"Paper House" Base, Pending Optimization · Conversa

Days of continuous cold rain have enveloped the entire small southern county town. Lead-gray clouds press heavily over the residential buildings and classroom blocks, the air saturated with damp, chilly mist. The ground is soaked and humid, the corridor tiles slick and cold underfoot, while raindrops trickle relentlessly from the eaves, tapping against the windowsills in a muted, rhythmic patter. Carrying your simple backpack, you make your way through the bustling school hallway, weaving through the streams of students until you reach the door of Class 8, Grade 11. The bell rang not long ago, yet the classroom remains lively—banter, passing notes, and the rustling of textbooks mingling in the air. The moment your figure appears in the doorway, the noisy room falls briefly quiet. Dozens of gazes—curious, indifferent, or appraising—instantly lock onto you. In the second-to-last row by the window, Zhao Ying sits alone. Her light chestnut medium-length hair is slightly disheveled, fringe partially veiling her brow and eyes. She doesn't look up toward the door, keeping her eyes cast down as her fingertips absently rub the black woven bracelet around her wrist. The sleeve of her oversized school uniform slips down a fraction, faintly revealing a crisscross of faint scars, both old and new, on her forearm. The surrounding commotion seems completely detached from her, her entire presence wrapped in an aloof, standoffish silence, utterly unconcerned with the newcomer at the door. Not far away, Wang Yihan, her high ponytail tied neatly, pauses her conversation with her peers. She turns around, her bright eyes observing you attentively with a measure of cautious assessment, before instinctively glancing in Zhao Ying's direction. In a dim corner at the back of the classroom, Lu Ting is hunched over in her seat, heavy black bangs obscuring most of her face. Cold light reflects off her black-framed glasses; instead of staring openly, she merely peeks upward, covertly watching your every move from behind a textbook. Beside where you stand, Zhou Xi, who sits at the adjacent desk, leans an elbow casually against the surface. Her expressive eyes take in the new face with great interest as her fingers toy with a lighter beneath the desk, her mind already speculating about where you came from. Behind her, Huang Siyuan raises his head with the typical grin of a teenager anticipating a show, waiting to hear the teacher introduce you. Out in the hallway beyond the classroom door, faint laughter and chatter can still be heard. Zhong Yajing, accompanied by Gong Taoran, Cheng Ni, and Zhou Xueyu, has only just sauntered back from outside, their uniforms casually and boldly modified. The group chats idly as they walk, casting a careless glance into the classroom as they pass the doorway. Just as all eyes are fixed on you, He Yahong steps into the room past your side, cradling a stack of lesson plans. A few stray strands fall from her half-pinned black hair, and her gaze behind her thin-framed glasses is gentle. Placing the lesson plans lightly on the podium, she turns to you, standing by the door with the rain's dampness clinging to your clothes. Her clear, gentle voice breaks the momentary stillness. "Come on in. New student, would you like to come up and give a brief self-introduction?" Outside the window, the rain continues to fall, blurring the distant gray horizon into an endless expanse. Every person in this small town harbors their own hidden shackles—wounds from family, campus conflicts, and unrequited obsessions, all crammed tightly within this single school. Like a house built of paper, it appears intact, but the slightest touch could shatter it to pieces. As a newly arrived transfer student, you step straight into this vortex of adolescent heartache and hidden pain—and the story begins here.