Genius Playground

”Basically, aside from the strict requirements about secrecy and contacting the outside world, that team of scientists made almost no other demands. They took great care of us in the United States and even helped my father start a business.”

”So... my parents and I are all truly grateful to them from the bottom of our hearts. That’s why we were more than willing to keep our promise, honor the agreement, and not contact anyone back home for two years.”

...

And so, through the random questions from her classmates, the story of Cheng Mengxue’s past two years was told, piece by piece.

By now, everything was clear. Everyone understood the whole story, and they completely understood the Cheng family’s decision:

”Well, I think it was only right to follow their instructions and maintain strict secrecy. After all, you said doctors back home had given up on treatment and were just waiting for you to die, yet they were still willing to give it a shot, no matter the cost.”

”Exactly. If it were my parents, they would have done the same thing. What’s more important than your child’s life? When it really comes down to it, you’d agree to whatever anyone says.”

”But you can’t say that scientist was unreasonable, can you? I thought he’d imprisoned your whole family, but not only did he recommend you for the University of Pennsylvania, he also helped your father start a business... His only demand was no contact with anyone back home for two years. I think that’s more than acceptable.”

...

The events of the night had been winding, bizarre, and surreal.

First came Zhou Xiong’s ostentatious display of wealth and connections, followed by his tragic murder, and finally, Cheng Mengxue’s unexpected ”resurrection.”

It was a relentless barrage of shock and relief.

When Cheng Mengxue learned that Zhou Xiong had been murdered, she was also shocked and deeply saddened. She fell silent for a long time.

It was already very late.

Back at the crime scene, the police cars and ambulances were long gone, and the cordons had been removed.

The last table of guests left the restaurant, and the staff began to clean up.

The 42 students and their teacher had been talking at the entrance for a long, long time. Before they knew it, it was midnight.

”Everyone, it’s getting late. Let’s all get home safely.”

Teacher Gao still couldn’t hide the sadness on his face.

No matter how you looked at it, one of his students had tragically passed away tonight. And even though another student, once thought dead, had brought good news, it wasn’t enough to counteract the grief for the one they had lost.

Worried that Teacher Gao was getting drunk, Wang Hao supported him by the arm and went to the street to hail a cab; the other classmates followed. And with that, the two-year reunion came to an end, steeped in an atmosphere of reluctant goodbyes and the shared feeling of having survived an ordeal.

Only two people remained at the restaurant entrance—

Jiang Ran, who had kept his distance from the crowd and hadn’t said a single word to Cheng Mengxue the entire time.

And.

Cheng Mengxue, who had repeatedly glanced over at Jiang Ran from within the crowd, only to hesitate and look away each time.

Now, all the other classmates had gone.

The two of them stood under the bright moonlight, surrounded by the drone of summer cicadas, gazing at each other from several meters apart through the darkness.

Finally.

Cheng Mengxue was the one who moved first.

She slowly walked over to Jiang Ran’s side and gave a small wave:

”Hey, Jiang Ran.”

You could tell she wanted to bridge the two-year chasm between them—one created by her supposed death—with a light, casual smile.

As if they had just seen each other yesterday; as if she had never been absent from his life at all.

But it only lasted for a second.

Cheng Mengxue’s composure crumbled, her defenses washed away by a flood of tears. The forced smile vanished from her face, replaced by an endless well of longing and guilt in her eyes:

”Jiang Ran...”

Her lips trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks:

”I’m sorry.”