The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. and Jiang Yue stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.
He'd set it early on purpose. Not because he wanted to review notes—his brain was either ready or it wasn't, and last-minute cramming was just panic wearing a study hat.
He set it early because he wanted the bathroom first.
A petty victory, but today he needed every win he could get.
He dragged himself out of bed, body heavy with the kind of tiredness that came from sleeping badly while pretending you weren't nervous. His stomach felt tight. His hands felt restless. His brain was already running through formulas and dates and vocabulary like a broken radio switching between stations.
He opened his door.
The hallway was dark.
Wei's door was closed.
Jiang Yue moved quickly, silently, like a thief in his own home.
He reached the bathroom, stepped inside, and shut the door with a soft click.
Victory.
He brushed his teeth slowly, staring at himself in the mirror.
His eyes looked sharper than usual. Not smarter—just awake. Alert. Like his body had decided to take the exam seriously even if his pride hadn't fully agreed.
He washed his face, ran wet fingers through his hair, and straightened his uniform collar.
He looked like a student.
Not a troublemaker. Not a disaster. Not a cautionary tale.
Just a student about to take an exam.
The thought made his chest feel strange.
He stepped out of the bathroom.
And nearly walked into Wei.
Wei stood in the hallway, already dressed, hair neat, expression calm. Like he'd been awake for hours and had simply been waiting for Jiang Yue to finish.
Their eyes met in the dim light.
Jiang Yue's pulse spiked.
"You're up," Jiang Yue said, voice rough with morning.
Wei's gaze flicked over his face briefly. "So are you."
Silence.
The kind that held too much.
Jiang Yue forced a smirk. "Don't worry. I didn't use all the hot water."
Wei's expression didn't change. "I wasn't worried."
Jiang Yue wanted to say something sharp, something that would break the tension.
Instead, his mouth betrayed him.
"I'm nervous," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, quiet and honest and completely undefended.
Jiang Yue's face heated instantly.
He opened his mouth to take it back, to joke, to deflect.
Wei spoke first.
"That means you care," Wei said.
Jiang Yue stared at him.
Wei's voice stayed even. "Nerves are just your body preparing. It means you've invested something."
Jiang Yue swallowed. "That's very inspirational. You should write greeting cards."
Wei's mouth twitched. "Go eat breakfast."
Jiang Yue's chest loosened slightly.
Not because of the advice.
Because Wei hadn't laughed at him.
Because Wei had taken his honesty and handled it carefully, like something fragile.
At breakfast, their mother was already up, moving around the kitchen with nervous energy.
She'd made congee again—the good kind, with egg and green onion—and set out fruit cut into careful slices, as if presentation could boost test scores.
"Eat well," she said, watching them both with eyes full of worry and hope. "Don't rush. Don't skip anything."
Jiang Yue sat down. "Mom. It's an exam, not surgery."
His mother's lips pressed together. "It's important."
Jiang Yue looked at her face—the tired lines, the careful makeup she'd put on even though she was just going to work, the way her hands moved too fast when she was anxious.
He softened.
"I'll be fine," he said.
She looked at him, searching. Then she nodded, satisfied enough. "Okay."
Wei Chengyu emerged, gave a brief, efficient pep talk that sounded like a quarterly review, and left for work.
Wei ate in silence, neat and controlled.
Jiang Yue ate his congee and tried not to think about the fact that his mother had made it the same way she'd made it on the wedding morning.
Like comfort was a recipe she kept returning to.
They left the apartment together.
The elevator ride was quiet.
Outside, the morning air was cold and sharp, the kind that woke you up whether you wanted it or not. Students moved toward the school in clusters, some laughing nervously, some silent with fear, some walking too fast like speed could outrun anxiety.
Jiang Yue walked beside Wei, half a step apart.
Neither spoke.
At the school gate, the discipline teacher waved students through without his usual clipboard inspection, which was either mercy or a sign that even adults understood today was already punishment enough.
Inside, the hallways hummed with tension.
Xu Zhe intercepted Jiang Yue before he reached the classroom, appearing from around a corner like a concerned ghost.
"You ready?" Xu Zhe demanded, grabbing Jiang Yue's shoulders.
Jiang Yue shrugged him off lightly. "Define ready."
Xu Zhe searched his face. "You look alive. That's progress."
Jiang Yue snorted. "Low bar."
Xu Zhe grinned, but his eyes were serious underneath. "You've got this."
Jiang Yue nodded once, quick.
