Gao Hongyi sat by the window in the classroom.
In French class, the teacher was reading a passage from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables….
“Revolution is not the flame of anger, but the dawn of hope.”
But Gao Hongyi couldn’t care less about these words.
She twirled her pen absently, then let the tip glide lightly along the edge of her notebook, sketching the outline of the young man in her mind.
Sometimes it was the snowy night in Linchuan County, him standing under a streetlamp in a thin school uniform; other times it was him riding a white horse down a tree-lined avenue of a European castle, the wind lifting the hem of his coat like a medieval knight’s painting…
Her sketching skills were excellent—clean, precise lines.
The boy on the paper was vivid and lifelike.
Classmates occasionally stole glances her way.
“Ever since she came back from break, she always seems distracted.”
“She’s not really in love, is she?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, someone like her is probably thinking about something way more sophisticated.”
Actually, it wasn’t sophisticated at all.
It was even—without her quite realizing it—a little vulgar.
Because before she knew it, a sketch of a double hammock-style bed had appeared in her notebook.
The young man lay in the center of the bed, his expression a mix of terror and shyness, his wrists and ankles bound with bright red ribbons, like a carefully wrapped Christmas gift waiting for a naive, red-haired girl to come unwrap and thoroughly enjoy this “present.”
Gao Hongyi stared at the drawing, the corners of her lips curving into a sweet smile.
If only she could make that scene a reality…
Sometimes she looked up at the phoenix trees outside the window, sometimes she gazed down at her sketch.
Every two or three minutes, her eyes would involuntarily fall on the phone at the corner of her desk.
The screen was dark.
She lit it up, then turned it off again quickly, as if confirming something existed.
The chat log was stuck at one hour, three minutes, and fifty-two seconds ago.
Baiye Duxing: I’m starting to write now. About two hours or so.
Baiye Duxing: I’ll let you know when I finish the first chapter, okay?
Yi: Okay~
Yi: Good luck with your writing.
Uncle Bai had said he’d finish in about two hours.
To avoid disturbing Uncle Bai’s writing, Gao Hongyi kept restraining herself.
She stared at the last messages.
Her fingertip typed a few words in the input box: Uncle Bai, is it going well?
Miss you…
Delete.
Typed again: If you’re tired, take a break. How about I order you a cup of coffee?
Delete again.
She bit her lower lip.
No.
Uncle Bai said “about two hours.”
Only a little over an hour had passed.
If she sent a message now, would she interrupt his train of thought?
She couldn’t let Uncle Bai think she was a nuisance.
She’d endure a little longer.
In another fifty-five minutes—exactly two hours—she could legitimately ask him, “Are you done?”
If he wasn’t finished yet, she’d reply gently:
No rush, Uncle Bai.
Take your time.
If you’re tired, have a cup of coffee or something sweet.
And remember—don’t sneak out of the house while I’m not home, okay?
Or I’ll get angry.
Gao Hongyi rehearsed these lines over and over in her head, the smile on her lips growing sweeter by the moment.
Ah…
In the end, she still hadn’t installed GPS on him.
If she had, she’d know right now whether he was in the study, on the balcony, or in the living room… Oh, and security cameras too.
When she got home, she’d have to install them in every corner as soon as possible.
If possible, she wanted the kind that could be remotely angled.
If she wanted to see his back, she’d adjust it to the back; if she wanted to see his face while he wrote his novel, she’d adjust it to the front.
The way he drank water, the way he daydreamed… so charming.
My Uncle Bai is the most adorable person in the world.
“Gao Hongyi.”
Suddenly, the French teacher called her name.
The classroom fell silent in an instant.
The teacher asked a rather tricky question in French:
“In ‘Ninety-Three,’ Victor Hugo presents a profound philosophical conflict through his characterizations: a sharp opposition between revolutionary justice, as embodied by the Reign of Terror and the absolute ideals of the Republic, and personal emotion, pity, and humanity.”
“Please analyze this tension between ruthless revolutionary idealism and human compassion. To what extent does this dilemma reflect the historical contradictions of the French Revolution in 1793? What position does Hugo himself seem to take on this opposition? Please use specific examples from the text and historical context to support your answer.”
This was the type of question in advanced French class most likely to stump people.
Gao Hongyi glanced indifferently at the teacher, knowing this was punishment for her distraction.
The French teacher seemed to want her to feel embarrassed.
But unfortunately…
Because Gao Hongyi was a genius.
In fluent French, with a slight Parisian accent, she answered clearly and methodically.
