March was not particularly smooth, as the company encountered a troublesome issue. A regulatory authority in a country across the ocean unexpectedly approved a clinical trial application for a sustained-release device from a large medical company, which caught the attention of the company’s legal department.
If it weren’t for Li Shanqing’s clamor, which brought up specific points in time, Zhuang Xu might have completely lost track of his own emotions during this period after overcoming the challenge, retaining only memories of the events.
After his internship ended, Li Shanqing still had most of a week left for spring break and came to pester Zhuang Xu every day. When mentioning the internship, his words were highly exaggerated, claiming that the exhausting experience left him lying at home for an entire week. He asked Zhuang Xu, “Your lab is so big, why can’t you have those small balance scooters? If I go for an internship in the summer, will you get one for me?”
Zhuang Xu asked, “Didn’t you say you didn’t want to go?” Li Shanqing hemmed and hawed, saying he hadn’t decided yet.
Li Shanqing was precocious and spoke confidently about everything, but when it came to making decisions, he often changed his mind arbitrarily, prioritizing preferences over reliability. At the time, Zhuang Xu thought Li Shanqing had been overly indulged by family and friends, which made him so oblivious to social norms.
On the night before spring break ended, Zhuang Xu was reading a procurement list report from the past two years compiled by the legal department about the rival company. After investigation, Creland’s sustained-release device was not entirely identical in function to SyncPulse, but it was still impossible to confirm whether there was any overlap in patented technology, so they couldn’t let their guard down.
Li Shanqing, who had already gone to bed, suddenly sent a message saying he woke up from a nightmare and started chatting aimlessly with Zhuang Xu. Zhuang Xu’s phone screen kept lighting up, and, thoroughly annoyed by the interruptions, he called him. “I’m busy and don’t have time to chat.”
“Okay, what are you busy with?” Li Shanqing said.
“Company matters.”
“I just dreamed I fainted while walking on campus,” Li Shanqing said with a slightly aggrieved tone. “People thought I was just lying down to sleep, and in the end, no one saved me.”
Zhuang Xu listened, momentarily at a loss for words.
He was well aware of Li Shanqing’s anxiety and his eagerness to have the sustained-release implant application approved soon, and Zhuang Xu hadn’t neglected his concerns. Every two or three days, Zhuang Xu would inquire about progress from the clinical operations department. Li Shanqing’s case and reports were highly complex, and the responsible had convened two expert reviews, yet they still hadn’t reached a conclusion.
This work was confidential by nature, so there was no need to explain every detail to Li Shanqing.
“Bingu University’s campus isn’t that big, and there’s no lawn suitable for you to lie on,” Zhuang Xu stated bluntly, dousing Li Shanqing’s flair for drama. Li Shanqing fell silent, and after a few seconds, he said honestly, “Alright, I’ll go back to sleep.”
After hanging up, Li Shanqing quickly sent another message: “Good night,” paired with an expression of a downturned mouth. Both sensible and immature, polite yet impolite, childish yet not entirely childish, he was exasperatingly helpless.
Zhuang Xu could only reply, “Good night.”
He didn’t manage to finish the report, as the head of the clinical operations department sent him a message late at night, asking if he had time to talk.
When the call connected, the responsible’s first words were, “Mr. Zhuang, sorry for contacting you so late. But since you’ve asked multiple times, I thought I should give you an answer as soon as possible. We’ve reached a conclusion. Patient 107’s case cannot be used as a reference for our volunteer review, and he cannot pass the approval.”
The night air was a bit chilly, with the study’s window half-open, letting in a breeze carrying the scent of grass and trees. Zhuang Xu couldn’t respond immediately, perhaps because he couldn’t instantly accept the true meaning of those words, leaving the operations department’s decision hanging in the air, unconfirmed unless he reached out to grasp it.
Yet Zhuang Xu’s memory ensured he couldn’t forget a single word the responsible had said.
The responsible explained over the phone, “Patient 107’s physical condition is too complex, combined with frailty and an allergic constitution. Based on preliminary calculations, if the implantation proceeds, the likelihood of complications and rejection reactions later is extremely high, and the success rate is far lower than for patients with other conditions. We could invite him to the testing department for further sampling and more precise live-cell testing, but based on our projections, even in the best-case scenario, the success rate would only approach fifty percent—at most. Ultimately, the target group for this batch of sustained-release devices isn’t patients like him.”
