Friday afternoon arrived, bringing with it the stifling heat of late September. The Great Auditorium of Wolven High was packed to the rafters, a sea of two thousand students, teachers, and parents buzzing with anticipation.
The air conditioning was working overtime, but it could barely combat the collective body heat of the crowd. The atmosphere was thick, smelling of floor wax, old velvet curtains, and teenage hormones.
The seating arrangement mirrored the school's brutal social hierarchy. In the front rows, sitting with spines as straight as rulers, were the students of **Class 1**. They wore their uniforms like armor, their expressions serious and focused. They were the elite, the future leaders, the pride of the school.
In the back rows, sprawling across the seats like a chaotic oil spill, was **Class 9**. Boys were playing mobile games with the sound off, girls were fixing their makeup using phone cameras, and bags of chips were being passed around covertly.
**Vera** sat in the parents' section, smoothing the fabric of her expensive dress. She was nervous. Today was the English Speech Contest, a prestigious event where the city's best students showcased their talent. **Faye** had been practicing for weeks.
"Next up, representing Class 1, **Faye**."
The host's voice boomed over the speakers, followed by polite, enthusiastic applause.
Faye stood up. She looked radiant. Her white school shirt was tailored to accentuate her waist, and her skirt was pressed to perfection. Her hair was pulled back in a demure half-up style, giving her the air of a gentle, studious princess.
She walked to the center of the stage, adjusted the microphone stand, and bowed deeply to the judges.
"Good afternoon, honorable judges, teachers, and fellow students," Faye began. Her voice was sweet, clear, and projected well. Her pronunciation was standard American, polished by expensive tutors.
"Today, I want to talk about *Dreams on Strings*."
Faye launched into her speech. It was a masterpiece of emotional manipulation and technical skill. She spoke about her journey with the violin, the calluses on her fingers, the late nights of practice, and the solitude of the artist.
"Talent is a gift," Faye said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, "but without the water of hard work, the flower of genius will wither. Only those who endure the pain of discipline deserve to stand in the spotlight."
She cast a fleeting, subtle glance toward the back of the auditorium, where Class 9 sat. It was a hidden jab, a declaration of superiority over those she deemed lazy—specifically, her sister.
The speech ended to thunderous applause. The judges were nodding vigorously, scribbling high marks on their scorecards.
Vera clapped until her hands hurt, a beam of pure pride lighting up her face. "That's my daughter," she whispered to the parent next to her. "She's always been so diligent."
***
Backstage, the atmosphere was less dignified.
**Lily** was pacing back and forth in the narrow corridor, biting her fingernails.
"Where is she?" Lily hissed, grabbing **Joey** by the collar of his uniform. "Ren is up next! If she misses her slot, Class 9 gets a zero for participation!"
Joey, who was chewing gum and looking unbothered, pointed a thumb toward a dark corner behind a stack of velvet curtains.
"She's recharging," Joey grinned.
Lily rushed over. There, lying on a pile of gym mats, was **Ren**.
She was fast asleep. Her face was covered by a thick English literature book, her breathing slow and even. Her uniform jacket was unzipped, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath, and her long legs were sprawled out comfortably. She looked like a cat that had found the only quiet spot in a thunderstorm.
"Ren!" Lily snatched the book away. "Wake up! You're on!"
Ren groaned, shielding her eyes from the harsh backstage lights. She sat up slowly, her hair a messy halo of black silk around her pale face.
"Is it over?" Ren asked, her voice raspy with sleep.
"Faye just finished!" Lily cried, practically vibrating with anxiety. "You have thirty seconds! Here, take the script!"
She shoved a piece of paper into Ren's hand. It was the speech Lily had written, titled *The Flame of Youth*. It was crumpled, having been folded into a paper airplane earlier that morning.
"Do you want a comb?" Lily asked desperately, reaching for Ren's hair. "Or maybe button your jacket?"
"No need," Ren stood up, stretching her arms. She smoothed the crumpled paper against her thigh, looking completely unconcerned. "I'm just a vase, remember? Vases don't need to be tidy; they just need to stand there."
She yawned again, tucked her right hand—the one wrapped in white gauze—into her pocket, and walked toward the stage entrance.
***
"Next, representing Class 9, **Ren**."
The host paused for a fraction of a second before reading the name. The auditorium, which had been buzzing with chatter after Faye's speech, suddenly went dead silent.
The rumors about the police station, the lawyer from the Capital, and the mysterious "Sugar Daddy" photos had made Ren a figure of intense curiosity. Everyone wanted to see the "fallen" school beauty.
