Chapter One: First Encounter

A tall man stepped across the threshold, his shoes landing heavily on the wooden plank.

Early spring had brought a gentle warmth, and life was bursting forth everywhere.

At four in the afternoon, East China Road, the busiest street in the city, teemed with crowds and streams of cars. Cen Mo slipped off her coat and carried it in her hand, her steps creaking on the worn wooden stairs. On the second floor, the pungent aroma of hot pot and the clamor of voices greeted her.

The restaurant’s north window was open, letting in the slanting, amber sunlight of late afternoon. Tiny motes of dust floated slowly in the air, resembling leaping notes on a taut drumhead.

"Spicy hot pot coming through! Please make way!" a server called out behind her.

Cen Mo stepped aside, leaning against the corridor railing. "Five girls who look like college students just came in. Which private room are they in?"

"Room five! This hot pot’s for your group," the server replied cheerfully.

She nodded, and by the time she squeezed into the narrow room, her roommate Huang Zhi and the others were already cooking vegetables in the tomato broth.

"Mo Mo! You’re so slow, why are you just getting here?" Huang Zhi stood up at once, her voice loud and tipsy.

Because she often worked part-time jobs, Cen Mo wasn't close with her roommates. She left early and returned late, barely seeing them, and naturally, they had little to talk about. Over time, the girls had simply excluded her from their small circle and seldom spoke to her. Only Huang Zhi, who was naturally outgoing, would always reach out and invite her to their gatherings.

Cen Mo didn’t mind; she’d always been calm and aloof, and never had many friends. This time, she’d come along only because graduation was near—each get-together might be the last, and after living together for years, there was some sentiment there.

The spicy broth was Huang Zhi’s special order for her.

Cen Mo sat quietly, eating in silence. Occasionally, she’d raise her beer can and toast the others. The air was filled with lively, ordinary warmth, and time slipped quickly by as dusk fell.

Outside, the sky was ink-black, not a single star in sight.

Her lips tingled from the spice, sweat trickled down her forehead, but an odd melancholy weighed on her. It was as if she were watching a play from behind glass, never a part of it, always an outsider.

Across from her, her roommates linked arms and clinked bowls, singing under the warm glow of the lamps, their faces vibrant with youth.

Cen Mo tipped back her can, finishing the last sip of beer.

She slipped her hands into her pockets, placed her share of the bill on the table, and walked down the stairs at an unhurried pace.

Outside, the air still carried the scent of hot pot, but now, with her stomach full, it made her queasy.

She rounded a corner, found a tranquil tea house, and sat in the shadow of its outer wall, absentmindedly eating an ice cream.

A little flower girl approached, her basket in hand, filling the air with a sweet, delicate fragrance.

"Big sister, buy some flowers! They’re very pretty," the child said with a squinting, bouncy smile.

"Sorry, little one, I don’t want to buy any," Cen Mo shook her head.

"You don’t like flowers? Then buy a bunch for your boyfriend! Or your mom and dad!" the girl persisted.

Cen Mo considered this. "I don’t have a boyfriend, or parents, or any family. It’s not that I dislike flowers—I’m simply alone. If I bought them, there’d be no one to share them with."

Her voice was cool, not sad, just matter-of-fact—a candor brought on by the alcohol, making her more willing to share.

The flower seller wandered off, looking puzzled. Cen Mo stood, tossed her ice cream stick in the trash, and as she turned her head, she noticed—without knowing when he’d appeared—a young man of striking presence standing at the corner nearby.

The spring night’s wind was gentle, but she shivered and hugged her arms. Across the streetlights’ muted glow, their eyes seemed to meet for a few seconds in her slight drunkenness.

Time seemed to stretch, viscous as sweet lotus-root soup, slowing to a stop.

The man was tall and upright, dressed impeccably in a black overcoat. His aura of distinction clashed with the narrow alleyway. Lifting an elegant hand, he beckoned the flower girl over; a ring of inky jade glimmered on his little finger.

Snapping out of her daze, Cen Mo turned to leave.

But footsteps sounded behind her. The flower girl ran up, holding out a bouquet of pale jasmine, and smiled. "Big sister, that big brother just now gave you these. He said the flowers are beautiful and invited you to enjoy them."

Cen Mo paused, looking back instinctively, but the sleek luxury car was already gone, swallowed by the night. Through the dark window, she glimpsed the man’s sharp, cold profile.

It all seemed like a fleeting dream, the fragrance of flowers lingering as proof.

"Take them!" the girl’s crisp voice urged again.

"Thank you," Cen Mo replied, finally accepting the flowers.

Just then, Huang Zhi came looking for her from the restaurant, curiosity in her eyes. "Mo Mo, someone sent you flowers? Is it someone you know?"

"No, just a stranger, a chance encounter," Cen Mo shook her head. "He must have overheard my conversation with the flower girl and wanted to comfort me on a whim."

