Frankly, I’ve always hated being called to the teacher’s office for one-on-one talks.

The empty office looked exactly the same as before.

A tidy desk. A nearly empty water dispenser. And that hollowed-out poplar sofa that dug into your backside.

The spider plant on the desk seemed lusher now, sprouting several new shoots—tiny, tender ones too light to droop yet.

In nature, when a spider plant’s babies finally touch the ground, it means they’ve grown up enough to strike out on their own.

The desk looked half-empty too. Right—the entire freshman teaching staff was moving out, relocating to the sophomore offices.

Time really did fly.

One year just slipped by like that. Freshmen became sophomores, sophomores became seniors, and seniors cycled back to freshmen. Teachers were like assembly-line workers in a factory, churning out exam machines like us.

"Mr. Li’s in a meeting. Wait here," a teacher from the next office told me.

As head of the grade, he’d be swamped right after final results dropped.

He’d need to discuss students’ test performances with subject heads, adjust teaching plans based on exam feedback, analyze score distributions, and submit a preliminary list of students likely to get into top universities for the dean’s review.

Of course, he’d also flag struggling students—warning homeroom teachers to intervene early, fixing problems before college entrance exams dragged down the school’s overall ranking.

No way he had time to sip tea with someone like me, freshly done with exams and "bored out of my mind."

Though honestly, I wasn’t idle either.

I’d signed up for summer cram schools—mandatory school training plus extra prep classes at private academies.

I could already feel myself slipping into a lower-tier class. They’d probably started sophomore material by now. If I didn’t catch up over break, I’d drown the moment school resumed.

After checking my scores and grabbing a thick stack of summer homework, I’d planned to leave. I just wanted a quick preview of the new cram school textbooks—enough to feel prepared.

I hadn’t sat long on that unforgiving sofa when hurried footsteps echoed outside.

"Lu Fan? You’re here?"

Mr. Li strode in, thick files tucked under his arm.

"Mr. Li!" I jumped up, nodding respectfully.

"Relax, sit." He waved a hand, and I sank back onto the backside-digging sofa.

"Sir, you seem busy. What did you need? I won’t disturb you if it’s nothing important."

I plastered on my most harmless smile.

"Lu Fan... Lu Fan..." He muttered my name, flipping through files until he found one sheet.

My academic record since freshman year, no doubt.

"You’ve shown steady progress all year. Your middle school was average, your entrance score barely made the cutoff—but you’ve grown fast. Good. Stay humble. Keep pushing." His voice boomed with praise.

Warmth spread through my chest. Hard work finally paying off in tangible ways.

"Thank you, sir! I’ll keep working hard!" The expected reply.

"I can spot grit in students the moment I see them. Good. You’re mine now. Anything to say?" He shook the paper triumphantly, his tone electrifying.

"I’ll study seriously." I smiled.

"Be a man! Declare your resolve with fire! Loud enough for the whole floor to hear!"

Dissatisfied with my calm tone, he rose like a proud eagle spreading its wings—and thumped my chest with a fist.

?!

I staggered back from the blow.

Seriously?! Did that almost stop my heart?! Teacher, is this praise or corporal punishment?!

"Cough—cough—"

It took ages to steady my breath.

"Plum blossoms perfume the coldest winter! I’ll double my efforts! I’ll ace the college entrance exams and bring glory to our school!"

I summoned all my breath, roaring the words.

My resolve probably echoed down the entire corridor. Hmph. I heard it bouncing off the hallway walls.

"Now that’s my student!" He ruffled my hair, satisfied.

Stop it. I’m too old for this. You’ll stunt my growth. I forced a pained smile.

"Actually," he began, clearing his throat, "today isn’t just about praising your progress. There’s something far more important."

He started packing his purple clay teapot.

Dumping the stale buckwheat tea dregs into the tray’s groove. Orange liquid swirled with grains. Then he rinsed the set with hot water from the electric kettle beside him.

Purple clay teapots needed nurturing with tea.

New ones smelled of raw clay and felt rough. But after years of use, they’d gleam like polished stone, brewing tea far richer and deeper than porcelain or glass ever could.

Mr. Li’s prized set, though? To my eyes, the pot’s dull sheen still lacked that seasoned glow.

Under my curious gaze, he seemed to forget I existed.

He rummaged through his desk drawer, then the storage cabinet—finally pulling out an oval box.

He opened it, revealing a vacuum-sealed pouch.

"Premium West Lake Longjing," I glimpsed the label.

He tore it open without hesitation, dumping the fragrant, deep-green leaves into the pot.

?!

My mind went blank.

Only when scalding water hit the leaves did I snap back.

"Sir! This is too much! You shouldn’t—!" I shot up, panicked.

"You know tea?" He smiled faintly, gesturing for me to sit.

I sank back down, uneasy.

He swirled the hot water, then poured it into the tray’s groove.

Rinsing away dust. Washing out the buckwheat’s ghost. Purifying the Longjing’s true flavor.

"Just a little," I managed a strained smile. "That tea’s sold by the gram. You’re wasting it on me."

"Today, I invited you to drink tea. No talk of waste. Though... we do have business to discuss."

Teacup ready, the ever-kind Mr. Li flashed his familiar, unnerving smile.

"Sir, just tell me what’s wrong! This is making me nervous!" Sweat trickled down my temples.

"Don’t panic. Drink first."

His smile cut bone-deep. Like he knew every childhood secret, every lie I’d ever told. One word from him, and I’d be dragged away by police in disgrace.

The finest West Lake Longjing. Water still scalding. Leaves barely unfurled. But under Mr. Li’s gaze, I lifted the cup and took a dutiful sip.

Such a waste of good tea.

"Actually," his expression darkened abruptly, "the school wants to know—how much money does Jiang Muqing owe your family?"

Why ask that now?!

I nearly spat the tea in his face.

"If it’s not too much... the school might cover it."

His sudden seriousness threw me off balance.

"Cover it?"

"Why?"

"We worked hard to transfer Jiang Muqing from City No. 2 High. But the results... disappointed us. Sigh... Her family’s financial strain might be the cause. If possible, the school wants to help." He sighed heavily.

"I heard she didn’t get any scores this time." I spoke softly.

"She did. Zero. We omitted her from rankings to avoid pressure." He shook his head.

"Zero?! How could Jiang Muqing score zero?!" I nearly shouted. Even blindfolded, she’d never get zero!

"See for yourself."

He grabbed a stack of papers from his desk and handed them to me.

Familiar delicate handwriting. Girls’ script always looked so pretty—tiny, slender characters, utterly charming.

Top sheet: Chinese exam paper.

Name: Jiang Muqing. Correct.

Class: Senior 1, Class A. Correct.

Student ID filled in neatly.

But...

"..."

Why did the first page’s multiple-choice brackets say "Lu Fan"?

Every single bracket after that read "Lu Fan" too.

Reading comprehension blanks? Filled entirely with "Lu Fan," stretching edge to edge.

The essay? A meticulous sea of "Lu Fan"—even switching between cursive, semi-cursive, and regular script?!

I flipped faster.

Math. English. Physics. History. Politics. Geography. Chemistry.

Every answer on every paper was "Lu Fan."

?!

"What is she doing?!"

...

Has anyone ever felt this chill? When someone scribbles another’s name like a curse across every inch of paper?

Staring at those "Lu Fan"-covered exam sheets, a cold dread slithered up my spine.

She must be insane.

There was no other explanation for this. None.

What do I do?

Who could tell me what to do?!