Lune chose Wei.
The decision was not emotional. It was practical.
Wei sat two desks away, close enough to observe without drawing attention. He was neither popular nor isolated, which made him ideal. Children like Wei were socially stable—they moved easily between groups, invited but not sought after, tolerated everywhere. Associating with him would attract no scrutiny.
Lune watched Wei for three days before acting.
Wei laughed easily, but not loudly. He shared snacks. He complained about homework without bitterness. When teased, he shrugged it off. Resilient, Lune noted. Low maintenance.
On the fourth day, Lune sat beside him during lunch.
"Do you like the chicken?" Lune asked, tone neutral but open.
Wei blinked, surprised. "Uh—yeah. It's okay."
Lune nodded. "Me too."
They ate in silence for twelve seconds. Lune counted.
Wei shifted. "Do you want to trade desserts?" he asked.
An offering. A small one, but important.
"Yes," Lune said. He handed over his fruit cup and accepted the cookie Wei offered. Exchange completed.
From that point, the pattern established itself quickly.
Lune mirrored Wei's habits. When Wei complained about a test, Lune frowned lightly and agreed. When Wei laughed, Lune smiled a beat later. When Wei talked about his favorite cartoon, Lune listened attentively and asked questions that encouraged continuation.
Wei began seeking him out.
"Lune, do you want to sit together?"
"Lune, did you finish the worksheet?"
"Lune, do you want to play after school?"
Each invitation was another data point.
Lune responded consistently. He shared pencils. He waited when Wei lagged behind. He defended Wei once, mildly, when another boy mocked his shoes.
"That's not nice," Lune said calmly.
The teacher overheard. Approval followed.
Wei looked at him differently after that. Gratitude, Lune recognized. Loyalty soon followed.
"You're my best friend," Wei said one afternoon, grinning.
Lune smiled back, using the version that suggested warmth without intensity.
Wei began telling him secrets—small ones. Who he liked. What scared him. What made him cry at night.
Lune listened carefully, storing the information but not reciprocating in equal measure. He offered vague responses in return, non-committal but emotionally shaped.
"I get that," he said often.
Wei accepted that easily.
At home, Lune's parents noticed the change.
"You made a friend?" his mother asked, hopeful.
"Yes," Lune said.
Her relief was immediate. She spoke of it later to his father in the kitchen, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks.
"He's making connections," she said. "That's good."
Good meant working.
Lune understood the value of Wei now. Friendship was proof. Proof that Lune was integrating. Proof that the system was succeeding.
Wei was not just a companion. He was evidence.
One afternoon, Wei cried when he lost a game. The tears were quick, embarrassed. Lune responded immediately—hand on shoulder, voice soft.
"It's okay," he said. "It's just a game."
Wei smiled through the tears. "Thanks."
The teacher smiled too.
That night, lying in bed, Lune reviewed the day. Friendship required maintenance, but the cost was low. The returns were significant: approval, protection, legitimacy.
He understood something important then. Friendship was not about closeness. It was about function. And as long as both parties received what they needed, the exchange would continue.