The storm refused to let them sleep.
Rain hammered the dormitory roof in relentless sheets, driving the planned bonfire indoors.
The group migrated to the common hall anyway, unwilling to surrender the night to weather.
Cushions were dragged into a lopsided circle on the worn wooden floor.
Main lights flicked off.
Two table lamps glowed weakly in opposite corners while a single phone flashlight stood upright in the center,
beam stabbing toward the ceiling and throwing long, wavering shadows across the exposed beams overhead.
The air carried the faint, comforting smell of damp timber mixed with the lingering steam of instant noodles someone had cooked earlier.
A few empty cups sat abandoned near the edge of the circle.
Kai claimed the spotlight position, cross-legged and theatrical, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss that somehow carried over the rain.
"And right then," he said, pausing for effect, "the old caretaker realized…the footsteps weren't coming from outside the house."
A girl—mei, probably—let out a tiny squeak and clapped both hands over her ears.
"Stop it already!" another voice protested. A cushion sailed through the dim air and thumped harmlessly against Kai's shoulder.
He only grinned wider, teeth catching the flashlight glow.
"They were coming from the ceiling."
A collective intake of breath.
Someone laughed too high and too short.
Another person ducked behind Lian's shoulder as though her frame could shield them from imaginary claws scraping overhead.
The rain surged, slapping the tiles in uneven bursts.
Thunder answered low and slow, like a giant shifting in sleep somewhere far beyond the hills.
Jian sat a little apart, back against the wall, one knee drawn up, forearm resting casually across it.
He didn't laugh with the others.
He didn't flinch at the thunder.
He simply watched—shadows sliding across faces, the flashlight beam trembling whenever someone shifted.
His expression stayed calm, almost detached.
Cheng Wei wasn't in the circle.
Chen Luoyang wasn't either.
Jian told himself that was fine.
Expected, even.
The two of them had slipped away earlier—probably to the corridor, or the stairwell, or one of the empty storage rooms where the rain sounded more distant.
He didn't need to know exactly where.
Kai leaned forward until his face hovered just above the flashlight, features distorted into something almost monstrous.
"And then…the door creaked open."
Lightning bleached the corridor beyond the open doorway white for half a second.
"And a shadow moved."
The timing was cruel.
A silhouette detached itself from the darkness near the threshold.
mei screamed outright.
"THERE—THERE IT IS!"
Chaos erupted in a heartbeat.
"Cover her mouth—someone cover her mouth!"
"Are you insane?Teachers are two floors up—they'll hear!"
"If it's not a ghost it'll still be our asses getting beaten one by one!"
Laughter collided with panic, shrill and unsteady.
The shadow shifted again.
Slower now.
Deliberate.
Jian rose to his feet in one smooth motion. Of course he did.
"Okay," he said, voice level enough to cut through the noise. "Wait. I'll check."
"Why you?" someone hissed from the back.
Before he could move, Yanyan's fingers closed around his wrist—small, surprisingly strong.
"Why don't you send someone else?" she whispered, urgent, eyes wide in the low light.
Jian glanced over the circle. Kai had already ducked halfway behind Lian, hands raised in surrender.
"No. Fuck that," Kai muttered. "I'm not dying for content tonight."
Nervous chuckles rippled outward again, thin as paper.
Jian looked back at Yanyan. He turned his hand so their fingers laced briefly.
"Do you really think anyone else will go?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
He gave her fingers a light squeeze.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," he told her.
Thunder cracked directly overhead—sharp, deafening, perfect punctuation.
Yanyan searched his face, pupils huge in the gloom.
"Promise you'll come back?"
He reached out and tapped her forehead gently with two fingers, the gesture soft, familiar. A small smile curved his mouth.
"Promise."
The rain redoubled, wind shoving water against the windows in furious gusts.
Jian turned and walked toward the doorway.
Each footstep rang louder than it should against the boards, amplified by the sudden hush behind him.
The corridor stretched ahead, lit only by a single weak yellow bulb mounted high on the far wall. Shadows pooled thick along the baseboards, stretching unnaturally long.
The shape had stopped moving.
It stood motionless perhaps ten paces away.
A white bedsheet draped over it, hanging unevenly, edges brushing the floor.
Jian nearly rolled his eyes.
"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath.
He closed the distance without slowing.
Reached out.
Fingers closed on damp cotton.
He yanked the sheet away in one clean pull.
Lightning exploded outside at that exact instant, flooding the hallway with cold white.
Beneath the fabric stood Cheng Wei.
Hair damp and darkened, strands clinging to his forehead and temples.
One eye squeezed shut against the sudden glare.
Head tilted slightly, almost curious.
Raindrops still glistened on his shoulders—he must have stepped outside briefly, maybe to the balcony, maybe just to feel the storm.
Not a ghost.
Just Wei.
Jian's heart slammed so hard it drowned the next roll of thunder.
His hand hadn't released.
It had closed instead around Wei's wrist—tight, instinctive, adrenaline turning muscle to steel.
Wei's other hand lifted halfway, hovering uncertainly near his own forearm.
He didn't pull away.
He didn't glare.
His expression held only surprise, and beneath it—something quieter, more fragile.
A flicker that might have been hurt.
Jian's grip faltered, but didn't open completely.
His eyes softened in the same instant panic had seized them—panic giving way to something deeper, more dangerous, something he hadn't named yet.
A new voice sliced through the drumming rain.
"Hey. Jian—get your fucking hands off him."
Chen Luoyang stepped out of the deeper shadows near the stairwell door. Eyes narrowed. Jaw locked. No trace of his usual easy smirk.
He wasn't playing now.
He stared straight at the place where Jian's fingers encircled Wei's wrist.
Rain roared louder, wind rattling a loose windowpane somewhere down the hall.
Jian blinked—once, hard—like surfacing from underwater.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his hold.
Then let go.
A faint red imprint remained on Wei's skin, the shape of fingers.
The corridor suddenly felt too narrow. The yellow bulb too harsh. The storm too loud inside his ears.
From the hall behind them, a shaky voice floated out.
"So…is it a ghost or not?"
No one answered.
Chen moved forward without touching Wei, but close enough that his shoulder angled protectively in front of him—enough to crowd the space, to claim it.
Jian's hand fell limp to his side.
For the first time that night, the words wouldn't come.
He stood there, thunder echoing in his chest, watching Chen guide Wei half a step backward with nothing more than presence.
Lightning flashed again.
The hallway snapped white, then dark.
And Jian still didn't know what to say.