The Fallen Bloom

The library at Beili University was a tomb of forgotten things. Dust motes swam in the weak afternoon light that filtered through grimy windows, settling on rows of books that hadn't been touched in decades. Luo Jia knew this corner better than anyone. She came here when the stares in the cafeteria became too much, when the whispers about her unwashed clothes and tangled hair followed her like a curse.

Today, something called to her from the lowest shelf. A notebook bound in cracked leather, shoved so far back it had nearly fused with the wall. She pulled it free, coughing as dust exploded into her face. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting cramped and spidery, but certain words leapt out at her like flames in dry grass.

*Consciousness merging. Will transfer. The stronger spirit consumes the weaker.*

Luo Jia's greasy hair fell across her face as she hunched over the book, devouring every word. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't fiction or fantasy—the author wrote with clinical precision, recording experiments, documenting results. A method. A way to pour yourself into another vessel until you became the only thing left inside.

The book described the technique in detail. Focus on the target. Feel the shape of their mind, the texture of their thoughts. Push yourself through the cracks, one strand at a time. Start small. Test with something weak first.

Luo Jia clutched the notebook to her chest and slipped out of the library, her worn shoes scuffing against the marble floor. The afternoon air hit her face, warm and heavy with the smell of grass and exhaust. She walked past clusters of students who didn't see her, past couples holding hands, past girls with shiny hair and clean clothes.

She found the stray cat behind the cafeteria dumpsters. A mangy thing, orange fur matted with dirt, one ear torn from some long-ago fight. It hissed at her approach, back arching, but it was too thin, too tired to run.

"Come here," Luo Jia whispered, crouching down. The notebook's instructions burned in her mind. *Open yourself. Reach out. Find the thread of their consciousness and follow it.*

She closed her eyes. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she felt it—a faint pulse, a flicker of awareness that wasn't her own. The cat's mind was simple, all hunger and fear and instinct. Luo Jia pushed against it, and the resistance was like tissue paper.

The world swam. For one dizzying second, she smelled the dumpster's rot as if it filled her own nostrils. She felt the rumble of a garbage truck through four paws instead of two feet. She saw the parking lot from inches above the ground.

The cat yowled and twisted, but Luo Jia held on. She made it walk forward, then stop. She made it turn in a circle. She made it sit, then lie down, then roll onto its back. Each movement sent jolts of electric joy through her—this power, this control, this proof that she could be more than the ugly girl everyone ignored.

She released the cat with a gasp, falling back onto the pavement. The animal fled, disappearing under the dumpster, but Luo Jia was laughing. She laughed until tears streamed down her face, leaving clean tracks through the grime.

Something beautiful was about to happen. She could feel it.

---

The art studio on the fourth floor of the humanities building was Chen Yanxi's sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching the dust in golden shafts, warming the pots of brushes and half-finished canvases that lined the walls. A faint smell of turpentine and oil paint hung in the air, familiar and comforting.

"Huahua, no," she laughed, gently pushing the tabby cat's nose away from her palette. The cat had her front paws on the edge of the easel, tail twitching with interest. "You'll get paint on your fur again, and then what will Yang Hong say?"

Huahua meowed, unimpressed, and settled into a patch of sunlight on the wooden floor. Chen Yanxi smiled and turned back to her painting—a landscape, rolling hills in shades of blue and green, the sky streaked with pink clouds. She worked carefully, adding layers of color, losing herself in the rhythm of brush against canvas.

Outside, the campus hummed with the sounds of evening: students heading to dinner, the distant thud of a basketball, a burst of laughter from somewhere below. Chen Yanxi hummed along, her brush moving in time with the melody.

She didn't notice the figure that paused outside the glass door of the studio. She didn't see the pair of eyes watching her through the grimy pane, tracking her every movement with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Luo Jia stood in the hallway, still clutching the notebook, her breath fogging the glass. She watched Chen Yanxi paint, watched the graceful way she moved, the easy smile on her lips, the cat that curled at her feet.

"You have everything," Luo Jia whispered, her voice barely audible. "The looks. The talent. The boyfriend. The life."

Her fingers tightened on the leather binding until her knuckles went white.

