He's a murderer

On the dirt road outside the courtyard gate, the rumble of suitcase wheels over gravel drew closer and closer.

Zhao Pengfei perked up and rushed to the gate, taking the steps two at a time, his grin already stretching from ear to ear.

"You're finally-"

The gate opened, and a head of blue hair thrust into his face.

Zhao Pengfei's smile froze instantly.

Duan Qizhao held the suitcase handle, dark circles beneath both eyes and a dead twig snagged on his trouser leg from some unknown bush.

"This shitty road is so fucking hard to walk on." He tossed his suitcase into the courtyard and wiped away his sweat. "It nearly bounced the wheels clean off."

Zhao Pengfei leaned halfway out of the gate to look behind him.

The dirt road was deserted. There wasn't even a dog.

"Where's Jiang Xun?"

Duan Qizhao gave him a puzzled look. "He's not coming."

The corners of Zhao Pengfei's mouth visibly drooped, his wide eyes filled with the shock of betrayal. "Why not?!"

"How should I know?" Duan Qizhao dragged his suitcase toward the house, giving the gleaming motorcycle a couple of extra glances as he passed.

"If he likes living in that crappy thatched hut, let him. What are you getting so worked up about?"

Zhao Pengfei stood rooted to the spot, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He had spent the entire morning preparing for today, smoothing out the new sheets, folding the thick quilt into a perfect square, and even wiping the dust off the windowsill.

And instead of Jiang Xun, he got some blue-haired guy?!

Duan Qizhao had already reached the main room's doorway. Looking back at Zhao Pengfei, who was still planted by the courtyard gate like a stone wife waiting for her husband, he called impatiently, "Hey, where's my room?"

Zhao Pengfei ignored him.

Duan Qizhao rolled his eyes and dragged his suitcase inside to find a room himself.

Zhao Pengfei simply couldn't make sense of it.

His house was the grandest in the village, with red-brick walls, aluminum-framed windows, and a concrete courtyard where you wouldn't step in mud when it rained.

The guest bed had new sheets, a new quilt, and a new pillow. He had even moved the electric fan in there. It was ten thousand times better than the hard plank bed at Shen Wangjing's place that could break your spine.

Any normal person would know which to choose.

Jiang Xun could kick out two of someone's front teeth, dump Zhao Pengfei's lunchbox over his head in the cafeteria, and dare to throw jujubes at the back of his mother's head. He didn't look like an idiot any way you looked at him.

So why wouldn't he come?

The question churned through Zhao Pengfei's head all day, leaving him unable to taste his food or sleep at night. He hadn't even tasted the braised pork his mother had made, and that blue-haired guy had eaten it all.

Beside him, Li Guizhi watched helplessly as an outsider ate all the pork she had spent the afternoon stewing. She was so anxious she nearly worked herself into a fever. Thinking Zhao Pengfei was sick, she reached to feel his forehead, only for him to swat her hand away.

Early Monday morning, before it was fully light, Zhao Pengfei climbed out of bed.

He swung onto the gleaming motorcycle and twisted the throttle. The roar of the engine startled the sleeping Li Guizhi so badly that she rolled out of bed.

By the time she threw on a coat and chased him to the courtyard gate, the motorcycle was already far away, leaving only a trail of bluish smoke slowly dispersing in the morning mist.

Zhao Pengfei parked beneath the crooked flagpole at Shiban Village Middle School and folded his arms, tapping his foot irritably.

The morning breeze blew cold down his collar, but the fire inside him was burning fiercely.

After he had waited about fifteen minutes, someone pushed open the cafeteria's battered wooden door from inside.

Jiang Xun emerged with half a coarse-grain bun between his teeth, his cheeks bulging and a bowl of vegetable gruel in his hand, chewing with utter concentration.

"Jiang Xun." Zhao Pengfei stepped out of the flagpole's shadow, trying to make his voice sound deep and resonant.

Jiang Xun looked up and glanced at him, still chewing his bun.

Zhao Pengfei took a deep breath and poured out the questions he had been holding in for two days. "What's so good about Shen Wangjing? You'd rather stay in that shitty thatched hut gnawing on hard buns than come live at my house?"

"My place has a bed, meat, and a fan. What's that dump of Shen Wangjing's got? Drafts on every side and not even a decent bed. Doesn't your back hurt, sleeping on those hard planks every day?"

"Nope." Jiang Xun took a sip of vegetable gruel.

That breezy reply nearly choked Zhao Pengfei unconscious. "Shen Wangjing's so poor he can't even get enough to eat. What could you possibly gain from living with him?"

"He's good-looking," Jiang Xun said offhandedly.

Zhao Pengfei froze for a moment. Then his face flushed with something that might have been anger, burning hotter than if someone had slapped him.

He gritted his teeth and lowered his voice, his tone abruptly changing. "You think he's some decent guy?"

"I heard it from my mom." Zhao Pengfei leaned closer. "His dad didn't jump into the river because of debt at all. He's the one who got his dad killed!"

"The night Shen Dayong died, someone heard Shen Wangjing arguing with his dad by the river. They were so loud the whole village heard them, and the next morning his dad had drowned in the river! Think about it. His dad owed all that money. If he was going to kill himself, he could've done it ages ago. Why jump into the river right after arguing with Shen Wangjing?"

The more he spoke, the more animated he became, barely able to contain the excitement in his voice. His eyes stayed fixed on Jiang Xun's face, waiting to see fear and disgust surface in those beautiful eyes-ideally, an urge to turn and run.

Yet Jiang Xun's chewing didn't falter in the slightest.

Refusing to give up, Zhao Pengfei pressed another step closer and gestured at the web of his own hand, a dark exhilaration in his voice:

"Have you seen that scar on Shen Wangjing's hand? The one between his thumb and forefinger-that's where Shen Dayong's nails gouged right into his flesh when he desperately tried to grab something as Shen Wangjing pushed him in!"

"The cut was so big the flesh turned out, and blood soaked his whole sleeve. Someone saw him come back from the river that night with a piece of clothing wrapped around his hand. The next day, the water wrung out of it was completely red."

"A father's nails gouging into his own son's flesh-how much hatred would that take? How desperately must he have been struggling?"

Zhao Pengfei had imagined countless possible reactions from Jiang Xun.

Going pale with fright was the bare minimum. Turning and running would be normal. Immediately packing up and moving to his house was the ideal outcome.

He had even fantasized about Jiang Xun asking him, "Really?" with reddened eyes, so he could take the opportunity to pull him into his arms and say in a deep voice, "Don't be scared. I'll protect you."

But Jiang Xun merely leaned against the wall and tilted his head at him, the corners of his mouth lifted, his expression no different from someone watching a monkey perform acrobatics.

"Why do you think Shen Wangjing's always alone?" Zhao Pengfei refused to give up and stepped closer.

"It's because he's gloomy, born defective, and a murderer! Nobody dares go near him!"