Chen didn't spare Jian another glance.
He simply stepped to Wei's side and started walking back toward the hall,
movements smooth and unhurried,
as though the sheet had never fallen,
as though no hand had clamped too hard around a wrist moments ago.
Wei followed half a step behind.
His face had already smoothed into that familiar, careful neutrality—too calm, almost rehearsed.
The circle in the common hall noticed them the instant they crossed the threshold.
Heads turned. A few startled blinks. Then recognition.
Chen lifted one hand in a lazy wave. "Sorry we're late, everyone. Did we miss the good part?"
A voice from the far side laughed. "Nah, just getting started."
"Sit, sit!"
"Ghosts don't scare you two, right?"
Chen's grin slid into place like muscle memory. Easy. Bright. "Ghosts? Nah. Only thing that scares me is next week's math paper."
Laughter rippled around the cushions. Space opened up almost immediately—someone scooted left, someone else shifted right. The "ghost scare" had already rearranged half the seating anyway.
And so, whether by chance or something pretending to be chance, Wei lowered himself onto the floor cushion directly beside Jian.
Chen claimed the spot on Wei's other side.
Three in a row now. Shoulder to shoulder to shoulder.
The circle sealed itself again.
Kai cleared his throat with exaggerated drama, reclaiming the flashlight like a fallen crown. "Alright. Now that our fearless Jian-ge has personally vanquished the spectral menace," he declared, "we may proceed."
Someone elbowed Jian from behind. "Come on, what was it really?"
Jian reached back without looking and gave the boy a light smack to the head. "Idiot. Not ghosts. Just these two clowns."
More laughter—relieved, a little shaky.
Wei's shoulder hovered barely an inch from Jian's.
Close enough that body heat drifted across the narrow gap.
Close enough that Jian could smell the rain still clinging to Wei's hair and the faint, clean scent of wet cotton.
Too close.
Kai angled the phone flashlight under his chin again, turning his face into a grotesque mask of light and shadow.
"So.
As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted… the door creaked open… and something stepped inside…"
A girl let out a small, involuntary squeal.
Rain slapped the roof in stuttering waves.
Thunder had moved farther off now, rolling low and lazy like distant conversation.
The story rolled on.
But Jian wasn't listening.
His mind looped back to the corridor instead.
The grip.
The red imprint blooming on pale skin.
The startled flicker in Wei's eyes that had looked, for one unguarded second, like pain.
He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.
Beside him, Wei sat perfectly still. Hands loose on his knees. Breathing even. Composed.
The rain scent lingered stronger now—cool, mineral, intimate.
Jian's knee brushed Wei's.
Accidental.
Neither of them moved away.
That made everything worse.
Chen leaned slightly forward, elbows on knees, apparently absorbed in Kai's performance.
Every so often his gaze slid sideways—not blatant, but deliberate.
Checking.
Measuring.
Jian stared at the floorboards between his feet.
Everything is fucking unraveling, he thought.
And yet—
Underneath the guilt, underneath the echo of Yanyan's worried Promise?, underneath the confusion that kept tightening around his ribs—
There was something quieter.
Relief.
Wei was here.
Not vanished down some hallway.
Not sitting across a crowded table pretending distance.
Right here.
Solid.
Breathing.
Warm.
Even if Chen sat on the other side like a silent boundary line.
Even if nothing about this felt simple anymore.
The circle erupted again—Kai leapt forward with a theatrical shout, arms flailing. Half the group screamed in delighted terror.
Wei didn't flinch.
Jian felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile.
Upstairs, in the teachers' wing, a corridor light clicked on.
One of the younger teachers sat up in bed, frowning at the faint noise drifting through the floorboards.
"…They're definitely in the hall."
Another teacher groaned, pillow over his face. "Let them be."
"Should we go down?"
A third voice—older, calm, gravelly from years of chalk dust and late-night grading—spoke from the darkness of the next room.
"Have you ever been on a school trip before?"
The young teacher blinked. "Obviously."
"How did you spend yours?"
A long pause.
"…Sneaking around. Breaking curfew. Hiding from teachers."
A low chuckle rolled through the dark.
"Exactly. Those were good nights. I still remember them."
The older man shifted on his mattress. "So why ruin theirs?"
Silence settled, broken only by rain tapping the upper windows.
"We all know what they're doing down there," he went on quietly.
"Last year together.
Let them steal a few hours.
Let them make something they'll carry for the rest of their lives."
The young teacher stared at the ceiling for several heartbeats.
Then exhaled.
"…Yeah. Okay."
The older teacher sat up fully, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached underneath.
He pulled out a cloth-wrapped bottle.
Village plum wine. Another of rice wine.
The other teachers perked up like children hearing ice-cream bells.
"Homeroom teacher, you've been holding out on us."
"Where'd you even get that?"
He grinned, teeth flashing in the low light. "Connections."
Someone else called softly down the corridor. "Hey—tell the women too."
Upstairs, quiet laughter began. Glasses clinked. Corks popped.
The rain outside softened to a steady murmur.
Downstairs, the students leaned closer into their circle, oblivious—or perhaps perfectly aware—that the adults upstairs had silently agreed to look the other way.
Kai's voice dropped to a velvet whisper.
"And then… the shadow whispered his name…"
Wei shifted—just a fraction.
His arm brushed Jian's.
Not accidental this time.
Deliberate.
The contact lasted only a second—skin against sleeve—but it burned.
Jian's breath snagged in his chest.
The whole circle leaned in as one, hanging on Kai's next word.
Outside, the storm had quieted to persistent rain.
Above, teachers raised glasses to youth they could still taste on their tongues.
Below, the flickering flashlight painted young faces in gold and shadow.
And somewhere between those two floors—
Between stolen glances and careful silences, between guilt and something warmer, something inevitable—
A new circle was quietly drawing itself closed.