"In short, although you've made some progress, you still need to work harder."

Gong Xinyan seemed to detect my perfunctory tone and immediately scowled. "There’s been no progress at all, has there?"

"..."

"This won’t work. Just finishing a draft and waiting for your evaluation—it’s completely ineffective. At least for me."

Though angry, she didn’t lose her temper this time. Instead, she calmed down and analyzed the situation.

I thought seriously before offering a suggestion: "How about this—I’ll outline a plot for you. You write based on that. Would that work?"

She stared at me, her expression complicated.

Thinking she felt my help was insufficient, I hurried to add, "If needed, I can also provide detailed chapter outlines and character profiles."

"Are you... looking down on me?" Gong Xinyan fixed me with a wounded gaze. "That would just make me a ghostwriter for *your* story. And it’s *your* story—not what *I* want to write."

"Ah... I’m sorry."

Truth was, I’d only wanted to help her win the contest. But clearly, that wasn’t what Gong Xinyan desired. She wanted to write the story *she* envisioned. My suggestion had insulted her dream. Realizing this, I apologized sincerely: "I didn’t consider your feelings. My deepest apologies."

"If you truly want to help me..."

Gong Xinyan trailed off, hesitating. She stole a glance at me, words stuck in her throat.

Sensing her unease, I cut straight to the point: "Just tell me what you need. I’ll do whatever I can."

In a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured, "Then... guide me hand-in-hand while I write."

"Sure! But why so quiet? It’s no big deal."

"It’s embarrassing!" she burst out, face flushing. "Having someone watch you write!"

"Whoa! Don’t yell so suddenly—I’m going deaf!" I rubbed my ears dramatically. Gong Xinyan just pursed her lips, saying nothing more.

I glanced around the multimedia classroom. "How about we use this room during club activity periods?"

"No." She shot it down immediately. "The writing contest is soon. One session a week isn’t enough. This building locks on weekdays—we can’t get in."

I stroked my chin in a Sherlock Holmes pose, then snapped my fingers. "Café or library? Quiet places. I write there sometimes too."

"...Too many people. I can’t focus."

True—some writers freeze completely if anyone’s nearby. I didn’t mind company, but having someone peer over my shoulder *would* make me self-conscious.

Still, writing sparks curiosity. If a friend was drafting a novel, wouldn’t you sneak a peek?

But with no other options, I had to ask: "Where do *you* suggest?"

*Definitely not my place.* Even if I didn’t mind, Bai Yu would rage. Worse—I’d probably get kicked in the gut by this monster-strength girl while she yelled "Pervert!"

"My place."

"Huh?"

*Wait—did I mishear? Is she inviting me to her house?*

"I said—*my place!*"

Her tone left no room for debate. Not a question. A command.

I nearly bit my tongue. "Why *your* house?!"

"We’ve no better options. And... my parents are away on business. I’m alone."

"That’s even *riskier*! Bringing a boy home? Aren’t you worried I might... do something?"

She just gave me a disdainful look.

*Right.* With my combat stats at 5, I was zero threat. Her aura alone made me shiver. Even if I *tried* something, my trembling legs would fail me.

Still—I couldn’t just waltz into a girl’s house while her parents were gone.

"At least tell your parents."

"No! What if they find out I’m writing novels?"

High school pressure was real. Some parents saw writing as a distraction—some even shredded their kids’ manuscripts.

But Gong Xinyan’s worry was different: "They’d show my drafts to relatives... If they see how terrible it is, I’ll never hold my head up at family gatherings again."

*Huh. Her parents are surprisingly supportive. Though... maybe too indulgent.*

As I hesitated, Gong Xinyan tapped the podium impatiently. "No more debate, *teacher*. My place. This weekend."

"Well..."

"If you refuse," she warned, eyes narrowing, "I’ll be *very* cross."

My gut screamed: *Do not test her.*

I sighed in defeat. "Fine. But I think—"

Before I could suggest telling her parents, she cut me off, satisfied by my "fine."

"Saturday. 6 or 7 a.m. Meet me at the school gate."

"That early?!"

"*Teacher!*"

"Yes! I’ll be there!"

Only then did she nod, satisfied. She carefully slipped the rejected drafts into a folder.

Standing behind her, I watched the slim girl pack up and sighed quietly.