The next morning, the sun broke over Suzhou with a crisp, golden clarity, but the warmth didn't reach the hollow space on Seo-yoon's left wrist. She dressed in a pair of high-waisted beige slacks and a slim-fit navy turtleneck, a look that felt grounded and sharp, yet she kept rubbing her bare skin out of habit. The absence of the silver chain felt like a missing heartbeat.
By the time she reached the lecture hall, Mei Lin was already there, waving her over with a cheerful "Zao-an!" in Mandarin. Seo-yoon managed a small smile and replied in kind, her accent slightly stiff but improving. She chose not to mention the lost bracelet; she wasn't ready to voice her grief over a piece of home she had been too careless to keep.
Settling into her seat, Seo-yoon's phone vibrated. An unknown number flashed on the screen with a message that made her breath hitch: Are you doing okay there? The tone was hauntingly familiar, carrying a weight of quiet concern that felt like a phantom limb. She stared at the screen for a long time before typing back a single word: Who? No answer came.
The arrival of Professor Chen broke the tension. She tapped a stylus against the podium to gather their attention. "Listen up. Next Tuesday is the University Excellence Fest. It is the biggest event of the year, a celebration of art, design, and collaboration. If you wish to participate or volunteer for the organizing committees, registrations open today at the Student Union wing. It's a chance to step outside your department and see the bigger picture."
After the lecture, Mei Lin hooked her arm through Seo-yoon's and steered her toward the student canteen. The space was a glass-walled atrium filled with the clatter of trays and the hum of a dozen languages. Mei Lin grabbed a club sandwich and a grape juice, while Seo-yoon opted for a simple wrap and a bottle of banana milk—a small, sugary comfort from home.
They found a spot in the central garden, the air smelling of damp earth and blooming jasmine. "So," Mei Lin said, switching between English and rapid-fire Chinese as she usually did. "Scripting and Film Production. It's a tough life, isn't it?"
"It's the life I chose," Seo-yoon replied, her tone cool and steady.
"And the fest? Are you going to participate? Maybe a dance?" Mei Lin teased, nudging her.
"Nothing," Seo-yoon said firmly. "I'm here to study, not to perform."
Despite the protest, Mei Lin dragged her to the registration office after lunch. The supervisor, a stern man named Mr. Gao, recognized Mei Lin immediately. "So, you finally made it to HUAD," he grumbled in Mandarin, though his eyes weren't unkind. He turned his gaze to Seo-yoon. "And your name?"
"Han Seo-yoon," she replied, focusing on her pronunciation. She filled out the basic volunteering form, assuming that was the end of it. However, Mei Lin lingered behind, her eyes lighting up as she spotted a separate registration sheet for the "Cultural Pair Dance." Before Seo-yoon could see what she was doing, Mei Lin scribbled both their names down.
It wasn't until they were walking back to the department that Mei Lin whispered the truth. Seo-yoon stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing. She didn't explode—anger for her was usually a cold, silent thing—but she knew she couldn't do it.
"I can't dance, Mei Lin. And I won't. You have to fix this."
"The forms are already submitted!" Mei Lin squeaked, looking genuinely sheepish. "Just go talk to the professor. Maybe she can strike your name."
Seo-yoon headed for Professor Chen's office, but the cabin was empty. Another faculty member, Professor Song, looked up from her desk. "Professor Chen? She's over in the Architecture department for a cross-faculty meeting. You might find her in the senior workshops."
Seo-yoon had never stepped inside the Architecture building. As she crossed the threshold, she realized it was even more striking than her own. It felt like a cathedral of logic—vast, high ceilings, the smell of wood shavings and expensive ink, and walls lined with intricate blueprints.
She wandered through the hallways, feeling increasingly lost as she searched for the workshop. She saw a door left slightly ajar and, thinking she had finally found the faculty meeting, stepped inside.
The room was silent, save for the scratching of a pencil. It wasn't a meeting. It was a private workshop, filled with drafting tables and half-finished models. In the center of the room, a guy was hunched over a large sheet of paper, his hand moving with a focus so intense it felt like he was holding his breath.
Seo-yoon froze. She realized Professor Chen wasn't there and turned to slip away quietly, but her loafer caught against a stray piece of timber on the floor. The wooden block clattered loudly.
The boy turned around instantly. It was Li Yan-chen. His eyes, sharp and dark, recognized her immediately, though his expression remained a mask of cool indifference.
"What are you doing here?" he asked in Mandarin, his voice firm and low.
Seo-yoon blinked, the rapid words escaping her. "Ne?"
Yan-chen took a step toward her, his presence suddenly filling the small space between the tables. He repeated himself, this time in clipped, fluent English. "What are you doing in this department?"
"I... I was looking for Professor Chen," she began, her usual confidence faltering under his steady gaze.
Before she could finish, the sound of loud voices and heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. Two students were approaching the workshop, their shadows falling against the frosted glass of the door. Usually, Yan-chen kept his door locked to avoid distractions. Without a word, he moved with startling speed.
One hand shot out to slam the door shut, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. With his other hand, he grabbed Seo-yoon's shoulder and pulled her back, pinning her against the wall to keep her out of the line of sight from the door's window.
He was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes and feel the heat radiating from his skin. His arm was braced against the wall beside her head, trapping her in a frame of his own making.
"You aren't from this department," he whispered, his voice like velvet over stone.
"I know," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I told you. I was looking for my professor."
Yan-chen lingered for a second longer than necessary, his gaze dropping to her face before he finally pulled his hand away and stepped back. He didn't offer an apology. He didn't even offer to help her find the way out. He simply turned back to his desk, picked up his pencil, and returned to his drawing as if she had already become invisible again.