Zhuang Xu’s response to the responsible was, “I understand.” He ended the call simply, noticing the time on his phone had passed midnight by twelve minutes.
He sat in the study for a while, realizing his hands and feet felt cold.
It must have been because Li Shanqing constantly talked about the implant and future health as if his hopes were already realized, pulling Zhuang Xu into his dreams as well, making him believe the implantation would naturally happen when Li Shanqing turned eighteen. Only when faced with the reality did Zhuang Xu find the answer, which didn’t meet Li Shanqing’s expectations, so hard to accept.
Zhuang Xu wanted to get up but hesitated, unable to move. He glanced at Li Shanqing’s messages, unsure when he finally returned to his room.
The next day, Zhuang Xu didn’t contact Li Shanqing immediately. In the morning, he went to the clinical operations department, met with several medical experts to reconfirm the results, and explored whether there was any room for reversal, but the answer was no.
The responsible looked at Zhuang Xu, hesitating to speak several times before finally asking privately after the brief meeting, “Mr. Zhuang, is the patient a relative of yours?”
“No,” Zhuang Xu denied. In the elevator back to his office, he received a link from Li Shanqing.
Clicking it, he saw it was a video Li Shanqing sent to the award committee after winning a science and engineering competition. The committee had posted it on the award’s official page, where other videos had few clicks, but Li Shanqing’s had an astonishingly high view count.
“Xiao Zhuang, tons of people in the comments are praising Mr. Li,” Li Shanqing said proudly. “You should go learn from it.”
Since the trip to Weiyuan Biotech Group, Li Shanqing had grown fond of this self-referential nickname, role-playing at every opportunity. Zhuang Xu usually regretted indulging him, but at that moment, his feelings were complex.
Factually speaking, Li Shanqing’s failure to meet the volunteer application standards was a decision based on medical science.
Hesitating and retreating out of fear of Li Shanqing’s disappointment was not something Zhuang Xu should do.
Zhuang Xu clicked below the video to read the comments. Most were unrelated to the project, praising Li Shanqing’s good looks. A few questioned whether the project was truly his work, while a couple from the Bingang region defended him, noting his fame in the wake of local biology competition circles and suggesting doubters check last I’s IBO winner list.
To Zhuang Xu, these debates centered on Li Shanqing detracted from the true significance of the award and project. But since Li Shanqing was happy about it seemed less important.
It was time for a meeting with the legal department, and Zhuang Xu didn’t reply. He vaguely admitted to himself that he was avoiding telling Li Shanqing the news in person.
He couldn’t help but think—how would Li Shanqing react? He was so difficult to deal with that every ten minutes or so, Zhuang Xu pictured his disappointed face.
That face resembled the one Zhuang Xu saw on the last day of Li Shanqing’s internship, when they left the experimental zone for the group’s headquarters. Upset from being teased and hurt, Li Shanqing had thrown a tantrum, sitting in the car and sulking by the window, looking out the window unhappily.
If he learned that the couldn’t have the implant, he’d probably be even angrier than he was then.
During discussions with the legal department about strategies for communicating with the rival medical company, Zhuang Xu also prepared explanations and consolations for Li Shanqing: advising him to wait patiently for medical advancements, as Weiyuan Biotech was developing a next-generation implant less likely to rejection.
Li Shanqing was young and didn’t need to rush into implantation. His priority should be improving his health first.
Given Li Shanqing’s personality, he wouldn’t accept these suggestions and would argue. Even if he didn’t, the decision was final—there was no need to discuss whether Li Shanqing wanted to take risks, or if his parents would consent, as Zhuang Xu wouldn’t accept a fifty percent success rate and high rejection risk.
That evening, Zhuang and his mother went to Zhou Kaiqi’s house for dinner. There was cause for celebration: Zhou Silan had scored high again on a mock exam, and her school’s teachers called to congratulate her, saying she could choose any major at Bingang University if she performed as expected.
Zhou Kaiqi knew Zhuang had been under a lot of pressure lately and suggested he drink a bit to relax. Not wanting to disappoint him, Zhuang Xu let him pour half a glass of red wine. Uninterested in the conversation, he listened silently as others chatted, finished his wine, and felt a slight warmth in his body.
