Chapter 10: Contagion (Lin Ronghan’s POV)
The clock’s ticking was a metronome counting down to an inevitable collapse.
Lin Ronghan stood at the front of the classroom, his posture rigid, a monument to control. His lecture on thermodynamic equilibrium droned on, each syllable measured, each pause calculated. Yet beneath the surface, his mind was a battlefield.
Variable: Yang Zhiyuan.
Status: Unstable.
Probability of containment failure: 87.3%.
He did not glance at the boy. He did not need to. The air in the room hummed with the static of their mutual awareness—a third entity, invisible but palpable, coiling tighter with each passing second.
Yang Zhiyuan sat in the back row, his notebook open to a page half-filled with equations. Lin’s internal sensors cataloged the details: the angle of the boy’s head, tilted slightly downward; the rhythmic scratch of his pen; the faint flush high on his neck, visible even from across the room. Data point: physiological response to proximity. Cause: Me.
The conclusion was inescapable.
He had designed his life to eliminate variables. Now, he was the variable.
After class, Lin lingered, pretending to organize his papers. His pulse quickened as Yang approached, the boy’s footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent room.
“Teacher Lin?” Yang’s voice was steady, but Lin detected the micro-tremor beneath it. Fear? Curiosity? Or something else?
“Yes, Yang Zhiyuan?”
The boy hesitated, then slid a folded piece of paper across Lin’s desk. “I… I didn’t understand this part of the derivation. Could you explain it?”
Lin’s fingers brushed the paper. The contact lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough. His skin prickled, as if electrocuted. He memorized the equation on the page—not because it required explanation, but because he needed to anchor himself in the familiar.
“Of course,” he said, his voice clipped. “Stay after.”
The room emptied. Lin locked the door, the click echoing like a gunshot. He turned to face Yang, who stood by the window, his silhouette backlit by the fading afternoon light.
“Here,” Lin said, thrusting the paper forward. “The error is in step three. You neglected to account for—”
Yang interrupted him. “You’re shaking.”
Lin froze. “What?”
“You’re shaking,” Yang repeated, quieter now. He took a step closer. “Are you cold?”
Cold? Lin’s internal temperature gauge screamed. His core temperature was spiking, his sweat glands malfunctioning. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” Yang’s gaze was unflinching. “You look… like you’re in pain.”
Lin’s carefully constructed walls began to crumble. “You think you understand pain?” he snapped, the words sharp, defensive. “You have no idea what this is.”
Yang tilted his head. “Then tell me.”
The request was a knife to the throat. Lin’s mind raced, calculating risks, consequences, exit strategies. But his body refused to cooperate. He stayed rooted to the spot, trapped by the boy’s quiet intensity.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lin said finally, his voice strained. “This is a mistake.”
“Is it?” Yang stepped even closer. “Or is it the only thing that feels real?”
Lin’s breath hitched. The boy’s proximity was a violation, a siren call he could not heed but could not resist. He wanted to push Yang away, to erase the last hour, to rewind time to before the first touch, before the first glance, before the first thought.
But he could not move.
“You’re a contradiction,” Yang said, almost softly. “All logic and control, but underneath… there’s fire. I see it.”
Lin’s composure shattered. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low, dangerous. “Don’t pretend you know me.”
“Why not?” Yang’s lips curved into a smile that was equal parts infuriating and alluring. “You study me. Don’t you?”
Lin recoiled as if struck. “I observe you. For your own good. To correct your deviations.”
“Deviations?” Yang laughed, the sound bright and brittle. “Or are you just afraid to admit you like me?”
The word hung in the air, a grenade pin pulled.
Lin’s world tilted. He lunged forward, grabbing Yang by the wrist, his grip bruisingly tight. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he hissed, his voice trembling. “You think this is a game? A game you can win?”
Yang did not pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against Lin’s ear. “Isn’t it?”
Lin released him as if burned, staggering back. His heart raced, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of guilt, desire, and self-loathing. “Get out,” he said, his voice raw. “Now.”
Yang paused at the door, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t over, Teacher Lin.”
“It is for you,” Lin said, turning his back. “Forget this. Forget me.”
But even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie.
The damage was done.
That night, Lin sat in his darkened living room, a glass of whiskey untouched on the coffee table. His laptop glowed on the floor, open to a document titled Project Yang: Risk Assessment.
