Days settled into rhythm, and the truth dawned: the world hadn’t stopped spinning just for him. Everyone carries a touch of narcissism—overestimating their own role, claiming credit for success, blaming the world for failure. On the third day, results for the grueling placement exam dropped. Students sighed to the heavens, cursing the heartless exam committee, while utterly ignoring Lu Li’s top score school-wide.

Good. Less attention. Lu Li consoled himself. Their attitude was honest: they admired his score, yet pride kept these privileged teens from befriending an orphan who barely scraped by on meals.

Talented steeds exist—but true connoisseurs are rare. He thought it with a flicker of self-satisfaction.

Yet one connoisseur remained: Chu Jingyi. Fresh from the office with a grade sheet copy, the class monitor beamed, grabbing Lu Li’s shoulders. “You’ve completely transformed!” To her, the once-carefree Lu Li suddenly ranking first was nothing short of rebirth. The words stung slightly, but he just smiled and nodded.

Class officer elections wrapped up these past two days. Unsurprisingly, Chu Jingyi became monitor.

During her speech, poised, clear-voiced, and sincere, she seemed a different person from the girl in private. Lu Li even wondered: did she have a hidden switch on her back? Press it, and *click*—a cyber-girl persona activated.

Yeah… “Monitor” and “cyber-girl” actually fit. Perfect for a hologram interface: press a button, and she steps out smiling. *“Hello. I am Chu Jingyi AI. Pleased to serve you.”*

Lost in thought, Lu Li barely noticed An Baili mischievously pinch his left ear.

“What?” He frowned, feigning irritation. An Baili instantly pulled back, hands folded like a scolded child.

“I’ve had stomachaches at night… Will you go to the hospital with me this weekend? I’m… scared to go alone…”

Lu Li offered a wry smile. *Scared? You’d gamble on mutual destruction, but fear a hospital?* He stayed silent. Silence beat refusal. She just craved his care. A steady cold shoulder would make her give up eventually.

He disliked cold shoulders—they corroded intimacy. Close relationships thrive on emotional exchange. If one side goes mute? Better to date a 2D character. At least they’d say scripted, heartfelt lines on cue.

“I want to visit Tech City this weekend. Come with me?”

Hospital one minute, Tech City the next—you’re quite the multitasker.

Lu Li remained stone-silent, gaze fixed ahead. An Baili whispered, “If you come… I’ll stay the night. This body’s still a virgin. And very young…”

He couldn’t listen. *You’re degrading yourself.*

He stood abruptly and walked out—nearly colliding with Chu Jingyi.

She clutched a stack of yellowed exam papers. Her slender, fair arms strained under the weight. A perfect chance to help. To bond with the earnest girl.

He didn’t. Escaping An Baili’s vortex only to tumble into another entanglement? No thanks. He gave a hollow greeting and kept walking.

Chu Jingyi’s mind held no labyrinthine schemes. She simply blinked. “Lu Li! Class is starting—where are you going? Pop quiz next period!”

“Computer lab.”

“Hey! You can’t skip!”

“Thanks, Monitor~” He waved, smiling. He knew her soft heart. She’d scold verbally but look the other way at roll call—just like last year. That was *having someone figured out*.

Being “figured out” was useful. It made others feel in control. To Lu Li, Chu Jingyi was partially controllable. An Baili? Unpredictable. So he leaned toward the monitor.

The computer lab offered blessed quiet—only the click-clack of a young, balding programmer. Teacher Chen snorted at Lu Li’s entrance. “Emperor Lu skipping again?”

Fresh out of college, Old Chen was less “teacher,” more frenemy. Socially anxious in class, bold offline. Lu Li still couldn’t fathom how *this* man had a girlfriend.

Lu Li pulled a chair beside him. “What’s up, Chen-ge? Another auto-reply app for your girlfriend? She didn’t dump you last time?”

Old Chen’s face flushed crimson, taking on a strangely pitiable, scholarly air. Lu Li pictured him in a faded indigo robe.