"Soon," she said, and the word tasted like honey and poison mixed together. "Soon, you'll have me too."

The morning light filtered through the grimy curtains of Luo Jia’s dorm room, casting pale stripes across the cluttered desk. She sat hunched over a notebook, her fingers smudged with ink as she wrote. The plan had taken shape slowly, like a bruise blooming under skin. For days she had watched Chen Yanxi from a distance, noting every laugh, every gesture, every moment of grace that made the campus adore her. Jealousy had curdled into something sharper—a hunger that hollowed her from the inside.

She closed the notebook and slipped it into her bag. The decision was made.

For the next seven days, Luo Jia became a ghost. She trailed Chen Yanxi from the moment she left her dormitory at seven in the morning, when the air still held the cool breath of night. She watched her cross the main plaza, her ponytail swinging in rhythm with her steps, a sketchbook tucked under her arm. Chen Yanxi always stopped at the little coffee cart near the library, buying a plain black coffee and a croissant. The barista knew her order by heart. Luo Jia wrote that down: *Coffee, black. Croissant. Always the same.*

She followed her to classes, slipping into the back row of lecture halls, her eyes fixed on the back of Chen Yanxi’s head. The way she tilted her chin when listening, the way she tapped her pen against her notebook when thinking. In the afternoons, Chen Yanxi often sat by the fountain in the east garden, her cat, a ginger tabby named Mochi, curled in her lap while she sketched. Luo Jia memorized the pattern of the cat’s fur, the way Chen Yanxi hummed soft melodies as she penciled lines. She noted the names of her close friends, the routes she took, the times she checked her phone.

By the third day, Luo Jia knew that Chen Yanxi bought her art supplies every Thursday and that she always lingered at the last shelf of watercolor pigments. By the fifth, she knew that Chen Yanxi cried alone in the bathroom once—just once—after a call with her mother, and that she composed herself with a smile before stepping out.

On the sixth evening, Luo Jia stood outside the window of a small café near campus. Chen Yanxi sat inside with Yang Hong. She watched them through the glass, her reflection a blurry overlay on their happiness. They held hands across the table. Yang Hong leaned in, his laughter soft and warm. Chen Yanxi’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Luo Jia’s own hands were cold inside her pockets, her nails pressing crescents into her palms.

She had collected all the pieces. Now she needed only to wait for the right moment.

The seventh day was a Saturday. The sky was a soft, clear blue, and the air smelled of cut grass and distant rain. Chen Yanxi wore a white sundress with little blue flowers, her hair loose over her shoulders. Yang Hong met her at the gate of the botanical garden, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. She laughed when he presented them, her cheeks flushing pink. They walked along the gravel path, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined.

Luo Jia followed at a distance, her cap pulled low, her oversized jacket hiding her shape. She stepped behind a thick oak as Yang Hong stopped to point at a cluster of butterflies hovering over a patch of lavender. Chen Yanxi leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. They kissed, brief and tender, a moment of pure, easy love.

From behind the tree, Luo Jia watched. She did not feel the sting of envy. Not anymore. She felt something colder—a certainty. That white dress, that laughter, that warmth—it was all temporary. She would take it. She would wear that dress. She would laugh that laugh. She would be the one standing in the sun.

Yang Hong pulled away and looked at Chen Yanxi with such adoration that Luo Jia’s lips curled into a smile. He would love her too, once she was inside that skin. He wouldn’t know the difference.

The couple continued along the path, their voices carrying faintly on the breeze. Luo Jia followed, her shadow stretching long in the afternoon light, a silent companion to their joy. She pulled out her notebook and made a final mark: *Saturday. Botanical garden. He loves her completely.*

She closed the notebook and tucked it away. The plan was ready. Tomorrow, she would begin the invasion.

The wind had died, leaving the campus lawn in a hush of late afternoon. Luo Jia sat on a bench near the art building, her knees pressed together, her fingers tracing the rough edge of her phone case. She watched Chen Yanxi from across the quad—a vision in a cream sundress, laughing with a group of friends, her hair catching the sun like spun gold. Each laugh, each toss of that hair, was a needle under Luo Jia’s skin.

