slowly and gently to prolong the friction of the pages, which slowly scraped at his heart. He could also hear Zhou Ziheng’s occasional long breaths, which sounded like sighs, yet not quite.

　 Light has no shape.

With his eyes closed, his perception of light was most precise.

So when Zhou Ziheng reached out, Xia Xiqing quickly awoke. His longing for light prevented him from sleeping soundly, and fear and dread—emotions he had locked away in the darkness—suddenly surged forth.

　 No one understood. Xia Xiqing knew that.

Zhou Ziheng no longer tried to disturb his sleep; he couldn’t even hear Zhou Ziheng’s voice anymore.

　 Normally, Xia Xiqing found it difficult to sleep on a plane; it felt like being on a small boat, bobbing up and down with the turbulent waves. But this time, the small boat seemed to have a tiny hole, and water seeped in quietly. He sank with the boat, drifting deeper into the dream.

　 In his dream, he seemed small, and everyone in his field of vision was towering, drowning him. Warm blood flowed from his chin onto the front of his shirt, staining the little cartoon character bright red. In the hospital, people came and went. He was dragged along by someone he didn’t recognize, like a doll held by one hand, his body being carelessly tossed around, heading toward the operating room filled with the smell of disinfectant.

　 The arguing voices around him didn’t stop. The abnormal sensation of a cold needle piercing through the anesthetized skin, and the tears that could flow freely as a child.

The woman’s sharp cries.

“Why did I ever give birth to you!”

“You shouldn’t exist.”

　 [You are the beginning of my miserable life.]

Looking down, he no longer wore the blood-stained clothes with cartoon characters. The pain guided his hands to touch the bruises on his arms, one after another. Golf clubs or other expensive metal objects—whatever was handy—had left their marks on him.

　 Like a canvas, no matter how much it was painted over, it was of no consequence.

　 We know.

I really wanted to raise my hand and ask a question.

Teacher, what if my parents don’t love me?

Then in this world, would there still be someone…  

 The water overwhelmed his breathing, and the suffocating sensation of drowning jolted Xia Xiqing awake in an instant. Like a dying fish, he gasped for air, frantically inhaling the oxygen he needed to survive. His heart pounding, he raised his hand and touched the scar on his chin.

　 When he opened his eyes, it was already twilight, and the clouds in the sky were tinged with vibrant colors. The vulnerability he had exposed in his sleep made him feel guarded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zhou Ziheng staring at him. Xia Xiqing wiped the corner of his eye, turned his head away, and spoke in a hoarse, sharp voice, “What are you looking at?”

　 Zhou Ziheng’s face froze for a moment. He seemed to have just snapped out of a daze, and his sharply defined features betrayed a hint of confusion and guilt.

“How long have you been watching?”

　 Xia Xiqing speculated on how he might have behaved while being tormented by nightmares—perhaps nervously clutching the fabric of the seat with his fingers, or muttering incoherently in his sleep, or even worse. He tried to find answers in Zhou Ziheng’s reaction.

　 “For a while…” Zhou Ziheng lowered his deep eyes, looking guiltily at a corner of the room. His long, thick eyelashes were illuminated by the sunlight, casting long, flickering shadows on his lower eyelids.

He wasn’t lying. Zhou Ziheng was a stubborn person, but he didn’t like to lie.

　 “What are you looking at?” Xia Xiqing, whose vulnerability had been exposed, unconsciously bristled. “What did you see?”

Zhou Ziheng raised his eyes again, his gaze reflecting the clouds outside the window, appearing sincere.

“The Tyndall effect.”

This answer surprised Xia Xiqing.

　 Zhou Ziheng wasn’t lying.

After Xia Xiqing fell asleep, Zhou Ziheng felt as though a feather had fallen into his heart, drifting gently down, causing an itchy unease wherever it touched, yet the feather refused to settle on the ground.

He finally turned his face to look at him.

　 Sunlight piercing through three kilometers of thick clouds streamed through the small glass window, with tiny dust particles dancing in the air, turning it into a hazy, gel-like substance. The light passed through, leaving a beautiful, bright path, starting from the upper left corner of the window, slanting downward at a 60-degree angle along the extension of the angle of incidence, straight onto Xia Xiqing’s chest.

“When the Tyndall effect occurs, light takes on a shape,” Zhou Ziheng pointed to Xia Xiqing’s chest, his lips curving slightly.

　 Xia Xiqing stared blankly, looked down at his chest, followed the faintly glowing path, and gazed at the rose-colored clouds piled up in the corner of the window.

Sensitivity and overthinking, sharpness and caution, were shattered by a small physical phenomenon, turning into a beautiful light that pierced straight to the heart.

　 Zhou Ziheng, who was a step behind, suddenly realized that he had accidentally smiled at Xia Xiqing just now.

　 After that day, he repeatedly warned himself not to establish too close a relationship with him, no matter what kind of relationship it was, but he had just forgotten the principle he had set for himself once again. But he saw Xia Xiqing sleeping peacefully, as if in a coma, and he saw the tear glistening on his eyelids when he opened his eyes, like a glass bead.

　 He knew nothing about Xia Xiqing, and there was no need to know, he always told himself.

But when he saw the thorns that Xia Xiqing raised after waking up, it was as if he saw a small rose floating in the clouds.

He wanted to reach out and hold it, but all he could grasp were the bloody scars left by the thorns.

　 The plane was about to land. The flight attendants, with their meticulously applied makeup, walked down the aisle, reminding passengers of the precautions to take during landing. Zhou Ziheng closed the book he hadn’t read much of and also closed the notebook on the table.

Xia Xiqing finally began to recover from that long-lost dream. They left the plane, and the afterglow of the sunset enveloped him.

　 “I’m so hungry.” Shang Sui had slept well and discussed the important topic of dinner with Ruan Xiao, who was walking beside him.

Xia Xiqing looked up at the clouds in a daze, the rose-colored sky, and the formless light.

His phone suddenly vibrated, and Xia Xiqing took it out to check.

　 [Moral Model]: Share photo.

It was a side-angle snapshot. The lens had accidentally captured the Tyndall effect, the beautiful rose-colored clouds in the glass window, and his own side profile in the dream.

There was also that tangible, straight beam of light piercing his chest.

Holding the phone, Xia Xiqing felt a pang in his heart.

　 He spoke softly, not looking at the person beside him, as if talking to the wind, “Why did you take a photo of me?”

The wind brought him a response, a low voice with a faint smile that was hard to detect.

“I didn’t take a photo of you, I took a photo of the Tyndall effect.”

He refused sternly, yet he teased him unconsciously.

　 This person was truly naive yet cunning.

Author’s Note: Note: When a beam of light passes through a colloid, a bright “pathway” can be observed within the colloid from the direction of the vertically incident light. This physical phenomenon is called the Tyndall phenomenon, also known as the Tyndall effect (Tyndall effect).