Friday morning. I finish my breakfast, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and begin the long walk to class. Each step feels heavier than the last, like gravity itself is conspiring to keep me here.

  It’s finally the weekend. I should be relieved—I get to go home. Mom and Dad paid so much for me to study at this school. But every day, I wake with a dull ache in my chest that never fades. I miss home. I miss safety. I miss being seen.

  The first few months weren’t unbearable. We were all new, fumbling through unfamiliar hallways, trying to find our place. But then everything changed.

  That morning, I arrived early as usual. The classroom was quiet, the air still. And then I saw her—Qingzhu—curled beneath a desk like a wounded animal. Her face was swollen, smeared with dirt. A bruise bloomed beneath her eye, dark and angry. The sour stench of urine clung to her hair.

  I knelt beside her, coaxed her out. She collapsed into me, sobbing so violently I thought she might shatter. Her tears soaked through my uniform, cold and clinging. I didn’t know what to do. I just held her.

  I took her to the teacher’s lounge. We waited outside the office for half an hour before anyone arrived. When a teacher finally appeared, she glanced at Qingzhu, then waved me away. “Go back to class,” she said. No questions. No concern.

  Qingzhu vanished after that. Her desk sat empty, gathering dust. No announcements. No investigation. Just silence.

  And somehow, I became the target.

  I was heading to the toilet when Luwei and his gang cornered me. They moved like predators, eyes gleaming with cruelty. I backed against the wall, heart pounding. Luwei stepped closer, his breath sour and hot.

  The first punch drove into my stomach like a hammer. I doubled over, gasping. Then came the slam—my head against the wall, a dull thud that echoed in my skull.

  “You think you’re a hero?” he hissed. “Helping that filthy girl?”

  He grabbed my collar, twisting it until it cut into my neck. His friends laughed, their voices bouncing off the tiles like mockery made flesh. One overturned a trash can over my head—wet paper, food scraps, something sticky sliding down my back.

  They forced me to my knees. Flicked my ears until they burned. Spat into my hair. Luwei grabbed my backpack with theatrical flourish, dumping its contents into the toilet bowl, my homework dissolving in the murky water. Then they peed on it. I watched, helpless, as hours of effort turned to pulp.

  “Next time, mind your own business,” Luwei whispered, pressing his foot against my chest. “Nobody likes a snitch.”

  They left me there—soaked, humiliated, broken.

  I reported it. I had to. My homework was gone. My textbook clogged the toilet.

  My homeroom teacher didn’t even look at me. Her eyes slid past like I wasn’t there.

  Later, I was summoned to the dean’s office. My stomach twisted with dread.

  The dean leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You need to understand how things work here,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Don’t cause trouble. Don’t create disunity. Go with the flow.”

  I tried to explain. He cut me off.

  “There are people you cannot afford to offend,” he said. “Be careful.”

  Then he smiled. “But I’ve made it clear—they’re never to beat you again.”

  To show his concern, he ordered a physical exam. The same one we all had when we joined. Only this time, free of charge.

  Yet, neither his smile nor the physical exam brought me any comfort. Instead, I dreaded what Luwei would do to me later.

  Im the following days, I learned the truth. Luwei’s father works in the Shangrao City Education Bureau. Just a section-level official—the lowest tier in a non-critical department—but enough to grant his son immunity within these walls.

  The school knows exactly what he did. Of course they know. There are over a hundred surveillance cameras watching our every move.

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  Luwei has terrorized the hallway and the dormitory. More than ten students. Not just shoves and slaps—real violence. Kicks to the face. Humiliations that leave scars no one sees. Three students dropped out. Vanished. Like Qingzhu.

  I lived in fear. Every day. Waiting for the dean’s protection to wear thin. Imagining myself carried out on a stretcher. Becoming another empty desk.

  But the beatings stopped. As if an invisible line had been drawn.

  Still, the torment continued. Whispered threats. Notes slipped into my books. Words carved into my desk. And their eyes—always watching. Like I was a strange specimen. A caged animal to be observed.

  Except for one girl.

  She was part of their group. But sometimes, when the others weren’t looking, her eyes met mine. And in that fleeting glance, I saw something else.

  Not cruelty. Not contempt.

  Something dangerously close to pity.

  And somehow, that hurt most of all.

  … …

  After second period, I escape to my sanctuary during the fifteen-minute break—a forgotten corner beneath the old oak at the edge of the playground. Here, I clutch my voice recorder like a lifeline. Bought from a small stationery shop near school, it has become my only confidant.

