This week, my persona is [refined].
When Zhang Zhaomu woke up, that thought abruptly popped into his head.
Still half asleep, he felt around for the phone beside his pillow and checked the time.
Six thirty in the morning.
Today's the first day of school. I just need to get to the classroom before nine. I'll go back to sleep for another hour.
Thinking this out of habit, Zhang Zhaomu closed his eyes again.
But his usual drowsiness failed to settle over him. Instead, all sorts of jumbled thoughts surged into his mind.
This is my first time meeting my new classmates after the second-year class reshuffle, after all. I'd better get ready properly and make a good impression.
I haven't had a haircut in a while. It needs a little trim. And I never washed the clothes I changed out of yesterday. How can I go out wearing something that wrinkled?
What's that smell in my room? Is it the instant noodles I ate last night and never threw out? And the light quilt and sheets-I don't think I've aired them out even once since I bought them. Am I covered head to toe in dust mites right now?
Zhang Zhaomu instantly felt uncomfortable all over. He flung off the quilt and sat bolt upright.
The bedding needs changing, the room needs a thorough cleaning and tidying, and I need a proper, deep-cleaning shower!
In that case, there's definitely no time to go to a barber. Good thing I can trim it myself. The scissors at home should just about do. And-wait!
Zhang Zhaomu froze, a fleeting look of bewilderment crossing his face.
Since when do I know how to cut hair... No, why do I feel like I do?
He clearly had no memory of ever learning this skill, yet Zhang Zhaomu instinctively felt that he not only knew how, but was very good at it.
And why would he care about things like bedding that had never been aired out or a room that had never been cleaned?
He had even given up his beloved extra hour of sleep over it!
His hair stood on end. Feeling around with his feet, he slipped on his slippers, ducked into the bathroom, and stood before the mirror.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The unkempt-looking boy in the mirror was indeed him. He had not woken up transmigrated into someone else's body.
Unkempt was how Zhang Zhaomu had always described himself. Though it was a derogatory word, he felt it carried a carefree, easygoing air of not caring what other people thought.
But now, as Zhang Zhaomu looked at that familiar image, the word that surfaced in his mind was not that one, but another.
Disaster.
Slovenly no longer covered it. His hair was a bird's nest, and his bangs, uncut for an entire summer, almost covered his eyes. His features could still be called handsome, but his shiny, greasy skin completely buried that one small advantage.
September nights were still muggy. To put the money he saved on electricity toward his internet bill, Zhang Zhaomu never used the air conditioner. After a whole night of that stifling heat, even pigskin would have had two layers of grease to scrape off.
Zhang Zhaomu could not bear to look in the mirror any longer. He turned on the tap, scooped up a generous handful of water, and frantically splashed his face several times before straightening up and taking a deep breath.
He was no longer in any mood to ponder the strange things happening to him. A powerful inner urge drove him to get moving immediately.
Shower! Cut his hair! Clean up!
More than an hour slipped by in a blur of activity. When Zhang Zhaomu came back to his senses, he looked around the entire room.
The clutter strewn all over the floor had been neatly put away, the sheets and light quilt tossed into the washing machine, and the floor tiles scrubbed spotless. Even the haphazard posters on the wall were now perfectly aligned.
Zhang Zhaomu felt that the room had never been this clean and tidy since the day he moved in.
He returned to the mirror.
His fine, soft bangs had been trimmed short, revealing his handsome brows and instantly turning his formerly gloomy air sunny. The hair at his temples no longer covered his ears and cheekbones either, fully displaying his already well-defined features.
He wore a pale blue-and-white summer school uniform, the only outfit in his wardrobe that qualified as clean and tidy-after all, Xinxi No. 1 High School did not normally require uniforms except for important events, so this one was practically brand-new.
Zhang Zhaomu had always disliked how ordinary the uniform looked, but now it suited the straight-backed boy in the mirror exceptionally well. Suddenly, he felt as though he were looking through the mirror at the male lead of a coming-of-age film.
