Wednesday morning began with a spectacle that would be whispered about in the corridors of Wolven High for weeks to come.
Before the first period bell had even rung, two men in blue logistics uniforms walked into Class 9 carrying a massive, sealed cardboard box. They navigated the aisles with practiced care, heading straight for the back corner of the classroom—Ren's designated territory.
Under the curious and confused gazes of thirty students, the workers unpacked the box. They assembled a black, sleek, and aggressively high-tech ergonomic chair. It featured a complex lumbar support system, a mesh backrest designed for optimal airflow, and a headrest that looked more comfortable than most students' beds.
It stood in stark contrast to the hard, standard-issue wooden chairs that everyone else, including the top students in Class 1, had to endure.
"Student Ren," one of the workers asked respectfully, wiping sweat from his forehead. "This is the special configuration approved by Principal Shaw. Would you like us to adjust the height or the recline tension for you?"
Ren had just thrown her backpack onto her desk. She was still half-asleep, her eyes barely open. She glanced at the chair, pressed her hand against the seat cushion to test the bounce, and nodded.
"It's fine," Ren mumbled.
She shoved her bag into the desk drawer and sat down. She pulled a lever, reclining the chair to a near-horizontal angle, and settled into a comfortable slouch.
"Thanks."
The workers bowed and left.
The classroom remained dead silent.
Lily, sitting in the front row, turned around so fast her neck cracked. She stared at the chair, then at Ren, her eyes wide.
"Ren... that chair... it looks really expensive."
Joey, the resident rich kid and expert on all things luxury, swallowed hard. He leaned over to whisper to his deskmate.
"Expensive? That's the Herman Miller flagship model. It has fully adjustable posture-fit support. My dad has one in his office. It costs at least fifteen thousand."
"Fifteen thousand?!" The deskmate gasped. "For a chair?"
A ripple of shock went through the room.
Fifteen thousand for a chair. For a student who slept through every class.
And it was "specially approved" by the Principal?
Wendy sat a few rows away, gripping her pen until her knuckles turned white. She watched Ren get comfortable in her "throne," her heart burning with a mixture of jealousy and fear.
A few days ago, she might have made a snide comment. She might have complained about fairness. But after the surveillance video incident, Wendy had lost all her social capital. She didn't dare make a sound. She could only swallow her bitterness and look away.
***
The bell rang.
First period: Physics.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from gossip to terror.
The Physics teacher, Mr. Yates, was known as the "Tyrant of the Science Department." He had a voice like a foghorn and a temper like a volcano. If you were caught daydreaming in his class, a piece of chalk would fly at your forehead with sniper-like precision.
Mr. Yates marched into the room, clutching a stack of test papers and his lesson plan. His face was set in its usual scowl.
"Take out yesterday's practice papers!" Mr. Yates bellowed, slamming his book onto the podium. The sound made half the class jump.
"Look at these scores! Absolute garbage! Question 15, the force analysis of the inclined plane—I have explained this concept eight hundred times! And yet, five of you still chose 'C'? Did you leave your brains at home? Or did the door squeeze them on your way in?"
The students of Class 9 trembled like quails in a storm. They kept their heads down, afraid to make eye contact.
Mr. Yates was just getting warmed up. He was ready to launch into a ten-minute tirade about their lack of future prospects. His eyes scanned the room, looking for a victim to make an example of.
His gaze swept to the back row.
He saw the corner.
He saw the expensive black chair.
And he saw Ren, hood pulled up, curled into a ball, deeply asleep.
The class held its breath.
*This is it,* Joey thought. *Ren is dead. Principal's favorite or not, Mr. Yates doesn't tolerate sleeping. He's going to explode.*
Wendy looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. She waited for the roar. She waited for the chalk to fly.
But the roar never came.
Mr. Yates' face, which had been red with rage, suddenly softened. The transformation was so abrupt it was terrifying. The scowl vanished, replaced by a look of... tenderness?
He raised a finger to his lips.
"Shhh."
Mr. Yates turned back to the class. He didn't shout. He didn't throw chalk.
instead, he lowered his voice to a whisper.
"For the rest of the lesson," Mr. Yates said, his voice soft and gentle, like a grandfather reading a bedtime story, "we will keep the volume down. You, by the window—close it. There's a draft. We don't want the student in the back to catch a cold."
The class: "???"