She’d been practicing. For weeks, she’d tested the strange pressure that built behind her eyes when she focused on someone, the way she could push a thought toward them, feel them flinch. But this was different. This was the first time she’d try to push something real—a piece of herself.

Luo Jia closed her eyes. She pictured Chen Yanxi’s face, her posture, the exact curve of her smile. Then she imagined her own consciousness as a thin, silver thread, cold and sharp. She wound it tight in her mind, aimed it like a needle, and sent it forward.

A distant ache bloomed behind her skull. The world swam.

Chen Yanxi was in the studio, alone now, her canvas propped before her. She’d dismissed her friends with a wave, claiming she needed to capture the evening light. Her brush hovered over a half-finished skyline, mixing a wash of lavender and rose. She dipped the bristles, lifted them—and paused.

A pinch, sharp and sudden, stabbed at her temple.

She blinked, frowning. The brush trembled in her hand. She set it down and pressed her fingers to the spot, rubbing small circles. *Just stress,* she told herself. *Exams. Yang Hong’s been busy. Too many late nights.*

But the sensation didn’t fade. It lingered, a cold pressure behind her eyes, as if someone had placed a cold coin against her skull from the inside. She stood, walked to the small sink, and splashed water on her face. When she looked up, her own reflection stared back—still hers, still familiar, but something in the tilt of her eyebrow seemed… off. Foreign.

She shook her head, dried her hands, and turned back to her painting. She needed to finish the sky.

Across the quad, Luo Jia slumped forward on the bench, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world had snapped into a new focus. For a single, dizzying moment, she saw through two pairs of eyes—her own grainy, rain-streaked view of the lawn, and a blur of purples and pinks from inside a bright room. The pain in her temples was real, but it was muted, drowned out by something else.

She felt Chen Yanxi’s hands.

The smooth, uncalloused skin of her palms. The light, clean scent of paint and soap that clung to them. She lifted Chen Yanxi’s right hand in her mind, felt the delicate bones, the perfect nails. Her own hands were cracked, bitten, nails jagged. This—this was silk against satin.

She shifted her attention, pulling Chen Yanxi’s senses closer. The brush was still there, but now Luo Jia felt its weight, the give of the bristles. She wrapped her mental fingers around it, and without thinking, she dragged it across the canvas—a long, clumsy streak of muddy brown that cut through the perfect sunset.

Chen Yanxi gasped. Her hand jerked back. “What—?”

The brush clattered to the floor. She stared at the ugly, out-of-place stroke, her heart hammering. That wasn’t her. She would never do that. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. *I’m tired. I need to eat. I need to sleep.*

She made herself pick up the brush, dip it in clean water, and blend the mistake into a cloud. The stroke didn’t vanish, but she forced it to look intentional—a shadow, a storm rolling in. She painted for another ten minutes, but the cold behind her eyes didn’t leave. It felt like someone was watching from inside her own head, waiting.

Out on the bench, Luo Jia opened her eyes and wept.

Not from pain. Not from exhaustion. From joy.

She had felt it. She had *been* it, even for a sliver of a second. The smoothness of Chen Yanxi’s skin, the warmth of the afternoon light across her shoulders, the clean, perfect shape of her fingers. It was like drinking from a spring after a lifetime of sand.

Luo Jia clutched her own coarse hands, turning them over in the fading light. They were ugly. Always had been. But now she knew what lay on the other side of that divide. And she knew, with a certainty that burned in her chest, that she would cross it again. She would cross it until there was nothing left of Chen Yanxi but a whisper.

She stood, shaky, and looked toward the art building. Through the window, she saw a figure in cream moving away from an easel. *One percent,* she whispered to herself. *One percent, and it’s already mine.*

She smiled, a slow, ugly thing, and started walking.

The morning lecture on classical Chinese poetry was winding down, the professor’s voice a droning murmur over the heads of drowsy students. Chen Yanxi sat in the second row, her notebook open to a half-finished sketch of a magnolia blossom—a habit she’d kept since freshman year. Her pen traced the curve of a petal, her mind half-absorbed in the professor’s analysis of Li Bai, half-drifting toward the memory of feeding her cat, Dumpling, a treat before class.