"Holy shit, is that really fucking me?"
Had he not still clearly remembered everything he had just done, Zhang Zhaomu would have thought he was still dreaming.
This was far more than a change in appearance. The boy in the mirror stood tall and looked composed, utterly different from his former hunched posture and listless expression. He looked just like one of those refined children raised in wealthy families, brought up with every kind of good education and nurtured by abundant material resources.
Zhang Zhaomu jolted, suddenly remembering the thought that had inexplicably appeared in his mind when he woke up.
This week, my persona is [refined].
Persona?
The strange, lingering bewilderment suddenly fell into place. A teenager's imagination could roam the heavens, and a guess immediately leaped into Zhang Zhaomu's mind.
Could all the changes that happened to me this morning be because I've been given a persona called [refined]?
What sort of power could do something like that?
Countless films, shows, and novels he had seen flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern. Zhang Zhaomu took another look at himself in the mirror, then tossed those meaningless guesses aside.
Whatever. At least it doesn't seem like a bad thing.
Zhang Zhaomu had always been easygoing.
He checked the time. After all that tidying up, there were only forty-odd minutes left before class.
Fortunately, his rented place was near the school gates, less than a ten-minute walk from the classroom building. Even if he stopped for breakfast, he should still reach the classroom fifteen minutes early.
With that thought, Zhang Zhaomu opened his door. As luck would have it, the door opposite opened too.
The breeze stirred up by the opening door lifted the hem of a white dress, and Zhang Zhaomu unexpectedly met the other person's eyes.
His instinct was to look away.
Boys his age naturally felt an indescribable embarrassment and apprehension when meeting a girl's gaze, especially when she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Zhang Zhaomu could see her bare skin, fair as jade, and her silky black hair softly curving around her ears and trailing down her slender neck onto her back. She had no bangs, leaving her smooth, full forehead exposed above gentle, limpid eyes and brows. Her nose had a high bridge but delicate nostrils, her lips were naturally rosy, and her chin was not overly pointed, lending her jawline a soft, rounded gentleness.
Of course Zhang Zhaomu knew her.
Duan Chan'er.
When they first started their first year of high school, her name had spread throughout almost the entire school in a single day. Inevitably, he too had wandered past her classroom windows several times between classes, pretending to glance inside by chance.
Unfortunately, he had only ever managed to see her from the side. She always sat quietly, as though completely cut off from the laughter and horseplay in the classroom, in a world of her own.
He had heard that she had shown literary talent from childhood and won medals in quite a few prestigious competitions. Some even said she was already earning money from her writing and would certainly become a famous author someday.
Zhang Zhaomu knew nothing about writing. Sometimes, when talking about her with friends, he would say in an indifferent tone:
"Duan Chan'er is pretty, sure, but I'm not interested in literary girls at all."
"Always staring at books-she must be boring as hell. You could spend a whole day together and barely exchange a few words."
In reality, Zhang Zhaomu knew nothing at all about Duan Chan'er. Even after discovering that she lived right across the hall, feelings he could not bring himself to admit had kept him from ever interacting with her.
This time should have been just like every other time: he would avert his eyes, pretend he had not seen her, and head downstairs first with a slightly stiff bearing.
But Zhang Zhaomu did not.
He smiled naturally and raised a hand in greeting. "Morning."
Morning, my ass!
Zhang Zhaomu roared inwardly, his heartbeat accelerating beyond his control.
Are you insane? Does she even know you? Why would you randomly say hello? He was already imagining her coldly ignoring him, or even giving him a disgusted look as though he were a cockroach, then scoffing and turning away.
Yet his actions seemed largely unaffected by the fantasies in his head. He continued to meet her eyes calmly.
A hint of surprise appeared on Duan Chan'er's face as she looked Zhang Zhaomu up and down.
"Good morning." She nodded politely and reservedly. Apparently feeling that this response alone was not polite enough, she added, "You look... very sharp today."
