At the end of this economic news press release, there were attached some photos and information about the Jiajin Group team’s arrival and their meeting with the local Chamber of Commerce.
Jiang Xingyuan was flipping through it and couldn’t help but joke, “The world’s really changing. Back in the day, the real playboys of No. 1 High School had to show up for a few Copper Coins now. Even with that dog-tempered, living-ancestor attitude of his, he’s willing to let them post his photo in the press release.”
“To be fair, the photo’s actually pretty good.”
Jiang Xingyuan clicked his tongue twice and even took a screenshot.
“Rich young masters really know how to take care of themselves. He doesn’t look any different from when we were in high school.”
He Dongli couldn’t say much, but it was clear she didn’t quite agree with her friend’s assessment either.
Jiang Xingyuan transferred to Yizhong late and only heard stories about a lot of things.
But she had seen Zong Chi’s temper firsthand—if someone he didn’t care for started yapping in front of him, he’d just tell them to get lost.
Xu Xilin’s older brother, Xu Xize, was two years ahead of them.
The year he took the college entrance exam, he didn’t do as well as he wanted, so he dropped everything to repeat the year at home, but his student status was still at Yizhong.
Back then, every half-month break, he’d drive over to pick up his sister.
Once, while playing basketball on the court, it was said that Xu Xize and Zong Chi had a run-in.
The Yizhong basketball court wasn’t open to outsiders, so Zong Chi’s team had every right to ask Xu Xize to leave.
Xu Xize argued that since his student status was still with Yizhong, he counted as an insider, but it was obvious there were outsiders on Zong Chi’s team—how did that make sense?
Lin Jiaoyu, hearing his name called out, didn’t wait for Zong Chi to speak and fired back from the center gate, “So what if your student status is here but you aren’t? If you keep repeating the year three or four times, does that mean you own the court?”
When boys argue, their words are sharp as poison.
Lin Jiaoyu roundaboutly cursed that Xu Xize wouldn’t get into college; Xu Xize shot back, “Where are you from? Who says you get a say?”
Then they brought up that his sister was still at the school, so the right to use the court shouldn’t be dictated by outsiders.
Lin Jiaoyu immediately called for his sister, “If your sister comes to play, I’ll give her the court without a word.”
The boys laughed and jeered in a group.
By the time Xu Xilin rushed over to argue for her brother, Zong Chi and his team were already warming up on the court.
Xu Xilin scolded Zong Chi for relying on his family background, saying he was disgraceful, and pointed out that the right to use the court should go to whoever got there first.
Zong Chi snatched a rebound.
With a girl standing under the basket, both sides had to pause.
He rested his wrist on the basketball and, acting like he had nothing to say to Xu Xilin, told her to stand back—if she got hit, they wouldn’t be responsible.
Xu Xilin, for some reason, got even angrier, and reached to snatch the ball from Zong Chi.
If her brother couldn’t play, then neither could they.
Zong Chi, annoyed, slammed the ball hard to the ground with a loud bang, sending it bouncing high.
He had no intention of being gentle or polite with girls and snapped at her, “Are you playing or not? If not, get out of here.”
Xu Xilin suddenly laughed and said she finally understood why Zong Chi was so rude today.
She said she understood, but Zong Chi claimed not to, telling her to make it clearer.
Xu Xilin was quick-tempered and immediately snapped, loudly accusing Zong Chi, “Yesterday I had a fight with someone, and today someone comes to hassle my brother. Want me to spell it out even more?”
Zong Chi sneered, took Lin Jiaoyu’s towel, wiped his sweat, and provocatively egged Xu Xilin on, “Yeah, make it even clearer.”
Xu Xilin couldn’t stand this kind of provocation and blurted out, “You like that He Dongli.”
Zong Chi acted like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.
He tossed the towel aside, bent down until he was eye-level with Xu Xilin, and after a moment, said with a dark face, “Why don’t you say I like you instead?”
Xu Xilin’s face turned red on the spot. Zong Chi went on, “I’m giving your brother a hard time just so I can see you.”
Lin Jiaoyu, standing by, munched on the bananas Zong Chi always ate after exercise and laughed with his mouth full.
“Zong Chi, you’re a real pervert.”
In the end, Zong Chi kicked the girls off the court and warned, “I’m not interested in your girly hair-pulling dramas. But if anyone spreads rumors about me, be careful—I’ll send you a Lawyer’s Letter.”