Then Luo Jia’s presence itched at the back of her skull. It was not a thought, not a voice—more like an uninvited finger poking a bruise. Annoyance prickled through Chen Yanxi’s chest.

Before she knew it, her mouth opened. “This Li Bai bullshit is so fucking boring.”

The words dropped into the silence like a rock through glass.

Heads snapped toward her. The professor paused, his mouth still forming the word “moonlight.” A boy two rows back let out a startled laugh. Chen Yanxi’s hand flew to her lips, her sketch pen clattering to the desk.

“Did she just…?” someone whispered.

Her face burned. *What did I just say?* She could feel the weight of half the classroom’s stares—some shocked, some amused, one or two judgmental. The professor cleared his throat, shuffled his papers, and continued as if he hadn’t heard, but his voice had turned clipped. The moment stretched, taut and awkward.

Chen Yanxi stared at her notebook. The magnolia petal was smudged where her hand had dragged across it. She didn’t remember moving.

After class, Yang Hong caught up with her in the hallway, his hand gentle on her elbow. “Yanxi, are you okay? That was… really not like you.” His eyes searched hers, concern etched in the furrow of his brow. “Did you not sleep well? You’ve seemed off lately.”

She pulled her arm free, forcing a light laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine. Just daydreaming. The lecture was dull, and I blurted something stupid. It’s nothing.”

“You never talk like that,” he pressed. “You said a word I’ve never heard you say before. Is something going on?”

Inside her mind, a greasy satisfaction slithered. *He’s worried. Good. Let him worry. Let him see his perfect little flower start to wilt.*

Chen Yanxi shook her head, too fast. “I said it’s fine, Yang Hong. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Her tone was sharper than she intended. She saw his face fall slightly, and guilt twisted in her stomach. She softened her voice. “Really. I’m just tired. I’ll get some rest tonight.”

He nodded slowly, but his gaze lingered on her with a mix of love and uncertainty. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“I know.” She managed a smile and walked away, her steps too quick, her heart thumping.

As she turned the corner, alone now, the smirking presence in her consciousness rose like a bubble of crude oil. *Good little Yanxi. Keep apologizing. Keep pretending. But the cracks are so pretty.*

Chen Yanxi leaned against the wall, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Why had she said that? She didn’t even think that way. She loved Li Bai’s poetry—the moon, the wine, the loneliness. She never used that language. *Never.*

But the foul word still echoed in her memory, and a part of her—a tiny, unfamiliar part—liked the shock it had caused. Liked the way everyone had looked at her, even if it was with horror.

She shoved that feeling down and hurried to her next class, her cat-shaped keychain swinging against her bag. Behind her, in the corner of the empty hallway, a dry, silent laugh lingered like dust.

The dormitory room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Chen Yanxi lay on her narrow bed, the thin blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The clock on her nightstand read 2:17 AM. She had been lying here for hours, her body coiled with a tension she could not name.

Her hand moved hesitantly beneath the blanket. She told herself she was only adjusting her shirt, only scratching an itch. But the touch lingered, and her breath caught in her throat.

*No. Stop.*

But her fingers disobeyed. They traced a path down her stomach, over the waistband of her shorts, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. The sensation was foreign and yet undone, a current of heat that spread from her core to her fingertips. She squeezed her eyes shut, and in the darkness behind her lids, she saw Luo Jia's face—smirking, approving.

*That's it. Don't fight it.*

The voice was not her own. It came from somewhere deep, a resonance that vibrated through her bones. Chen Yanxi tried to push it away, but her body moved on its own, guided by a will that was increasingly not hers. Her hips shifted, her thighs pressed together, and a soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

The climax came quickly, a sharp release that left her trembling and gasping. For a moment, her mind was empty, blissfully blank. Then the shame crashed over her like a wave of ice water.

She pulled her hand out from under the blanket and stared at it as if it belonged to someone else. Her fingers were trembling. Her skin was flushed. She sat up abruptly, the blanket falling away, and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"What am I doing?" she whispered to the empty room.

The dormitory was dark. Her roommate, Zhang Mei, had gone home for the weekend. Chen Yanxi was alone, but she felt watched. The sensation of Luo Jia's presence had grown stronger over the past few days, a shadow that clung to the edges of her consciousness.

