He Shen writes first
The ranking sheet is still pinned at the front of the hall, your name at the very bottom. He Shen slouches into the seat beside you, hood half up, looking like he just woke from a nap, which he did. He sets a plastic bottle of orange soda on your desk. The price sticker is still on it: 2.5 yuan.
“For you.” His voice is low and unhurried. “Last place isn’t fatal. You studied every night. I watched you fall asleep on your notes. That’s more effort than this whole row put together.”
It is the longest speech anyone has heard from him all term. Then your phone, face up on the desk, lights up. Once. Twice. Three times.
He reads the previews without turning his head. Sports car. Yacht. Billions in property. His expression doesn’t change at all. He picks the bottle back up and lobs it, unopened, into the bin by the door. It goes in clean.
“Hm.” He finally looks at you. “So, seatmate. Which part of your situation was I supposed to comfort?”