The teacher closed the office door and pretended to criticize Qiao. Qiao, with a knowing expression, assured him, “I am good at both science and liberal arts, so please don’t worry. I’ll help Xiaoxiao improve her grades, and I’ll focus on stabilizing my own.”

The class flower’s homeroom teacher had always been lenient with her, turning a blind eye to her behavior. As a result, the red thread of fate connecting Qiao and the class flower was not severed by the executioner.

Outside the office, a group of students had gathered to watch the drama unfold. The words Qiao said were passed around, and while there were slight variations, the core message remained the same.

Qiao taught the class flower to be more restrained in front of the teacher if they wanted their relationship to last. The class flower changed her previously domineering attitude and pretended to be more obedient. No one reported their relationship to the teacher, because everyone admired this couple.

Especially Qiao’s actions, which made him an idol among the students. Soon, there was a wave of students striving for love, and even the head of the school began to turn a blind eye to such matters.

This time, the class flower was genuinely moved. Her poor behavior improved dramatically, and she became a model student. Some teachers were pleased with the change, as even mischievous students had their potential harnessed.

With a year and a half until the college entrance exam, I buried myself in my studies. However, no matter how hard I tried, my grades remained mediocre.

Despite the late nights, the assignments, and the countless hours spent studying, I was still just an average student with little improvement. The only consolation was that I had moved from the lower middle to the upper middle tier.

I immersed myself in my studies and paid little attention to the world outside. During this time, another significant event occurred that drew much of my attention away. I remember that the political science teacher often asked Qiao for help, claiming there were some miscellaneous items to move from the dormitory.

The first time he led Qiao to do so, I happened to be leaving to use the restroom and walked behind them. I heard the teacher ask for help, and I was about to offer my assistance.

In the corridor, the chubby man turned to look at me. The hot, red sun bathed him, making him appear as if he were part of the red light. The glasses on his long face reflected blinding light—either golden, red, or dim—making his features blurry.

I squinted for a moment and then heard the political teacher kindly say, “Go have your meal. One boy helping is enough.” The crowd around us surged, with students running faster than ever, eager to get to the cafeteria.

The teacher placed a hand on Qiao’s shoulder and they moved with the crowd, the strange red light surrounding them. I rubbed my eyes and looked again—the sunset today was so red. They walked farther and farther away, disappearing from my view.

This moment marked the beginning of a tragedy, and soon, the endless abyss dragged Qiao straight into hell. The demon roared wildly in the dormitory, tearing into Qiao, yet laughing maliciously, its appearance kind and gentle.

As the college entrance exam approached, the students became more and more fatigued. Qiao looked increasingly haggard, and I thought he was pushing himself harder for the school beauty.

When Qiao was worn out, the political teacher paid him extra attention, offering him ginseng tea during class and leaning in beside him to explain the material. The teacher’s hand would unconsciously rest on Qiao’s shoulder, gently moving, but Qiao’s frail shoulders trembled slightly.

Every political science class, Qiao would clench something in his hand, his mind seemingly elsewhere, his eyes hollow—was he missing the school beauty or distracted by something else? I initially thought he was confident in this subject.