“Real work. Got a project—if I nail it, I move from outsourcing to in-house.” He mumbled. “No more teaching. Emperor Lu, how are *you* not expelled?”

“Emperor Lu” was Old Chen’s jab—untouchable, rule-breaking, yet never punished.

Lu Li wouldn’t be expelled. Chu Jingyi had his back. Using the right person at the right time—that was strategy. Society was a spiderweb; every node was a person. Cut the threads, and nothing held. A truth Old Chen, the social phobe, loathed.

“You work. I’ll boot a machine. Grant access.” Lu Li grabbed the external hard drive from the drawer.

Rare among his possessions—worth more than his hundred-yuan outfits. It held his game demo… and other things hot-blooded boys keep. Lu Li once vowed: if death came, he’d crawl home first to format it. Only then could he rest in peace.

The game skeleton was built last year on a free engine. Solo-developed, poorly optimized, assets mismatched. This year’s goals: flesh out the story, refine the code. For the latter? He’d “borrow” Old Chen’s skills.

He’d rewritten Chapter One, polished and tested until the demo felt presentable—except for those jarring free assets.

Art led to artists. To Wen Amber. He’d asked around school. No Wen Amber. No “Sherry Amber.” She was likely overseas, under elite tutelage. He still couldn’t parse their past-life fallout. He’d only said her colors felt chaotic. The ever-placid Wen Amber erupted, screamed at him, packed, and vanished the next dawn.

*Did I do something wrong?*

Two small heads peeked through the door like curious kittens. Chu Jingyi and An Baili hovering furtively finally made Old Chen glance back. “Emperor Lu—visitors!”

Lu Li spotted them. Amused, he walked over. “Come in. Old Chen’s easygoing.” He spoke only to Chu Jingyi. An Baili? Invisible.

Chu Jingyi led An Baili inside, bowing slightly. “Good day, Teacher.”

They settled at the back. The screen glowed with the game interface. Chu Jingyi’s fingers hovered over the mouse, eyes bright. “Can I play?” She looked like a child before a new toy—eager, hesitant.

Watching her profile, Lu Li found the monitor adorably naive.

He watched Chu Jingyi. An Baili watched *him*. He admired the view; he *was* the view. Her chest tightened. She hated that tender look in his eyes for someone else. Nights replaying it left a sting.

Insecure. Maybe from shame. Maybe fear. “Yandere” wasn’t real—it was just antisocial disorder. Anyone meeting a true yandere would run. But when deep cowardice erupts? That’s the illness.

She was ill.

So she reached for her antidote. Her hand drifted toward Lu Li’s—wanting to hold it, to pout, to demand his gaze. Halfway there, his icy stare froze her. She stammered, hands retreating behind her back like a guilty child.

*Please… don’t…*

“It’s just a demo. Rough in places.” Lu Li addressed Chu Jingyi. “Class over?”

*“You two,”* An Baili corrected silently. He did it on purpose. *A day as husband and wife breeds deep affection.* The more he ignored her, the more she felt his weight.

“Mm! We came right after class. Next period’s self-study—I brought Baili along.”

*Stop smiling, Chu Jingyi. Don’t laugh so warmly with my Lu Li…* An Baili’s throat tightened. They looked so perfect together—clean-faced boy, graceful girl. Their light blinded her. She felt like a ghost.

Impulse surged. She *had* to prove her place. With desperate resolve, she seized his hand. Warmth flooded her. Just holding it felt like winter sun on a blanket, summer AC under cozy covers.

Lu Li jerked back—sharp, loud. “What are you doing?”

An Baili’s eyes welled. Silent. Trembling.

Chu Jingyi blinked. “Lu Li… what’s wrong?”

He knew he’d overreacted. Her gesture didn’t warrant this. His harshness raised alarms.

Never treat others as fools—they’ll see *you* as the fool. Chu Jingyi wasn’t foolish. Her voice softened, probing. “What… is your relationship?”