She actually answered? And-
You actually remember me? I thought a girl like you wouldn't remember someone like me at all.
Zhang Zhaomu instinctively wanted to scratch his head and reply with an awkward laugh.
But what he actually did was nod slightly. "I just tidied myself up a little."
"That haircut really suits you." A hint of a smile appeared on Duan Chan'er's face. "The clothes too. Not many boys have the build to pull off our school uniform. I never really noticed before, but you're quite tall."
"Thanks." Zhang Zhaomu casually closed his door. "I'm going to get breakfast. What about you?"
"I'm going straight to school." Duan Chan'er paused, then explained, "I already ate at home. I toasted two slices of bread and fried an egg."
"Okay."
They walked downstairs together, not particularly close, but Zhang Zhaomu could still smell the faint jasmine fragrance drifting from her hair.
He felt his heart beating even faster. It was clearly just an ordinary conversation, the sort any neighbors might have when they happened to run into each other.
But she was Duan Chan'er, after all.
Before this, Zhang Zhaomu had never imagined he could exchange even a single sentence with her. No matter how he looked at it, they belonged to entirely different worlds. Besides, in his imagination, Duan Chan'er was supposed to be a literary girl who disliked socializing and immersed herself in her own world.
Surely everything she talked about would be wind, flowers, snow, and moonlight. Every so often, she would mention foreign literary giants whose names were too long to remember, or sigh about how noisy the wind was today and how she wanted to experience romance in the Sahara.
These imaginary stereotypes were now shattered outright by toast and a fried egg.
She was much more talkative than he had imagined, and much more down-to-earth.
If Chen Zhenzhen knew I'd actually managed to chat with Duan Chan'er, he'd definitely be shocked.
Zhang Zhaomu could not help marveling. This refined persona is fucking awesome.
Zhang Zhaomu did not actually have much of a notion of what "refined" meant. His first impression was probably those girls in his class who posted nine-picture grids on their Moments all day, editing their photos until they looked nothing like themselves. Still, that was probably performative refinement, which seemed rather different from his own.
At least for now, it seemed that he paid particular attention to his appearance and personal hygiene whether he was around others or alone. His behavior and way of speaking had also unconsciously become much more composed and appropriate. This kind of refinement seemed more like an ability to manage daily life and social interactions well.
Zhang Zhaomu felt that without this mysterious experience, he would never have managed anything like it in his entire life.
Their walk down the stairs was brief. After all, Zhang Zhaomu's rented place was only on the third floor. Before he could emerge from his jumble of fantasies, Duan Chan'er had already stepped onto the street and turned to ask, "What are you going to eat?"
"Liu's Rice Noodles," Zhang Zhaomu replied. "I didn't get to have any all summer. I've been craving it for ages."
"That place really is good!" Duan Chan'er nodded in agreement. "I go there sometimes when I don't have time to make breakfast."
She raised her slender, scallion-white fingers and pointed toward the school. "I'll head off first, then?"
Zhang Zhaomu waved.
Her white skirt lifted slightly as she turned, revealing a small stretch of fair calf. Duan Chan'er walked with light steps, a gauzy layer of morning sunlight covering the beautiful hair cascading to her waist.
Zhang Zhaomu wanted to look a little longer, but his stomach rumbled in protest. After spending all morning cleaning his room, he was already ravenous.
Fortunately, the noodle shop was not far away. Before he even entered, Zhang Zhaomu called out eagerly:
"Boss, one bowl of beef rice noodles in red broth, with two extra eggs!"
Only then did he look around the small shop. Since it was the morning rush, its few tables were already full. His gaze landed on a spot in the corner occupied by just one person, and his eyebrows rose slightly.
"Yo!"
Striding over, Zhang Zhaomu sat down without ceremony, slapped the other person on the head, and declared in a ringing voice:
"Chen-Zhen!"
"My fucking name is Chen Zhenzhen!" The other person looked up indignantly, then froze.
"Who the fuck are you?"