Three months earlier.
As Hua Hongxiao walked through the door to his dorm room, weighed down by his luggage, a fresh wave of frustration surged through him.
He'd endured grueling years of high school, hoping for a taste of freedom in college. Sure, he wasn't thrilled about being assigned to a major he hadn't chosen, but he'd still clung to some rose-tinted visions of dorm life: a cozy, clean space marking the start of independence. Instead, he found himself staring at a cramped, humid room with peeling walls and furniture that looked like it had survived several generations. A narrow aisle cut through rows of ancient bunks, and the stale mattresses looked ready to collapse.
"Same dorm room, different nightmare," Hua thought bitterly, mentally renaming Tongren Medical University to "Stabbed-in-the-Back Medical University."
In fairness, his disappointment wasn't entirely Tongren's fault. It was a reputable medical school—just shy of the prestige held by Beijing and Shanghai Medical Universities. Excited, he'd initially applied to Tongren's prestigious clinical medicine programs. But, thanks to one regrettable decision—checking the box that allowed his application to be "reassigned"—he'd been bumped to the biomedical sciences department instead.
Years later, most would know which college majors were career traps. Biology? The ultimate pit. But back then, "Biology" had been branded as the "field of the 21st century." Sure, unlocking the mysteries of life was fascinating, but Hongxiao's interest was purely superficial.
After all, he'd decided to become a doctor the day his grandfather died of a sudden heart attack. Saving lives. That was the point. Clinical medicine and biomedical science might both have "medicine" in the name, but Hongxiao knew only clinical medicine led to being a doctor, to saving actual people.
Now he faced a future filled with glass tubes and lab mice. Not real patients, he thought miserably.
"Are you coming in or not?" A booming voice sounded behind him.
Startled, Hongxiao realized he'd been daydreaming at the door. He hurried inside, turning to see a handsome boy with glasses and an easy smile. Another freshman, by the look of his gear.
"You're 108 too, huh? I'm Zhang Xiaolong," the guy said, flashing a nod and casually tossing his bags onto the lower bunk by the window. "Guess I'll take this one."
Friendly guy, very fitting for this charming room, Hongxiao thought, half-smiling.
Xiaolong pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a practiced flick, completely at ease. Hua's jaw almost dropped; smoking had been forbidden in his high school. Xiaolong clearly knew his way around a lighter.
With a cigarette dangling effortlessly from his lips, Xiaolong looked at Hongxiao and asked, "Want one?"
"No, no, thanks," Hongxiao waved his hand quickly. Something about the way Xiaolong kept his cigarette balanced while talking was strangely elegant.
Settling on a bed diagonally across from Xiaolong, Hongxiao started unpacking, trying not to let his resentment color his thoughts. He wasn't naturally organized, so each item he unpacked required a mental rehearsal. Meanwhile, Xiaolong unpacked with practiced ease.
"Did you hear? Our department got a new professor. Fresh from America, doing some kind of telepathy tech." Hongxiao's eyes sparkled as he spoke.
"Our department? Oh…you mean the biomedical sciences department?" Hongxiao stumbled, his attachment to the department still minimal. But Xiaolong was unfazed.
"Yeah! It's supposed to be some groundbreaking technology. The only one in the world! Imagine if we could read minds, just knowing what someone else was thinking," Xiaolong said, beaming.
"Maybe…" Hongxiao muttered, his attention split. He wasn't trying to ignore Xiaolong, but his mind was tangled in logistics—where to put his clothes, his books, his memories. This "telepathy tech" sounded more like pseudoscience to him, anyway. He couldn't help but snicker internally. What's next? Astral projection?
Lost in thought, he absentmindedly knocked over a water cup on his desk. The cup, a relic of his grueling high school years, shattered into three pieces on the floor.
"What happened?" Xiaolong turned, sounding half-concerned, half-annoyed. Is he asking if I'm okay or if I'm an idiot? Hongxiao wondered.
For a second, the idea of telepathy didn't sound so bad.
"Nothing, just a broken cup." Hongxiao knelt down, gathering the shards.
The noise in the hall grew as another wave of students passed by, carrying luggage to nearby rooms. One of them—a buzz-cut guy—paused at the door of room 108.
"Hey, new roommates, huh? I'm Zhang Xiaolong, and you?"
Hongxiao realized Xiaolong hadn't even asked for his name yet. A tiny pang of irritation surfaced.
"Xiao Feng," the buzz-cut guy said, his gaze sweeping the beds, evaluating their potential.
"Xiao Feng? Like the character from Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils?" Xiaolong laughed, delighted.
Hongxiao barely had time for martial arts novels but knew enough to recall a character named Qiao Feng, not Xiao Feng.
"It's a different 'Xiao.' My family name's character is the 'Xiao' in 'Xiaoxi,'" Xiao Feng clarified with an easy grin.
Hongxiao almost corrected Xiaolong's mistaken literary reference but thought better of it. Luckily, I kept quiet.
Unfazed, Xiao Feng casually claimed a bunk and joined in the banter with Xiaolong, their exchange flowing as if they'd known each other for years.
Hongxiao continued unpacking in silence, feeling a little out of place. They'd both given him a polite nod but seemed otherwise uninterested in him.
Maybe they think names will come naturally with time. Hongxiao shrugged, inwardly amused. He'd always preferred talking to himself over speaking to others.
Perhaps the best way to communicate, he mused, isn't through words, but telepathy after all.