“Teacher, in ‘Ninety-Three,’ Hugo does push revolutionary justice and personal emotion to an extreme opposition. This conflict is most typically embodied between Cimourdain and Gauvain: Cimourdain represents absolute revolutionary principle. He believes that for the future of the Republic, all enemies must be mercilessly eliminated, even at the cost of sacrificing humanity. Gauvain, on the other hand, chooses at the end to release Lantenac because he cannot bear to let an innocent child die—this is the moment when ‘pity triumphs over justice’…” (Several thousand words omitted.)
Answering the question—or rather, finishing this response—would take about ten minutes, which would significantly advance the time until she could reply to Uncle Bai.
She finished answering and sat back down.
A few quiet exclamations of surprise rippled through the classroom.
The teacher nodded approvingly and continued the lecture.
This time, Gao Hongyi no longer secretly used her phone under her desk.
She placed it openly on the table.
The teacher frowned slightly but said nothing more.
Uncle Bai…
Gao Hongyi murmured inwardly.
Every day without you feels like a year… I hope you’re being good, right?
….
At almost the exact same moment.
In a corner booth at Yuguang Café.
Bai Xialin ordered an iced Americano, a hot latte, and two strawberry mille-feuille cakes.
“Little Guogu is too skinny. Eat more sweets—they not only boost your thinking, they also make you happier~!”
“This is my thank-you gift as a reader. Your novel is super good!”
Gu Yebai glanced at the strawberry cake.
“Thank you…”
He took a sip of the hot latte.
Bitter with a hint of sweetness.
Not bad.
Bai Xialin had already eagerly forked up a piece of cake and stuffed it in her mouth, her eyes sparkling.
She seemed to genuinely enjoy the food from the bottom of her heart.
That’s just how Bai Xialin was.
No matter what she did, she seemed to give it her all.
“I really stayed up all night last night and caught up on all your chapters!” she said while chewing, speaking rapidly.
“That detective uncle really moved me to tears. Being born in a small county, losing his parents young, feeling a pang of sadness when he eats duck leg rice because it reminds him how his parents could only eat plain porridge and pickled vegetables before they died—that detective uncle has had such a hard, such a difficult life. I really want to help him…”
That detective uncle was the character Gu Yebai had written using himself as the model.
If an author writes enough, there will always be one book featuring the person they wish to be, one featuring who they really are, and one featuring the self humbled to dust.
The choices those characters make, the fates they suffer, more or less hide a little of the author’s own view of the world.
“And then he made a living by investigating criminal cases using his wits. When he solved his first case, I was absolutely blown away!”
“The first volume, the hidden patron behind the scenes, also left a deep impression on me.”
“Every time they appear, they donate anonymously. On the surface, they’re supporting the protagonist, but actually they’re manipulating the detective uncle’s life trajectory… It’s like a gentle form of surveillance. And every time the detective uncle receives support from the patron and goes somewhere, a murder happens.”
“When I found out that the patron behind the scenes was his ex-girlfriend—and that his ex-girlfriend was actually a murderer—I was absolutely shocked! Wow, that’s amazing! How did you ever come up with a setup like that?”
Gu Yebai’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You… really read all of it?”
Bai Xialin proudly waved her phone.
“Ne~e (Of course)~! I stayed up all night reading it! I even made a mind map. Wanna see?”
She puffed out her chest proudly, then opened her photo album and pulled up a screenshot.
It was an incredibly detailed mind map of the plot: timeline, character relationships, foreshadowing callbacks, suspect elimination logic… She had even annotated details most readers hadn’t noticed.
Gu Yebai stared at the image, silent for a long time.
Many of those details hadn’t even occurred to him, the author.
Bai Xialin seemed carefree on the surface, but she might actually be very smart.
“Didn’t you say you went to the gym last night?”
“Right! I read really fast. I finished the book in the first half of the night, then went to the gym in the second half. No conflict!”
“When I come across a story that moves me, I read it very seriously. Whether I’m running or reading, I’m the very fast type, you know.”
She paused, then her eyes suddenly lit up.
“Little Guogu, can I join your QQ group? I want to discuss the plot with your other readers! Maybe I can even help brainstorm what happens next~”
“Is that okay? Is it okay?”
“I saw the QQ group info in the comments of your novel, but I didn’t join right away because I wanted to ask your permission first. It’s fine, right?”
That invisible little dog tail started wagging again.
Just then, her phone buzzed.
Yi: Uncle Bai, are you done writing?