(Where Jian originally said the line that destroyed Wei)
The afternoon sun burned mercilessly over the school field, turning the red running track into a stretch of shimmering dust that glowed beneath the harsh light. Heat waves rose visibly from the ground, blurring the air above it, while the entire campus seemed to pulse with restless energy.
Students were everywhere shouting across the field, laughing too loudly, competing fiercely, running simply for the thrill of being watched. The noise swelled and overlapped in chaotic waves, whistles blowing, sneakers pounding against the track, teachers calling out half-hearted instructions that no one truly listened to.
Wei hated Sports Day.
He hated the crowds pressing in from all directions, the constant noise that crawled beneath his skin, and most of all, the feeling of eyes everywhere—watching, judging, waiting. The attention felt suffocating, like standing under a spotlight he never asked for.
But his homeroom teacher had insisted he join the relay team because they were "one person short," and somehow that one missing person had become his responsibility. Yanyan, unfortunately, happened to be the team captain.
And Yanyan hated it.
"You better not drag us down, ghost boy," Yanyan muttered under his breath as he handed Wei the baton, not even bothering to look at him.
Wei didn't argue.
He never argued.
The whistle shrieked through the air, slicing cleanly across the noise of the field, and the race began. Yanyan took off first—fast, strong, almost theatrical in the way he ran, the kind of runner who performed as much for the crowd as for the finish line. Cheers rose immediately, feeding his momentum.
The second runner followed, legs pumping hard, face twisted with effort. Then the third, slightly slower but determined, sneakers kicking up dust as the gap between teams tightened.
And then—
It was Wei's turn.
The baton was coming toward him, the final stretch waiting ahead, the crowd's noise swelling into something loud and indistinct.
The moment had arrived.
The baton slapped into Wei's palm—
and before he could properly steady himself, Yanyan shoved him forward.
It wasn't a light push meant to encourage momentum. It was firm. Impatient. The kind that carried an unspoken warning: Don't mess this up.
Wei stumbled.
For a split second, his balance gave way, and his knee struck the ground with a harsh crack that echoed louder in his body than across the field. A sharp burst of pain shot up his leg, bright and immediate.
A ripple moved through the crowd—an audible wince, a collective intake of breath.
But Wei pushed himself up almost instantly.
He didn't look back. He didn't complain.
He started running.
There was a slight limp in his stride, barely noticeable unless someone was truly watching, but he forced his legs to move anyway, pushing through the sting with the same quiet determination he always carried.
Because that was what he did.
He endured.
Silently.
Behind him, Yanyan's voice cut through the noise of the field.
"FASTER! Stop being useless!"
The words carried easily across the track, loud enough for others to hear, sharp enough to sting.
Wei didn't look back.
He ran.
His knee burned with every step, the impact from the fall throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The rough surface of the baton scraped against his already tender palms, biting into the skin until it felt raw. Each stride demanded more than the last, but he didn't slow down.
He didn't argue.
He didn't protest.
He simply kept moving forward.
And when he crossed the finish line, he didn't collapse dramatically or raise his arms in triumph. He didn't look toward his teammates for approval.
He just finished.
Not fast enough to earn cheers.
Not slow enough to be blamed entirely.
Just… finished.
The moment Wei crossed the line, Yanyan stormed toward him, face flushed from exertion and humiliation.
"What the hell was that?" he snapped, not bothering to lower his voice. "You ruined the race!"
A few nearby students slowed down, sensing drama, their attention shifting instinctively toward the scene.
Wei didn't answer.
His breathing was uneven now, not dramatic but shaky enough to betray the strain he was under. The scrape on his knee had split open further during the run, and a thin streak of blood trailed down his shin, bright against the dust clinging to his skin.
He didn't wipe it away.
He didn't defend himself.
He just stood there, shoulders slightly hunched, as if bracing for something he had already decided not to resist.
And that was when Jian approached.
Jian walked over with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, already carrying a trace of irritation as if he expected disappointment before hearing any explanation.
"What happened this time?" he asked flatly.
Yanyan jerked his thumb toward Wei without hesitation. "He fell. Obviously."
Jian let out a quiet scoff, rolling his eyes as if the outcome had been predictable from the start. "Tch. Of course he did."
The dismissal was casual. Effortless.
Wei looked at Jian.
He didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. Didn't even seem surprised.
He just looked at him.
And in that single glance, there was no anger—only something quieter. Something that settled deeper than accusation ever could.
Wei wasn't begging.
He wasn't explaining himself or defending what had happened.
He was just standing there quietly, knees scraped and bleeding, dust clinging to his hands, the baton still loosely held at his side as if he had forgotten he was carrying it.
For some reason, that silence irritated Jian.
It felt accusing.
Not loud. Not dramatic. But heavy—like Wei's quiet stare was holding up a mirror Jian didn't want to look into.
"What now?" Jian snapped, his voice rising before he could stop it. "You think you're the victim? Is that it?"
Wei's brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across his face more than hurt.
Yanyan let out a short laugh from the side. "See? He's doing that thing again—the sad puppy face."
A few nearby students chuckled under their breath.
Wei didn't react.
But something about the way he simply stood there—unmoving, unretaliating—made the air feel tighter than before.
Jian stepped closer, the anger in him no longer restrained, no longer carefully masked. It was sharp now—raw and uncontrolled.
"We're all trying here," he said, his voice loud enough that several nearby students turned their heads toward them. The noise of the field seemed to dim slightly around the tension gathering between them.
"And you—" His voice cracked unexpectedly, but he pushed through it anyway. "You just show up and make everything harder for everyone."
Wei's throat tightened.
For the first time since the race ended, he tried to speak.
"I didn't—"
"Don't," Jian snapped immediately, cutting him off.
The next words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"Please don't make my life harder than it already is."
The sentence hung in the air.
And suddenly, the field felt silent.
Not completely—there were still distant cheers, whistles, footsteps—but around them, in that small circle of space, everything seemed to pause.
Wei froze.
Completely.
Those words hit Wei harder than the fall had.
Harder than the scrape of gravel against skin. Harder than the sting in his knee.
He lowered his eyes slowly, as if the weight of the moment had physically pressed his head down.
"…I wasn't trying to," he said softly.
There was no excuse in his voice. No anger. Just a simple truth that sounded small against the open field.
Jian clicked his tongue in irritation. "Yeah? Then try not ruining things."
Yanyan laughed immediately, slapping Jian on the back as if it were all harmless banter, as if nothing fragile had just been stepped on in front of half the grade.
A whistle pierced through the tension, the teacher signaling the next race. The crowd shifted. Students moved on quickly, attention snapping elsewhere as if the scene had already lost its entertainment value.
Life resumed.
Wei finally bent down and touched his bleeding knee. His fingers brushed against the torn skin, and he winced—just once.
Quietly.
Painfully.
Then he straightened and began limping off the field without another word. He didn't look back. He didn't wait. He didn't expect anyone to call his name.
No one did.
Especially not Jian.