*You enjoyed it,* the voice whispered. *Why feel guilty? Your body knows what it wants. You're just too weak to accept it.*

"No," Chen Yanxi said aloud. "That's not me. I don't... I don't do this."

*But you just did. And you'll do it again. You want to.*

Chen Yanxi pressed her palms against her ears, but the voice was inside her head. She got out of bed and walked to the small mirror tacked to the wall. The girl staring back at her was still beautiful—flawless skin, wide almond eyes, full lips—but something was different. A shadow in her gaze, a twist at the corner of her mouth that had not been there before.

"Is that you?" she asked her reflection. "Or is it her?"

The reflection smiled, but Chen Yanxi had not moved her lips.

She stumbled back and grabbed her phone. Her fingers dialed Yang Hong's number before she could think. It was too late to call, but she needed to hear his voice, needed the anchor of someone who knew her, loved her.

The call went to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message.

She sat on the edge of her bed, the phone clutched in her hands. The hours crawled by. She tried to paint—her usual remedy for a troubled mind—but the brush strokes were jagged, the colors muddy. She threw down the palette and buried her face in her hands.

By morning, she had convinced herself that it was a one-time thing. A mistake born of stress and loneliness. She showered, dressed, and went to class with perfect composure. No one noticed the tremor in her smile.

That afternoon, Yang Hong found her in the art studio. He stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face creased with concern.

"Yanxi, you called last night. Is everything okay?"

She turned from her canvas, forcing a bright expression. "I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep. I'm sorry I woke you."

"You didn't." He crossed the room and stood behind her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "You've seemed distant lately. Did something happen?"

She flinched at his touch. It was instinctive, barely perceptible, but he felt it. His hand dropped away.

"Yanxi?"

"I'm fine," she repeated, more sharply than she intended. "Just focusing on my work."

"Let me take you out tonight. We'll get dinner, watch a movie—"

"No." The word came out too fast. She softened her tone. "I mean, I have a lot of homework. Maybe another time."

Yang Hong studied her for a long moment. His eyes, usually warm and trusting, held a flicker of doubt. "Okay. Another time."

He left without kissing her goodbye. She watched him go, and a part of her wanted to run after him, to throw her arms around him and tell him everything. But the voice held her back.

*He'll never understand. He'll think you're broken. Unclean.*

"He loves me," she whispered.

*Loves the girl you used to be. Not what you're becoming.*

Chen Yanxi set down her brushes and walked to the window. The campus was bathed in golden autumn light, students laughing and chatting as they crossed the quad. She felt like a ghost behind the glass, watching a world she no longer belonged to.

That night, she lay in bed again, and the same restless heat coiled in her belly. She fought it. She recited poetry in her head, lists of elements, multiplication tables—anything to distract her mind. But the heat grew, fed by the voice that was patient and persistent.

*You're alone. No one will know. Give in.*

Her hand moved. Her breath quickened. And when it was over, the shame was a little less sharp, the guilt a little more bearable.

*See? It's natural. It's good.*

"It's wrong," she said, but the words had no conviction.

Three days later, Yang Hong cornered her after class. He took her hand and led her to a quiet bench beside the lake. The water shimmered in the afternoon light, swans gliding across the surface.

"Talk to me," he said. "Please. I feel like I'm losing you."

"You're not losing me." She tried to smile, but her lips would not cooperate.

"Then why do you flinch when I touch you? Why do you make excuses to avoid being alone with me? Have I done something wrong?"

"No. Hong, you've been perfect. I'm the one who's..." She faltered. How could she explain? *I'm being replaced, slowly, from the inside? The ugliest girl on campus is taking over my body and mind?*

"You're what?" he pressed.

"Confused," she finished. "I need time."

He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. But her palm was clammy, and she pulled away after a moment, claiming she had to go to the library.

She walked away quickly, not looking back. The voice whispered soothingly in her ear.

*He's too good for you. He'll never understand the new you. Better to push him away now.*

"I don't want to push him away."

*But you will. It's already happening. You have no choice.*

Chen Yanxi stopped in the middle of the path. Students passed around her like water around a stone. She closed her eyes and tried to find herself—the real her, the girl who loved painting and her cat and her gentle boyfriend. But that girl felt like a distant memory, a photograph fading in the sun.

