On Thursday morning, Zhaxi appeared at the door of Yang Ping's office.
He clutched a notebook filled with twenty pages of findings he gathered from last night's research. He barely slept all night, not because he didn't want to, but because fragments in his mind spun too intensely, seeing Professor Zhou slumped over the desk whenever he closed his eyes, noticing the ashen fingertips.
Yang Ping arrived at seven, saw Zhaxi standing at the door, hesitated for a moment, then looked at his watch: "What time did you get here?"
"I came to the department at six."
"What time did you go to sleep last night?"
Zhaxi hesitated for a moment, didn't dare to lie: "After eleven."
Yang Ping nodded, opened the office door, walked in, sat in his chair, and pointed to the seat opposite him: "Go ahead."