A boy nearby asked curiously, “Zong Chi, do you really have a lawyer?”
Lin Jiaoyu answered for his friend, “Of course. Sometimes his lawyer is even busier than his old man’s, always cleaning up for Young Master Zong, haha.”
Looking back, that basketball court clash was probably the start of the rumors about Zong Chi and He Dongli.
Xu Xilin’s rumor about Zong Chi liking He Dongli was flatly denied by Zong Chi himself, and in school, Zong Chi and He Dongli barely talked.
Everyone knew they’d been classmates for two years, and that was it.
It was said that back when Zong Chi was at the Yizhong Affiliated High School, if he messed up reciting something in front of He Dongli, he was dead meat.
She wouldn’t give him even a single word as a hint—if he made a mistake, he had to start over, and if he couldn’t remember, she’d make him stand there NG for a full minute.
After a minute, she’d send him away and tell him to come back when he’d memorized it. Zong Chi caused her plenty of trouble over these little things.
Once they got to high school, they finally weren’t in the same class, but the “door gods” ended up swapped.
Zong Chi threw a cigarette butt in the area He Dongli’s class was responsible for during their duty.
He Dongli told him to pick it up.
Zong Chi refused to admit it was his, so He Dongli picked it up with a tissue, intending to report him.
Zong Chi blocked her, and He Dongli asked him again, “Say in front of this cigarette butt that it isn’t yours. With all the cultural and scientific knowledge you have, Zong Chi.”
He just grabbed it back from her hand, not caring.
He Dongli was inexplicably angry and didn’t bother to argue, just warned him, “If it happens again, I’ll definitely report you.”
That should’ve been the end of it—a peaceful resolution.
But Zong Chi, guilty as he was, made the most noise.
He’d pester He Dongli with wild threats or pick fights, and their homeroom teacher ended up reporting it to his own class advisor, making him write a written self-reflection that was read out to the whole school.
Jiang Xingyuan still couldn’t figure it out—looking back, it seemed Zong Chi was just being weird, trying to get close to He Dongli in the most obnoxious way possible.
It almost made sense.
But later, when news broke in college that they were dating, everyone agreed: He Dongli was the one who made the first move.
Zong Chi’s background and family were well-known.
But his temper was terrible, even downright nasty.
He always had a “who cares” attitude—he truly lived up to the title of a playboy.
Jiang Xingyuan felt like anyone could make this kind of cliché mistake, but He Dongli?
Never!
“Honestly, back then, were you really the one who pursued him?”
He Dongli opened the WeChat search bar, found the Government Official WeChat Account, followed it, skimmed the latest economic and livelihood news, glanced at the side profile in the press release, and said vaguely, “Mm, you could say that.”
Jiang Xingyuan wasn’t satisfied.
“Either you did or you didn’t. What’s with ‘you could say that’?”
“In everything, judge by actions, not intentions. If your subjective motives or selfishness affect others’ judgment, then it counts as me making the first move.”
They weren’t the only ones who saw this report.
That’s the power and influence of an official account.
A new week began, and Zou Yan and He Dongli’s surgery and outpatient schedules were still completely staggered, so they didn’t run into each other.
It didn’t stop Zou Yan from complaining on WeChat:
Your “old classmate” has quite a background.
How do you pronounce his name again, like ‘xi’ as in rhinoceros?
That doesn’t seem right.
Doesn’t matter.
He Dongli, I’ve known you so long, but it’s the first time I’ve seen you act so awkward.
You’re really not yourself around him, honestly.
When He Dongli saw this string of messages, five or six hours had already passed, and she had just finished surgery.
That night, He Dongli drove Zou Yan back to his apartment, planning to take a cab back herself.
Zou Yan, maybe a bit tipsy, invited her, saying it was late and if she didn’t mind, she could stay in the guest room.
He Dongli politely declined.
Zou Yan smiled and asked, “What are you afraid of?”
Before she could answer, Zou Yan clarified, “Don’t worry, you may not know me well, but I know you.”
“Know what about me?”
He Dongli asked.
Zou Yan smiled again, lying on his own sofa, one fist covering his brow, complaining that He Dongli had turned on the living room light and it was too bright.
“I know you, He Dongli—light wounds don’t keep you from the front lines, and on the battlefield of revolution, there’s no room for romance.”
He Dongli closed the wardrobe door, treating these long-delayed messages as water under the bridge.