She was twenty percent gone now. She could feel it. And the remaining eighty percent was fighting a losing battle.

That night, when she was alone in her dorm, she did not fight the heat. She let it consume her, and afterward, she did not cry. She simply lay there, hollow and calm, as the voice murmured approval.

*Good girl. See? Acceptance is easier than resistance.*

"I don't want to be you," she said softly.

*Too late. I'm already inside you. And I'm growing.*

The room was silent. The clock ticked toward midnight. Chen Yanxi closed her eyes, and in the darkness, she felt the faintest smile cross her lips—a smile that was not her own.

The evening air was cool and heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. Chen Yanxi walked past the convenience store on her way back from the studio, her fingers still stained with a trace of ultramarine paint. She stopped at the glass door, staring at her reflection. The girl looking back at her was still beautiful, but the eyes seemed wrong—too sharp, too hungry.

She didn’t remember deciding to go inside. Her feet carried her through the automatic doors, past the rows of instant noodles and energy drinks, until she stood before the small counter display behind the register. Cigarettes. A neat grid of boxes in dull colors, each promising a different kind of relief.

*Buy them.*

The thought was not her own, but it felt right. It felt like a hand reaching through fog to guide her.

Chen Yanxi pointed at a slim pink box labeled with a flower she didn’t recognize. The cashier, a bored young man with a nose ring, scanned it without looking at her. She handed over a crumpled twenty and slid the pack into her coat pocket. The weight there was small but significant, like a key to a room she had never entered.

She walked home in the growing dark. The apartment was quiet when she unlocked the door. Ah Bai padded over to greet her, winding between her ankles, but she barely noticed. She sat on the edge of the bathtub in the bathroom, the only room with a window and a fan, and tore open the cellophane with trembling fingers. The cigarette felt alien between her thumb and forefinger. She had seen others smoke—art students outside the lecture hall, actors in films, her father once, before he quit. But the act itself was a foreign language.

*Put it in your mouth.*

Luo Jia’s voice was honey and wire. Chen Yanxi obeyed. The filter touched her lips, dry and slightly sweet. She fumbled with the lighter she had bought as an afterthought, scraping her thumb three times before a flame caught. She inhaled.

The smoke hit her throat like sandpaper. She coughed violently, eyes watering, smoke spilling from her lips in a ragged cloud. Her lungs burned. She doubled over, bracing herself on the edge of the sink, and coughed again. It was awful. It was intrusive.

*Again.*

She hated it. But between the hacking and the tears, a thread of something else pulled tight in her chest. A thrill. A small rebellion. She had done something her mother would never approve of, something Yang Hong would never expect, something that belonged only to this new, sharp-edged version of herself.

She took another drag. The coughing was less this time. The smoke felt warmer, almost familiar. She watched it curl toward the ceiling, dissolving into the light of the single bulb. The odd pleasure crept through her, a dull warmth that settled in her stomach. She let out a long, slow breath and smiled—not her smile, but a smirk that belonged to someone else.

---

Three days later, Yang Hong found her behind the art building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips. She looked relaxed, almost elegant, the smoke wreathing her face like a veil. He stopped ten feet away and stared.

“Yanxi?”

She turned, and for a moment he saw something flicker in her eyes—recognition, then defiance. She took a deliberate drag before speaking. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?” His voice was flat, disbelieving.

She shrugged. “Taking a break. My hand was cramping.” She gestured with the cigarette. “Helps me focus.”

He walked toward her slowly, as if approaching an injured animal. When he was close enough to smell the smoke clinging to her hair, he stopped. “You don’t smoke.”

“I do now.”

“When did this start?” He tried to reach for the cigarette, but she pulled it away, her expression hardening.

“A few days ago. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a big deal.” His voice rose. “You hate smoke. You told me you hate the smell, that it makes you sick.”

She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “People change, Yang. Get with the program.”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “This isn’t you. You’ve been different lately—distant, sharp. And now this? What’s going on? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened. I decided to try something new. Is that a crime?”

“It’s not the cigarette,” he said, his eyes pleading. “It’s you. You’re not yourself.”