Xu Zhe squeezed his shoulder, then disappeared toward his own classroom.
Jiang Yue walked into class.
The room felt different today. Desks had been spaced apart. The walls felt taller. The air felt thinner.
Teacher Gao stood at the front, expression sharp as a blade.
"Phones off," she announced. "Bags at the front. No talking once the exam starts."
Students shuffled forward, depositing bags like offerings.
Jiang Yue dropped his bag and walked to his seat.
Behind Wei.
Always behind Wei.
He sat down and stared at the empty desk surface.
His heart beat steady but loud.
Wei sat in front of him, posture straight, hands folded.
Calm.
Always calm.
Jiang Yue leaned forward slightly, just enough to whisper.
"If I fail," Jiang Yue murmured, "I'm blaming your teaching."
Wei didn't turn.
But his shoulders shifted slightly, like a breath that was almost a laugh.
Then Wei whispered back, barely audible. "You won't fail."
Jiang Yue's chest tightened.
Three words.
No emotion.
But underneath them, something solid. Something that felt like trust.
Jiang Yue leaned back and closed his eyes for a second.
He thought about the last two weeks.
Red pen corrections. Door open study sessions. The gap between their shoulders that never closed. Broken pens replaced without words. Compliments disguised as facts.
Your math is getting better.
Your physics is improving.
You're ready.
You won't fail.
Each one a brick.
Not in a wall.
In a foundation.
Teacher Gao's voice cut through the room. "Begin."
Papers were flipped.
The room went silent except for the scratch of pens.
Jiang Yue looked at the first question.
Math.
His hand moved before his brain caught up.
The formula was there. The steps were there. The corrections Wei had drilled into him were there, red pen marks glowing in his memory like a map.
He solved it.
Moved to the next.
Solved it.
The next.
Paused.
A tricky one. The kind designed to make you doubt yourself.
Jiang Yue stared at it.
His old instinct said: guess and move on.
His new instinct said: think.
He thought.
He broke the problem into clusters, the way Wei had taught him history—cause and effect, step by step.
He solved it.
Not perfectly. Maybe not even correctly.
But he solved it with logic instead of panic, and that felt like a different kind of passing.
The hours blurred.
Math became Chinese. Chinese became English. English became physics.
Jiang Yue's hand cramped. His neck ached. His eyes burned.
But he kept writing.
Not because Teacher Gao was watching.
Not because Wei was sitting in front of him.
Because Jiang Yue had spent two weeks learning how to try, and he refused to waste it.
When the final bell rang, the room exhaled.
Students slumped. Some groaned. Some laughed with manic relief.
Jiang Yue set his pen down and stared at his paper.
He didn't know if it was good.
He didn't know if it was enough.
But he knew he'd answered every question.
For the first time, he hadn't left a single blank.
He leaned back in his chair and breathed.
In front of him, Wei stood up.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Wei's expression was calm, as always. But his gaze searched Jiang Yue's face quickly, reading him.
Jiang Yue's mouth curved slightly. "Still alive," he said.
Wei's eyes stayed on him. "How was it."
Jiang Yue shrugged. "Ask me when I'm drunk."
Wei's mouth twitched. "No drinking."
Jiang Yue laughed softly. "Right. The deal."
Wei held his gaze for one more second.
Then he nodded, barely, and turned away.
Jiang Yue watched him walk toward the door.
And he thought, with a clarity that surprised him:
If he passed, it wouldn't be because he was smart.
It would be because someone had sat across a table from him every night and said, without saying it, you're worth the effort.
And that was either the most terrifying thing Jiang Yue had ever felt, or the most beautiful.
He hadn't decided yet.
Outside the classroom, Xu Zhe was waiting with two bottles of water and a face full of exhausted triumph.
"How'd you do," Xu Zhe demanded.
Jiang Yue took the water. "I answered everything."
Xu Zhe's eyes widened. "Everything?"
Jiang Yue nodded.
Xu Zhe grabbed his shoulders. "Bro. That's huge."
Jiang Yue shoved him off, but he was smiling. "It's not results yet."
Xu Zhe grinned. "It's a start."
They walked out of the school together, into the cold air, into the noise of students celebrating survival.
Behind them, somewhere in the building, Wei Nianzhan walked alone, calm and controlled, carrying the quiet weight of having helped someone without ever being thanked properly.
And ahead of them, somewhere in the future, a ranking list waited.
With a number that would change everything.