Joey dropped his pen. *Clatter.*
Mr. Yates shot him a death glare that screamed: *If you make another sound and wake her up, I will fail you for the semester.*
Joey froze, terrified.
Xavier, who was taking notes, stopped writing. He looked at the teacher, then at the sleeping girl, his expression one of utter bewilderment.
For the next forty-five minutes, Class 9 experienced the surrealest Physics lesson of their lives. The usually bombastic Mr. Yates whispered his way through Newtonian mechanics. When he wrote on the blackboard, he was careful not to tap the chalk too hard. When a student answered a question too loudly, Mr. Yates winced and motioned for them to lower their voice.
It was a display of double standards so blatant it was almost impressive. To the rest of the class, he was a winter storm. To Ren, he was a warm spring breeze.
***
The bell rang for the break.
Mr. Yates didn't even say his usual "Class dismissed." He just waved his hand and tiptoed out of the room, clutching his files to his chest to avoid rustling papers.
Xavier sat in his seat, staring at the back corner.
He was on the Physics Competition team. He knew Mr. Yates better than anyone. Mr. Yates was a purist. He hated students who used connections. He hated laziness.
If Ren was just a "quota filler" forced in by the Principal, Mr. Yates would ignore her, sure. But he wouldn't *protect* her sleep. He wouldn't order the windows closed.
There was only one explanation.
Ren's talent in Physics was so overwhelming, so undeniable, that it broke Mr. Yates' principles. It forced him to bend the world to accommodate her.
"Xavier."
A familiar voice called from the doorway.
Xavier turned. It was Faye. She was holding a stack of music sheets, but her face was pale. She had heard about the chair.
Xavier walked out into the hallway.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Is it true?" Faye asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I heard Ren slept through Physics, and Mr. Yates didn't say anything? He even lowered his voice?"
She looked up at him, her eyes searching for reassurance. "Mr. Yates hates slackers. Is this... is this because the Principal ordered him to?"
Xavier looked at Faye. She was the school beauty, the talented violinist, the girl he had admired for two years. But lately, her obsession with Ren was making her look small.
"Maybe," Xavier said, keeping his suspicions to himself. "The Principal values her."
"But it's unfair to the other students," Faye said, biting her lip. "Competitions should be about ability. If she just takes up a spot and doesn't study..."
"Faye," Xavier interrupted her, his tone sharper than usual. "If she didn't have the ability, Mr. Yates wouldn't have let that chair into his classroom. That old man only respects scores. He doesn't care about the Xu family or the Lane family."
Faye froze. She hadn't expected Xavier to defend Ren.
"Also," Xavier added, lowering his voice as he glanced back into the classroom where Ren was stretching and waking up. "Stop trying to provoke her. I have a feeling... what we see is just the tip of the iceberg."
***
Inside the classroom, Ren finally woke up.
She rolled her neck. The neck support on the new chair was fantastic. No stiffness at all.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket. The screen was lit up with a string of frantic notifications from WeChat.
The sender was labeled **"The Husky"** (Ian).
**[ The Husky: Sister! Help! SOS! The producer killed my new demo for the third time! ]**
**[ The Husky: He says the chorus lacks explosive power. He says it's flat. Can you listen to it? Please? ]**
**[ The Husky: If you help me fix it, I'll get you another set of those limited edition vinyls! And I'll throw in a signed poster! ]**
**[ The Husky: [Audio File: Demo_Final_v3.mp3] ]**
Ren rubbed her sleepy eyes. She put in one Bluetooth earbud and tapped play.
The sound of heavy drums and electric guitar flooded her ear.
She listened for twelve seconds.
She frowned.
Her fingers flew across the screen.
**[ Ren: The bass line is too heavy. It's drowning out the vocals in the mid-range. ]**
**[ Ren: Change the key of the second bar in the chorus from C-sharp to B-flat. And insert a two-second silence—a drop—right before the chorus hits. ]**
**[ Ren: Stupid dog. ]**
She hit send.
She took the earbud out and fished a mint candy from her pocket, popping it into her mouth.
She didn't know—and didn't care—that her casual text message would save the lead single of the year's most anticipated album. She didn't care that professional producers in the Capital would spend weeks analyzing that "two-second drop" as a stroke of genius.
Right now, she only cared about one thing.
Juan had said he was taking her to meet an old friend tonight.
A friend with rare, original manuscripts on nuclear physics.
And hopefully, a friend who served a decent dinner.
**[Chapter 48 End]**