After all, the real point of complaining isn’t to hear the main character’s rebuttal.
The circulating nurse on their shift told a joke from yesterday’s surgery—
Dr. Lu’s team next door was short-handed, so a sick intern had to scrub in. In the end, his runny nose dripped into his mouth, and he was too embarrassed to ask the circulating nurse for help.
He just toughed it out, and after the surgery, Dr. Lu teased him, saying there’d be less sweet potato noodles for him at lunch since he was already full.
He Dongli was used to these jokes.
If you didn’t have a few stories from the OR, you weren’t really qualified.
Back when she was on surgical rotation, just among her cohort, there were enough stories about holding in pee and poop to fill a boat.
Her most embarrassing time, her scalp was so itchy she wanted to rub her head on her colleague’s shoulder three or five times.
That day’s surgery happened to be a scalp avulsion injury from a car accident.
She powered through inhumanely, but her teacher still saw through her, saying she wasn’t focused and calmly told her, “If your mind isn’t on the job, don’t get on the table. You’ll hurt others and yourself.”
Just as she stepped out of the changing room, she ran into Lü Chunliu.
He Dongli wanted to ask him about a case from yesterday’s Multi-Disciplinary Consultation, and Old Lü happened to need her too.
He said he’d already checked with Shitai, and there was a new Abdominal Wall Reconstruction surgery coming up—she’d be part of the discussion.
“Busy?”
When it came to work, He Dongli always addressed him as Deputy Director Lü.
Lü Chunliu laughed at her being so bureaucratic.
Over lunch, he asked, “Last time you asked Shitai for help in a surgery, was it for Zou Yan?”
There are no secrets in this world.
He Dongli, after all, had a few years less experience than these old foxes, and didn’t reply, but the other party took her silence as confirmation.
Lü Chunliu warned her, “Don’t get too involved, especially with the Zou family. In the end, you’ll get nothing but trouble.”
He Dongli’s eyes flashed with surprise.
Her first instinct wasn’t to clear things up, but to realize that his words somehow matched her own suspicions.
Before she could speak, Lü Chunliu, already understanding, cut her off.
“I know, I know, it’s just revolutionary camaraderie, that’s why I’m reminding you. The Zou family isn’t easy to deal with, and Zou Yan also…”
He Dongli was waiting for Deputy Director Lü to finish, but just then, a nurse came to relay a message: “Dr. He, someone’s looking for you downstairs.”
Lü Chunliu’s warnings left He Dongli even more confused.
She wanted to ask, “What about Zou Yan? Is he…”
But her body was honest.
As she stood up, intending to set down her chopsticks and pick up her phone to go downstairs, she did the opposite—putting down her phone and picking up her chopsticks instead.
Lü Chunliu and the others looked at her like she was possessed, watching her turn back and put down her chopsticks.
Only then did her colleagues start asking, “Who is it? Who’s looking for Dr. He?”
The elevator doors dinged open.
He Dongli came out in full scrubs, with her white coat buttoned up neat and tidy.
The first floor of the Comprehensive Surgery Building housed Outpatient Registration, the Imaging Department, and further down, the Pharmacy and Intravenous Medication Preparation Center.
He Dongli, in her signature white coat, was just what a lost patient’s family member needed.
He asked her how to get to the Gastroenterological Surgery Ward.
He Dongli gave him clear directions and a friendly reminder that visiting hours were almost over.
The family member thanked her profusely, but He Dongli, looking tired, said it was nothing.
Someone waiting nearby watched all this and, seeing her stop at a not-too-far, not-too-close distance, teased, “Dr. He, you’re great at saving lives, but when it comes to making friends, you seem a little careless.”
He Dongli stuck both hands in her pockets and said in a businesslike tone, “Is there something you need from me, Mr. Liang?”
Liang Jianxing, looking quite pleased with himself, said, “I should’ve come to see you during your outpatient hours and registered under your name. At least then I’d get two minutes of proper procedure.”
He Dongli’s tone shifted from the patience she’d shown the patient’s family to something strict and subtly warning, “As a healthcare worker, I think Director Yao would probably not support you saying things like that, Mr. Liang. Everyone has their role—children cry, students study hard, adults…”
Liang Jianxing hummed with interest, waiting for her to finish her unique lecture.
“Medicine is three parts poison. What I mean is, if you’re not really sick, don’t come to the hospital lightly.”