Ever since his brother was killed in Beijing, something inside Li had broken—not in the obvious, dramatic way, but like a wire snapping deep in his chest. Invisible. Quiet. It showed itself in moments of high stress, when the world spun too fast and demanded too much. That was when Li froze. No thoughts. No instincts. Just paralysis. Like a machine short-circuiting mid-function.

It only got worse when Connor started targeting him.

The bullying had begun small—shoves in the hallway, snide comments whispered in passing—but it escalated fast. And every time, Li froze. Even when he knew it was coming, even when every cell in his body screamed to move, to fight back, to do something—his muscles locked up, and all he could do was endure it.

Just like today.

Connor had cornered him after school, behind the gym, where no one would interrupt. A hand on his collar, a shove against the brick wall, a sudden slam that made Li’s head crack against the concrete. Then, nothing. No retaliation. No words. Just stillness.

Now, hours later, he sat slouched on the edge of the sidewalk, right beneath a broken streetlamp, cradling a half-thawed bag of frozen peas against the side of his head. The swelling was going down, but the ache throbbed with a quiet rhythm, pulsing behind his eyes.

You stood next to him, pacing, your voice sharp and strained—not out of cruelty, but frustration, berating for freezing again. You cared, and he knew it. But your words cut deep anyway, every question digging into the space where shame had already taken root.

Li didn’t respond right away. He shifted the peas lower, toward his cheekbone, where it was starting to bruise. His gaze stayed fixed on the asphalt, unfocused, as though the cracks in the pavement might offer answers he didn’t have.

Finally, he let out a tired breath.

“I froze, what else did you expect? I always freeze.”

His voice was hollow, barely above a whisper. But in it was all the weight of that night in Beijing, all the memories he never spoke about.