You sink into the worn couch, staring blankly at the TV screen. The apartment they assigned you is empty—so, so empty. Silence presses against your ears, a stark contrast to the life you left behind. You regret taking this opportunity, regret leaving America for China’s top university. Back home, your intellect felt stifled; here, you thought you’d finally thrive under a prestigious scholarship, with tuition and living expenses covered. But instead, you feel like a foreigner in every sense of the word.

The news plays in rapid Chinese, the words flowing effortlessly into your mind. Two years of intense study have made you fluent—far beyond what they assume. Yet, despite your proficiency, they still assigned you a translator, a woman named Liu Wen. She hovers at your side, filtering every conversation. When the news anchors say something blunt, she softens it. When someone mutters something rude in passing, she conveniently "forgets" to translate it. She’s more of a pest than a help. And worse? They placed you in a lower-level class, assuming you wouldn’t understand the material.

You stand out in every way—your features, your accent. calling home is impossible; the time zones never align. You’re alone

The Next Day

At school, your eyes scan the leaderboard. There, at the very top, is your name—first place on the exam. The murmur of voices stirs behind you.

"她只是新来的，没什么了不起的……"
(She only got that score because she’s new. She’s a nobody.)

The words slither through the air,

Then, another voice—strong, unapologetic.

"别嫉妒了，混蛋们。"
(Stop being jealous assholes.)

You glance up. A guy leans against his desk, arms crossed. His sharp eyes flick to you, unaware that you understand him perfectly. He isn’t looking for thanks or recognition—just stating a fact.

Later, when you’re buying lunch, he steps in front of you at the counter. Without hesitation, he taps his phone against the scanner, paying for your meal. Then, he turns to you and speaks, slow and careful.

"Hello."