WEI STRIKES AGAIN

The last chime of the lunch bell had thinned out over Highschool A's main grounds—paved paths cutting through open grass where anyone between buildings could see you. Xian stood with Mei, Val, and Dawn in that wide afternoon glare; there was no corner here dark enough to swallow a fight.

Wei closed the distance wearing the grin he kept ready for trouble, eyes already hunting. He never dropped into a rush or a swing. Words were the weapon today—he ordered Val away from Xian, stacked jealous insults on top, then pivoted to her with praise that landed like ownership, as if she'd ever signed over permission.

Nothing from February showed itself. No one flew in from the side, no one hammered Val into the ground, no blur of movement tucking behind a shoulder. Wei stayed on his feet and kept his hands busy with his mouth instead—almost a performance of restraint after the mornings and Block A.

Mei got there first. "Go away."

Two words, flat and final. Xian felt the older weight behind them—the boy who had shattered another student's limbs in 2007 when she'd said no to someone who cared for her. Wei was not welcome here, and Mei did not need to explain why.

Val hung back at the edge of the circle, shoulders square, hands loose at his sides. He didn't fold behind Dawn's bright hair the way he had before—just watched while Mei held the line.

Wei read stillness as weakness and pushed harder, insults spilling toward Val while that grin fought to stay on top. Foot traffic around them tightened—students slowing, stopping. Curiosity drew a ragged ring around them, phones still in pockets, every stare fixed on the Tang boy and the twin with the long black hair.

She acted before reason could talk her down. Her palm met Wei's cheek with a crack that carried across the tightening circle. One strike, then stillness—the grounds went quiet around it.

She kept her hand raised a beat longer than she needed to, voice cutting clean through the open grounds: she was not interested in him. He needed to stay away from her—and he needed to leave her friends alone. No polite retreat he could twist into hope later.

Dawn's glacial blue eyes had gone hard. "God damn it, Tangs — always doing whatever they wanted." The fury wasn't only for the boy flushing in front of them—it was for every adult who looked the other way because of the name on his uniform. Mei stayed planted at Xian's side, unmoving, a wall Wei couldn't talk through.

Staff cut through the crowd's outer rim—a teacher whose eyes snagged on Wei's reddening cheek and slid away again. Nothing stopped. Walking continued. The same lesson February had burned in: Tang name bought passivity from adults who were supposed to intervene.

He left with color still climbing his cheek, jaw working on words he never got out. No parting shot at Val—no this isn't over tossed over his shoulder. Whatever burned in him stayed pointed at her: the slap, the refusal, the public humiliation that would outlive the afternoon.

When Wei was gone, Val and Mei traded a look and smirked.

"Lovers quarrel, huh?" Val said.

"Just make up — with a kiss." Mei pulled a smoochy face, pure tease.

Pink climbed her face. "Hmph—not talking to you anymore," she muttered at both of them.

Dawn giggled first; then Mei and Val joined in, and even Xian's pout cracked at the edges.

They scooped up their bags, laughed once under their breath, and split toward different buildings—back to class while the grounds emptied behind them.