Less than two weeks into the new semester, most students’ minds were still immersed in winter break and their New Year’s money. There were many day students at No. 6 High School, and every noon, there were always latecomers, resulting in terrible classroom discipline during the first class in the afternoon—completely out of line.

So, every day at noon, the school assigned teachers to stand guard at the gate. Anyone entering after the two o’clock bell was locked out, had points deducted, and had to write a self-criticism—not only to catch latecomers, but also boys in bizarre outfits and girls with their hair down. Many girls would prepare a hair tie, quickly tying a loose ponytail before entering the gate, and then, once “through the checkpoint,” would let their hair down again, revealing their true selves.

“No receipt, thank you.” William Carter grabbed his empty backpack and jumped out of the car. Looking closely, he saw a row of unlucky souls already standing at the school gate, lining up to register their class and name.

It would be foolish to walk right into their hands now. Taking advantage of the portly grade director’s lecture, William Carter quietly slipped over to the west side of the school gate—there was no wall there, just a row of iron railings a little taller than a person.

Young Master Carter’s wall-climbing skills were already perfected. With a quick grab, he hoisted himself up, leapt over the railing with practiced ease, not even brushing his pant leg against the iron spikes, and landed so lightly that even the stray cats wandering the school paused to admire him.

He straightened his jacket and swaggered across the playground, waving from afar at the group waiting at the gate to get points deducted. But just as he was enjoying himself, disaster struck—the grade director happened to turn around. William Carter reacted instantly, bolting away at full speed.

The grade director squinted at William Carter’s retreating figure and asked suspiciously, “What’s with that student?”

The group at the gate, eager to save themselves, all sold out the show-off: “He—jumped—the—wall—”

No organization, no discipline! Outrageous!

The grade director was stunned for a moment, then flew into a rage, shouting, “You! Stop right there! Which class are you in?”

William Carter shot off like a tornado, thinking, “Only an idiot would stop.”

At this moment, on the east side of the second floor, Brian Cooper was wandering around with his hands in his pockets, bored out of his mind. His dad was busy exchanging compliments with a female teacher who had doused herself in half a bottle of perfume, which annoyed him to no end. He had no expectations for his future school life and really wanted a cigarette, so he slipped out to find a secluded bathroom.

As he walked down the long hallway, he saw a few boys in tracksuits gathered together—probably athletes who had just finished training. They seemed to be on the same wavelength as Brian Cooper, sharing cigarettes in the quiet corridor.

One of them suddenly craned his neck to look outside and nudged the guy next to him with his elbow: “Hey, David Wright, look at that… doesn’t that look like your class’s Captain Carter?”

The buzz-cut David Wright stuck his head out the window and saw William Carter sprinting over. Sensing his gaze, William Carter looked up and, in the middle of his rush, blew a kiss to the guys upstairs before dashing into a side building without looking back.

A while later, the round figure of the discipline director finally arrived, shouting, “Stop—right—there!”

The boys sneaking cigarettes burst out laughing: “Awesome!”

Brian Cooper watched the whole farce and thought, “Making up for lack of brains with volume? So noisy.”

He indifferently put on his headphones, pushed open the door to the small bathroom at the end of the hall, went into the innermost stall, and, with Linkin Park playing in his ears, leisurely took out a cigarette.

After finishing, Brian Cooper flicked off the ash and was about to leave. But as soon as he cracked open the stall door, he heard a flurry of footsteps outside. Then, with a loud bang, someone was thrown in sideways, slamming into the radiator in the corner. The person didn’t even have time to scream—just a short grunt came from his throat, his limbs twitched a few times, and he collapsed, unable to get up.

The boy was wearing No. 6 High’s white uniform, looking sallow and thin, with yellowed cuffs that wouldn’t come clean after many washes, and clutching a tattered cloth backpack.

The boys who had been making a racket outside came in—one leader, two followers, and the one called “David Wright” stood at the door with his arms crossed, keeping watch.

Brian Cooper’s pupils narrowed slightly, and he stopped in his tracks.

The leader squatted down, tilting his head to study the struggling boy on the floor, then grabbed his hair and yanked him up, patting his face and asking, “We’ve always treated you well, haven’t we?”

The boy trembled, unable to speak.

The leader slapped his face a few more times, each harder than the last, until he was basically hitting him: “We never messed with you, right? Never gave you trouble, right? So last night, when we were playing cards for not even ten minutes, which bastard called the dorm supervisor over? Huh?”

The boy being held up strained his neck, desperately trying to ease the pain on his scalp, the tendons in his neck standing out: “It… it wasn’t me!”

The leader sneered, suddenly slamming his head into the radiator four or five times: “If it wasn’t you, then who? Me?”

At the door, David Wright suddenly interjected coldly, “Class is about to start. Hurry up.”