On this lively yet lonely night, inviting someone to share in the fleeting beauty of a blossom blooming in darkness was, in truth, a deeply romantic gesture.

It was nothing like what one would expect from a man so aloof and refined.

The contrast made Cen Mo laugh. Her mood lifted, and she felt lighter.

…

Half a month passed in the blink of an eye. When Cen Mo returned to the dormitory, it was already past nine.

Graduation was imminent. The dormitory was alive with people packing, boys helping out everywhere, the noise constant.

She made her way through the crowd to the very last room. Most of the beds inside were already empty, except for Huang Zhi, who was reading on the top bunk.

"Mo Mo, when are you leaving?" Huang Zhi scrambled up, resting her chin on the rail.

"I don’t know—when I find a place to live," Cen Mo set down her bag.

The jasmine pressed in her book was perfectly preserved. She stared at it for a few seconds, then grabbed her towel and went to shower.

"I’m planning to leave after the graduation ceremony," Huang Zhi said lazily. "We’ve already paid the dorm fees—might as well stay as long as we can."

This teacher’s college was strictly managed, much to the students’ complaints. Lights went out at ten, dorm doors locked, and those who were noisy or came back late were reported and criticized.

In four years, only Huang Zhi and Cen Mo had never been reprimanded.

Huang Zhi was a typical homebody—if she wasn’t in class, she barely left the dorm, just lying in bed watching dramas or reading novels, so she never broke the rules.

Cen Mo, however, was different. She truly followed the rules—extreme self-discipline, one might say.

Never staying up late, never returning after curfew; she woke early, jogged every morning, ate in the cafeteria on schedule, never skipped class or left early. Her habits were almost frighteningly good.

Besides that, she worked several part-time jobs every day, spinning from one task to the next like a top, barely pausing except to eat or sleep.

Sometimes, after reading too much science fiction, Huang Zhi couldn’t help but wonder if Cen Mo was a robot.

Now, lying on her bunk, she flipped her book slowly, listening to the sounds below.

…

Twenty minutes for a shower, fifteen for laundry, ten for a face mask and moisturizer. At exactly ten o’clock, Cen Mo climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and lay flat as the dorm lights went out.

It was uncanny, her timing so precise.

"Hey, how do you manage your time so well? Share your secrets?" Huang Zhi switched on her reading lamp and couldn’t help asking.

All she got in reply was the sound of steady breathing. On the opposite top bunk, Cen Mo was already asleep, hands neatly folded on her chest, the covers tucked in perfectly, her face serene and peaceful.

Amazing—truly amazing. She didn’t even waste time sleeping; the moment her head touched the pillow, she was out, the very picture of efficiency.

Huang Zhi marveled again, recalling something she’d read online: "What kind of person is the most ‘terrifying’? The ones with extreme self-discipline."

If you think about it, if someone can stick to early nights and mornings, what can’t they do?

It was meant as a joke, but to Huang Zhi, it fit Cen Mo perfectly.

…

When Cen Mo received the call and hurried over, a crowd had already gathered.

Far above, a tiny figure was clinging to the outer air-conditioning unit of a high-rise, inching downward—a scene that made one’s heart race.

"Excuse me," she said, pushing past those in her way and swiping her access card.

At the elevator, a property manager spoke anxiously into a walkie-talkie. "It’s the owner’s kid from the tenth floor—the door’s locked, no adults at home…"

"I can open it," a calm voice called from behind.

By the time the manager, puffing, caught up, Cen Mo had already opened the door.

She carried a coil of mountaineering descent rope, fixed one end securely in the apartment, and clipped the other end to her harness before climbing out the window.

"The child won’t last until the firefighters arrive. I’ll go first," she said lightly, her voice fading as she swung outside.

The wind was biting. Cen Mo clung to the wall, peering down.

A meter away on the diagonal, the boy clung to the air conditioner’s grill, his face ghostly pale, eyes squeezed shut, trembling uncontrollably.

Arching an eyebrow, Cen Mo pushed off the wall, dropping downward.

In a split second, she caught the boy in her arms, snapped the carabiner securely around them both, binding them together.

The entire rescue took less than a minute, but it was heart-stopping. Someone below started clapping, and the crowd erupted in applause.

"It’s all right now," Cen Mo soothed, patting the boy’s messy hair as they dangled in midair.

But the rope, now carrying two people, was stretched to its limit. The only option was to find a window nearby.

Unfortunately, the eighth-floor apartment’s extended window ledge formed a makeshift awning, its edge lined with sharp steel rods. No matter the angle, the abrasive edge would wear through the rope.

That left only one option: go through the window.

"Is anyone inside?" Frowning, Cen Mo knocked on the glass.

The sound of a television was audible inside, but no one answered.

Time was running out. The fire truck was blocked by illegally parked cars and couldn’t get through. The descent rope was straining, about to give way.