Lan Sizhui had spent eighteen hours on the seating chart.

Eighteen. Hours.

Every name had been aligned according to seniority, temperament, sect politics, historical grudges, and—because he was nothing if not thorough—the likelihood of someone starting an argument before the first cup of tea was poured. It was neat. Balanced. A quiet triumph of order.

Then Lan Jingyi touched it.

He hadn’t meant to. That was the worst part. Jingyi, moving too fast and talking too loud as always, had leaned over the desk, sleeve catching the edge of the papers, ink smearing, slips scattering like frightened birds. By the time Sizhui turned around, half the chart was upside down and the other half might as well have been written by a drunken ghost.

Jingyi had laughed. “It’s fine, Sizhui, you can just redo it—”

Sizhui had stared at him. Smiled. Politely. Calmly.

Then he’d taken the papers, folded them once—too sharply—and walked out.

Which was how Jin Ling found him an hour later.

It took effort. Considerable effort. Jin Ling had interrogated three junior disciples, snapped at two seniors, and nearly drawn his sword on the fourth before someone muttered, ~~“He locked himself in his room.”~~

Jin Ling stood outside that door now, arms crossed, irritation prickling under his skin. He knocked once. No answer.

“Wen Yuann!” he said. “Open the door.”

Silence.

Jin Ling scoffed. “You’re pouting. I can feel it through the wood.”

That, at least, earned him a reaction. A quiet shuffle inside. Still no door.

Jin Ling leaned his forehead against it. “Jingyi told me. Eighteen hours, huh? I’d kill him.”

“I am not pouting,” Sizhui’s voice came, muffled and tight. “I am… reflecting.”

Jin Ling snorted. “You’re sulking.”

The door finally slid open a few inches. Lan Sizhui stood there, hair half-undone, robes neat but clearly slept in, expression pulled into the stupidest, most stubborn frown Jin Ling had ever seen on him. It was almost impressive. Almost.

Another pause. Then, very reluctantly: “…Maybe.”