The exam period was drawing to a close.
The final subject was C Programming.
Old Professor Lin served as the invigilator, and his supervision was, to put it generously, relaxed. Glasses perched on his nose, he sat at the front podium drinking tea and reading the newspaper. The inspection supervisor came by twice to remind him to actually watch the students, but the moment the supervisor left, up came the newspaper again.
Zhu Yun finished quickly. This time, no one looked at anyone else — she simply walked straight out of the exam hall.
It was midday. The entire building had gone quiet. She came to stand by a window, the sunlight sharp against her eyes.
What a brilliant scheduling decision by the school.
Ending on C Programming gave her an inexplicable sense of calm — as if the entire semester had been neatly, satisfyingly resolved.
Back at the dormitory, Fang Shumiao was packing her things. Zhu Yun asked, “Are you heading home? When’s your ticket?”
Fang Shumiao: “I have to wait a few more days. Student council still has some things to sort out.”
Zhu Yun nodded thoughtfully.
That afternoon, she called her mother to report on the exam progress.
“You’re already done?” her mother asked.
“Yes, the last one was this morning.”
“Are you coming home tomorrow? Tell me what you want to eat and I’ll get it ready for you in advance.”
“…I’ll stay a few more days. There’s still something at school.”
“What kind of something?”
Zhu Yun’s eyes darted around the room.
“You know Fang Shumiao, right? Our class president. She has so many student council commitments and wanted me to help her out. She’s from out of province and is in a rush to get home.”
“I see.” Her mother considered this for a moment. “All right, stay a couple of days then. But don’t linger too long — the Spring Festival comes early this year, and I still need to take you shopping for new clothes when you get back.”
Victory.
Zhu Yun hung up the phone and headed to the base.
The software, too, was entering its final stretch. One look at Li Xun told her he had pulled another all-nighter.
The room smelled heavily of cigarettes. He turned his head.
“What are you doing here?”
Zhu Yun set down her bag. “Working.”
Li Xun: “It’s the holiday — what is there to work on?”
Zhu Yun opened her laptop. Li Xun continued grumbling beside her.
“Go home already. Get out, get out, get out!”
Do you have some kind of condition?
Zhu Yun ignored him. The exams were finally over, and all the miscellaneous obligations had been wrapped up — she could finally throw herself wholeheartedly into… wait, since when had exams become a miscellaneous obligation?
Zhu Yun wordlessly pulled up Li Xun’s latest progress from the shared files.
“You’re done with this?” She was surprised to see the software had been almost fully integrated. She clicked through — the interface ran smoothly.
“Still need another round of optimization.”
More optimization…
“But it won’t take long.”
Listening to that hoarse, worn-down voice of his, Zhu Yun said, “Can you please stop smoking?”
Li Xun paused, then curled his lip with obvious displeasure. “Since when is that your business?”
Fine, smoke yourself to death then.
“Let me run a test for you.” Zhu Yun moved the cursor across the shoulder region on the body diagram. An animation played instantly — the figure brought its hand to its shoulder, adopting a pained posture. A window popped up listing several shoulder-related conditions, guiding her to click further down.
“Oh? There’s a dietary recommendations section now?” That feature hadn’t been there before.
“Added it last week.” Li Xun pressed his fingers against his temple and said quietly, “Forcing product recommendations too hard can have the opposite effect. Adding a section on dietary therapy makes the software feel more approachable — even if someone isn’t buying, they might come back just to browse. It’s one way to retain users.”
Zhu Yun looked at Li Xun. His gaze seemed to be drifting, his focus already softening at the edges.
Is he going to suddenly collapse right here?
Zhu Yun scratched her head and exited the software.
“Huh?” She blinked as she returned to the desktop. Li Xun stifled a yawn and asked, “What’s wrong? Something running poorly?”
Zhu Yun pointed at the screen.
“The logo on the home page hasn’t been done — it’s blank.” She clicked open the asset folder. “Where are the cut image files? You rest, I’ll handle the import.”
A few seconds of silence passed. Li Xun stared at her like a reanimated corpse.
“The images?” Zhu Yun waved a hand in front of his face. “Tell me where the images are before you fall asleep. Are you sleeping with your eyes open?”
Li Xun’s eyes slowly shifted toward her with a distinctly unsettling look.