  I whisper into it every day—not just lecture notes, but the truth. The real truth. The kind that no one wants to hear. The kind that gnaws. My fears. My shame. The loneliness that eats me hollow. The feeling that I’m disappearing, one humiliation at a time.

  Today, something’s wrong.

  A man in a black suit stands beneath my tree, watching me. His posture is too still. His gaze too direct. When I approach, his eyes flash with recognition.

  "Xinyu Hu?" His voice is smooth as polished stone.

  "Yes," I nod, immediately retreating into myself. Months of bullying have taught me how to vanish.

  He seems to read my mind. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t threaten. Just says, “Do you want to feel free? Never worry about bullies again?”

  His words pierce me like a blade—precise, painful, perfect. I freeze, looking up at him through wary eyes.

  He reminds me of those characters from "Men In Black"—authoritative, mysterious, powerful. Perhaps he's from the Discipline Commission. I don't fully understand what they do, but I know they hunt corrupt officials, punish wrongdoers. They enforce justice where others fail.

  "Luwei Liu, he's giving you trouble, isn't he?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

  I nod again, throat tight.

  "He won't be able to hurt you anymore."

  My breath catches. Eight words. That’s all it takes. My heart stutters. Hope flares—wild, reckless, dangerous. Could someone finally be listening? Could justice actually exist?

  I want to believe him. I need to.

  But the cynical part of me—the part forged in the crucible of Luwei's torment—whispers caution. What if this is another elaborate setup? Another humiliation waiting to unfold? My nails bite crescents into my palms.

  "How?" The word escapes me, barely audible. "How can you stop him when the school won't?"

  He answers with a gesture, chin jutting toward something behind me. I turn.

  There, across the playground, another black-suited man has Luwei's arm twisted painfully behind his back. My tormentor—the monster of my nightmares—looks small and pathetic as he's marched toward the gate, face drained of its usual cruel confidence.

  A savage heat blooms in my chest. Not quite relief. Not entirely justice. Something darker. The satisfaction of seeing a predator caged.

  For the first time in months, I glimpse a different future: hallways walked without terror, classes attended without constantly checking over my shoulder, nights spent without replaying humiliations like a broken film reel.

  "We need your help, though," the man continues. "Details. What he did. Including what happened to Qingzhu." His eyes bore into mine. "You know Qingzhu, right?"

  I nod mechanically, memories of her bruised face flooding back.

  "Let's go. This won't take long. I could question you here, but protocol requires two agents present." He places a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the school gate.

  His authority radiates like heat. Though he doesn't force me, rejection feels impossible. I follow, hope drowns out instinct.

  Outside, a black van waits, door slid open. Luwei sits inside, head bowed, shoulders slumped. The sight is so satisfying it almost hurts.

  Then something shifts. Warning bells clamor in my mind. Black van. No identification. Taking students off campus—every instinct screams danger.

  I hesitate. One foot on the pavement. One still on school grounds.

  Too late. The man's grip transforms from guiding to restraining, fingers digging into my bicep with bruising force. Another black-suited figure materializes on my other side, pinning my free arm.

  They haul me forward as Luwei is shoved out of the van. Our eyes meet for a millisecond—predator and prey united in terror. Yet somehow, I catch a glint of knowing satisfaction on his face.

  "Help!" I manage one strangled cry before they stuff me inside, a hand clamping over my mouth.

  Darkness descends as a hood is yanked over my head. Rough hands pin me down. Fabric against my face stifles my screams. I thrash wildly, My voice recorder slips from my fingers, lost.

  Then the needle.

  A sharp sting in my arm. Ice floods my veins.

  “What are you injecting?” one voice demands, angry. “We need viable kidneys and heart.”

  “Relax,” another replies, clinical and detached. “Doctor-approved anti-rejection and sedative cocktail. Standard pre-op protocol.”

  Pre-op.

  The words echo.

  And suddenly, everything makes sense.

  The “free” physical exam. The blood tests. The DNA swabs. The school wasn’t protecting us.

  They were cataloging us.

  I’m not a student.

  I’m inventory.

  My last thoughts are of home—Mom's dumplings steaming on the table, Dad's calloused hand ruffling my hair. They sacrificed everything to send me here, believing Zhiyuan Middle School can help me get into university, and getting a better future.

  They'll never know what really happened to me.

  They'll be told I ran away. Or that I was unstable. Or even that I committed suicide.

  And as the darkness closes in, I realize with bitter clarity:

  The man hadn’t lied.

  Luwei can’t hurt me anymore.

  Because I’m already gone.