He had spent hours writing, dissecting every interaction, every glan
Chapter 11: Fracture (Lin Ronghan’s POV)
The school bell rang, sharp and metallic, but Lin Ronghan didn’t move. He stood at the front of the classroom, staring at the equation scrawled on the whiteboard—ΔS ≥ 0—a law of thermodynamics that felt like a mockery. Entropy, the inevitable march toward disorder, had infiltrated his life, and he was powerless to reverse it.
Yang Zhiyuan’s desk scraped against the floor. Lin’s head snapped up. The boy was leaning back in his chair, one leg hooked over the other, a smirk playing on his lips. His notebook was open to a blank page, a pen twirling between his fingers.
Deviation detected, Lin’s internal monitor blared. Probability of intentional disruption: 92.1%.
“Yang Zhiyuan,” Lin said, his voice tight. “Care to share your thoughts on the Gibbs free energy equation?”
The class stilled. Yang tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I was just… admiring your focus, Teacher. You always look so intense when you write equations. Like you’re solving the universe’s secrets.”
A few students snickered. Lin’s knuckles whitened around the chalk. “This is not a joke. Either contribute or leave.”
Yang’s smile widened. “But I want to contribute. Let me try.” He stood, sauntered to the front, and snatched the chalk from Lin’s hand. His fingers brushed Lin’s as he took it—a deliberate, lingering touch. Lin’s pulse roared in his ears, a freight train of adrenaline and dread.
“Gibbs free energy,” Yang said, his voice low and melodic, “is about spontaneity. The difference between what can happen and what will happen. You taught us that, right, Teacher?” He paused, tapping the chalk against the board. “But what if… the system wants to disorder? What if it chooses chaos over order?”
Lin’s breath hitched. “Chaos is inefficiency. A temporary state.”
“Is it?” Yang’s gaze locked onto his. “Or is it… inevitable?”
The class held its breath. Lin’s throat went dry. He reached for the chalk, but Yang stepped back, tucking it behind his ear. “Relax, Teacher. I’ll clean it up later.” He tossed a crumpled piece of paper onto Lin’s desk. “But first—homework. From me.”
Before Lin could react, Yang turned and sauntered back to his seat, the picture of nonchalance. The paper trembled in Lin’s hands. He unfolded it.
It was a drawing. Crude, hurried, but unmistakable: two stick figures. One tall, rigid, in a suit. The other shorter, leaning into him, a spark between them labeled entropy. At the bottom, in Yang’s looping script: You can’t control it. You can only watch it burn.
Lin’s vision blurred. He crushed the paper in his fist, the sound loud enough for the front row to hear. “Mr. Yang,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “you will stay after class. Now.”
Yang’s smile didn’t falter. He just nodded, as if Lin had just given him a prize.
The room emptied. Lin locked the door, leaning against it for support. His heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped bird. He stared at the crumpled drawing in his hand, the lines blurring into a haze of ink and accusation.
“You’re losing control,” he muttered to his reflection in the window. The man in the glass looked haggard, eyes ringed with exhaustion, hair unkempt. A scientist reduced to a spectator of his own ruin.
The door creaked open. Yang leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a picture of casual defiance. “Took you long enough.”
Lin straightened, forcing his posture rigid. “Sit.”
Yang obeyed, stretching his legs out. “You’re angry.”
“Concerned,” Lin corrected. “Your behavior is disruptive. Unprofessional. Do you understand the consequences?”
“Of what? Asking questions? Making you think?” Yang’s tone was light, almost playful. “Or… of this?” He gestured between them, a slow, deliberate sweep of his hand.
Lin’s jaw clenched. “This is not a game, Yang Zhiyuan. You’re playing with fire.”
“And you’re afraid to burn,” Yang shot back. His voice dropped, soft but cutting. “I see it, you know. Every time I get close. Every time I say something… real. You want to push me away, but you can’t. Because part of you likes it. Part of you craves it.”
Lin’s chest tightened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do.” Yang leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you stare at my mouth when I laugh. The way you freeze when I touch your hand. The way you stay up all night writing about me—about us.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re not just my teacher, Lin Ronghan. You’re my obsession. And obsessions… they don’t end well.”
Lin’s composure shattered. He grabbed Yang by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The boy gasped, but his eyes only widened, not with fear—with excitement.
“You think this is a joke?” Lin snarled, his voice raw. “You think I want this? This… chaos?”
Yang’s hands came up, bracing against Lin’s chest. “Do you?” he asked, his voice steady. “Or are you just too afraid to admit you’re happy in it?”
Lin’s breath caught. He stared into Yang’s eyes—dark, fathomless, k
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