As Ren walked out of the shadows and into the spotlight, the silence deepened.
She didn't bow. She didn't smile. She didn't wave.
She just walked.
Her posture was loose, almost lazy, yet she moved with a predator's grace. Her uniform was disheveled in a way that looked effortlessly chic, like a model off-duty. Her face, devoid of makeup, was strikingly pale under the stage lights, her eyes dark and cold.
She stood behind the podium, one hand in her pocket, the other holding the wrinkled piece of paper. She looked out at the audience of two thousand people with an expression of utter boredom.
In the front row, **Xavier** looked up from his notes. He had been marking papers, uninterested in the speeches, but Ren's presence demanded attention.
In the wings of the stage, Faye watched with a smirk. *Look at her,* Faye thought. *A mess. A joke. She probably can't even read the first sentence without stuttering.*
Ren tapped the microphone. *Thump. Thump.*
"Good afternoon," she said.
The sound system carried her voice to every corner of the room.
It wasn't the sweet, high-pitched voice of a high school girl. It was lower, cooler, with a texture like crushed velvet.
And the accent.
It wasn't the standard American accent taught in schools. It was a crisp, clipped, aristocratic British accent—Received Pronunciation, the kind spoken by royalty and villains in movies. It was arrogant, sophisticated, and utterly intoxicating.
Ren looked down at the paper Lily had written. The words were cheesy: *"Youth is a fire that burns in the winter night. We struggle, we fight, we soar like eagles…"*
Ren read them. But she didn't read them with the melodramatic passion Lily had intended. She read them with a detached, almost cynical tone, as if she were reciting a dark poem.
*"Youth is a fire..."* Ren drawled, her eyes scanning the crowd lazily. *"We burn. We turn to ash. And from the ash, we rise."*
She was improvising. She was changing the intonation, adding pauses where there were none, turning a high school essay into a monologue that sounded like it belonged in a Shakespearean play.
The audience was mesmerized. Nobody cared about the meaning of the words. They were just listening to the sound of her voice, watching the way the stage lights caught the sharp line of her jaw.
Xavier dropped his pen. He stared at Ren, his mind racing. He had listened to countless English tapes to perfect his own pronunciation, but Ren... she sounded like she had lived in London her entire life. This wasn't something you learned in a classroom. This was innate.
Vera sat in the audience, her mouth slightly open. She looked at the girl on stage—cool, distant, powerful—and felt a stranger's face looking back at her. Was this really the daughter she had left in the countryside? Since when did she speak English like a native?
Faye's smile vanished. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. She realized, with a sinking horror, that no one was comparing their speeches. They were just looking at Ren.
Ren reached the end of the page. She didn't bother with the closing paragraph about "thanking the teachers."
"That's all," Ren said, folding the paper back up. "Thank you."
She turned and walked off stage before the applause could even start.
For two seconds, the auditorium was silent.
Then, **Joey** stood up in the back row and let out a piercing wolf-whistle.
"YEAH! CLASS 9!" Joey screamed, clapping his hands over his head.
The spell broke. The applause erupted, rolling through the hall like thunder. It wasn't the polite applause Faye had received; it was the rowdy, excited applause of teenagers who had just seen something cool.
"Did you hear that accent?"
"She's so cool!"
"I thought she was dumb? That English was better than the teacher's!"
Backstage, Lily was jumping up and down, grabbing Ren's arm as she came off the stairs.
"Ren! You did it!" Lily squealed. "You didn't read the eagle part, but who cares! Your voice! I think I'm in love with you!"
Ren pulled her arm away gently, yawning again. "Did we get the points?"
"Points?" Lily laughed hysterically. "We crushed it! Look at the judges!"
Ren glanced at the monitor. The judges were whispering excitedly, writing down scores that looked very, very high.
Ren shrugged. She walked past a frozen Faye without a word.
Faye stood there, the sounds of the cheering crowd echoing in her ears like a mockery. She had worked so hard. She had practiced for weeks. She was the perfect student.
But Ren had just walked up there, read a crumpled piece of paper, and stolen the world from her without even trying.
"It's not fair," Faye whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "It's just a face. It's just a voice. She's nothing inside."
But deep down, Faye knew the truth. The gap between them wasn't just a pretty face. It was a chasm of talent and presence that she could never cross.
Ren walked back to her sleeping mat in the corner, pulled the English literature book back over her face, and went back to sleep.
**[Chapter 34 End]**