After dinner, Zhuang Xu went alone to the outdoor terrace to look at the cityscape below the mountain. A cool breeze brushed his face. His phone vibrated, and he checked it—Li Shanqing asked, “Have you watched it yet?”
For some reason, perhaps the alcohol, Zhuang Xu suddenly felt certain he was ready and capable of telling Li Shanqing the truth, so he called.
Li Shanqing picked up immediately. “Zhuang Xu, you’re done with work?”
Hearing his voice, Zhuang Xu didn’t know what to say, realizing alcohol’s emboldening effect was an illusion.
Fortunately, Li Shanqing was talkative, preventing any awkward silence. “Did you know, today tons of friends sent me this video, and so many people tried to add me as a friend.” He sounded thrilled, dragging out his words. “But I didn’t approve any of them.”
“Why didn’t you?” Zhuang Xu asked, distracted by how to bring up the volunteer issue, following along instinctively.
“Replying to messages is such a hassle, and what if someone wants to date me? It’d definitely affect my studies,” Li Shanqing said earnestly, like a child. “Don’t you think?”
Hearing such naive and honest thoughts, Zhuang Xu’s heavy mood lightened slightly, his lips twitching. But after the smile, he felt an inexplicable oddness.
Years later, Zhuang Xu would clearly understand why he felt strange: Li Shanqing’s words implied that, in the future, he’d choose someone among those who liked him to date seriously, perhaps so seriously it would impact his studies.
At the time, Zhuang Xu vaguely said, “Childish.”
“What’s childish about it? I’ve already planned my next project, but I probably can’t do it in high school, so it’ll be my college goal,” Li Shanqing said smugly.
Zhuang Xu asked what it was, and Li Shanqing replied, “Do you know Creland Company?”
Zhuang Xu’s heart jolted. “What does Creland have to do with your project?”
“They’re also making a sustained-release device that’s passed clinical trials. You must know, right?” Li Shanqing said cheerfully. “Their placement is different from SyncPulse, and it’s more focused on releasing psychiatric drugs. Have you read a sci-fi novel where the protagonist has an emotion regulator in their body? What if we put emotion-controlling drugs in the capsule? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
This was the first time Zhuang Xu briefly sensed a difference between himself and Li Shanqing.
Below the mountain, the city was lit with countless house lights, and the car headlights on the expressway streaked like meteors. To someone who loved cities over nature, this scene might seem more like a starry sky than the actual heavens above. Li Shanqing was like this artificial starry sky, lightly imagining manipulating human emotions and joys. He said, “In the future, if you want to love or hate someone, just install a capsule. Want to be happy? Be happy. Want to forget? Forget. Isn’t that fun?”
“If a girl can’t forget a boy, release a drug to suppress emotions, and she forgets him,” he offered an example Zhuang Xu couldn’t accept. “If someone doesn’t want to work, release a drug to make them happy, and they go to work cheerfully. How fun!”
“What’s fun about it?” Zhuang Xu heard himself ask. “If a company forced employees to implant it, would it still be fun?”
Li Shanqing paused, then said, “You’re so serious. I was just thinking out loud.”
His voice was actually softening, but Zhuang Xu couldn’t tolerate Li Shanqing’s casually invented sci-fi world and his view that everything could be entertainment. “Sustained-release medical devices are serious, involving extensive ethical approvals. They’re not your toys.”
“I get it,” Li Shanqing said, a bit displeased. “You’re such a buzzkill.”
After a few seconds, he added, “Don’t be mad,” his attitude shifting nimbly. “I’m just bored every day. Once I pass your review and get the SyncPulse implant, I’ll definitely take this world super seriously. Emotion drugs? I won’t research those!”
He spoke insincerely, his tone light, likely thinking this was just a casual chat. Even if tensions arose later, Zhuang Xu was almost certain—and wanted to convince others—that Li Shanqing initially didn’t mean much by it. At seventeen, Li Shanqing was young and wouldn’t have spoken so carelessly if he didn’t trust Zhuang Xu.
So it absolutely shouldn’t have been at that moment, in a rush of impulse, that Zhuang Xu said, “You didn’t pass the volunteer review.”
