"Good morning, class. Let's begin with the mock test. You have forty-five minutes," the homeroom teacher announced, placing a thick stack of papers on the desk.
Yan Xiyan sat by the window, sunlight pouring across her desk. Her expression was serene, eyes focused on the test paper in front of her. But beneath that calm exterior, her mind calculated everything like a machine honed by war. Every tick of the clock was a shot fired in her head—timed, measured, and logged.
Behind her, Qiao Zeyan stared intently at her back. His pencil rested idly on the desk.
That was the third time she had erased her answer and rewritten it—only someone checking their own logic like an analyst would do that. Not a normal high school student.
"Interesting..." he muttered.
After class, Yan Xiyan slipped her textbooks into her bag and made her way out of the classroom. But she paused as she passed by the glass door, sensing eyes on her. She turned slightly—Qiao Zeyan was still in his seat, head tilted, lips curled into a thoughtful smirk.
He was watching again.
That night, the military training ground buzzed with a different energy. Sergeant Zhang's voice echoed through the cold air.
"Fifty push-ups. Then go straight to rifle disassembly."
Yan Xiyan didn't hesitate. The smooth precision in her movements was the result of months of repetition. Her fingers danced over the weapon like it was a piano—each part clicking into place with the elegance of a seasoned veteran.
"Your reaction speed has improved. But your hand grip faltered on the third shot last night. If this were a real battle, you would've missed the target's jugular."
"Yes, Sergeant!" she replied, sweat trailing down her temples, but her voice steady as iron.
As she lined up for the next drill, her mind flickered back to Qiao Zeyan. That boy was digging too deep. She'd seen him in the library, looking at old student files. His eyes lit up when he found the photo labeled Xu Xiyan, dated three years ago.
Her old self.
He was close.
Too close.