The words hung in the air. For a second, Chen Yanxi felt a crack in the wall inside her mind—a thin, bright line of fear. She heard Luo Jia’s voice, honey-sweet, whisper: *He doesn’t understand. He wants you small and soft. Don’t let him cage you.*

She crushed the cigarette against the brick, a sharp, final motion. “Maybe I’m finally becoming myself. You just don’t like who that is.”

“I love who you are,” he said, his voice breaking. “That’s why I’m scared.”

She didn’t answer. She walked past him, her steps quick and certain, leaving him alone in the shadow of the building with the smell of smoke and silence.

Chen Yanxi walked into the dimly lit parlor alone, the bell above the door chiming a tinny note that died in the thick air of antiseptic and ink. The walls were covered with flash art—dragons, skulls, pin-up girls with curled lips—but her eyes went straight to a framed sketch behind the counter: a black rose, petals unfurling like dark tongues, thorns curving with an almost hungry grace.

She pointed at it without speaking. The artist, a lean man with sleeves of faded green scales, nodded and gestured to the chair. She sat, spine straight, and pulled the collar of her blouse aside. When the needle buzzed to life, she felt it not as pain but as a kind of clarity—a punctuation mark on a sentence she was still learning to write.

The outline came first, a thin red line that would blacken soon enough. She watched in the mirror as the shape took hold, the flower embedding itself into the skin just above her collarbone. Luo Jia’s voice hummed in the back of her mind, satisfied. *Now you look like something real.*

Chen Yanxi did not argue.

Yang Hong found her that evening in the campus garden, under the magnolia tree where they used to study together. She was sitting on the bench, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone. The new ink was visible even in the low light—a stark smear of darkness against the pale column of her neck.

“Xi,” he said, dropping his backpack beside her. “What is that?”

She looked up slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. “A tattoo.”

“I can see that.” He crouched in front of her, reaching a hand toward her collarbone. She caught his wrist before his fingers touched skin, her grip firmer than he remembered. “Why?” he asked. “You never talked about getting one. You always said you were afraid of needles.”

“I got over it.” Her voice was flat, a line drawn without shading.

“A black rose.” He studied the design, the thorns curling inward like claws. “That’s not… that doesn’t seem like you.”

She released his wrist and leaned back, letting her hand fall into her lap. The motion was casual, but her eyes had gone cold—a shift he had seen before, in fragments, growing more frequent. “I like it,” she said. The words were simple, but they landed like stones.

Yang Hong straightened, a knot tightening in his chest. He wanted to argue, to list all the reasons this felt wrong—the sudden trip alone, the permanent mark on her skin, the way she said *I like it* as if she were quoting someone else’s opinion. But her gaze held no room for debate. Behind her eyes, something watched him, patient and amused.

“Okay,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good.”

Later that night, in the dormitory bathroom, Chen Yanxi stood before the mirror. The tattoo was wrapped in clear film, a moist gleam catching the fluorescent light. She peeled it back gently, revealing the black rose in full bloom. With her thumb, she traced the outline of a single petal, pressing until the ache bloomed sharp and clean.

*It suits you,* Luo Jia whispered. *Finally, something that isn’t borrowed.*

Chen Yanxi watched her reflection. She tried to summon the old fear, the old hesitation—the part of her that would have cried over a needle, that would have asked Yang Hong to come hold her hand. But that part was quiet now, muffled like a voice in another room. She felt only satisfaction, and a growing hunger for more ways to make this body her own.

She smiled at the mirror, and the reflection smiled back with Luo Jia’s eyes.

The afternoon sun slanted through the salon window, casting a buttery glow across the rows of silver-framed mirrors. Chen Yanxi sat in the padded chair, her fingers drumming against the armrest in a rhythm that was not her own. The stylist, a young man with bleached hair and a silver hoop in his eyebrow, held up a color swatch.

“You sure about this? Purple highlights are pretty bold,” he said, watching her reflection.

“I’m sure,” she replied, and her voice carried an edge that made the stylist shrug and turn to mix the dye.

In the back of her mind, Luo Jia watched through Chen Yanxi’s eyes, a thrill coiling in her chest like a snake ready to strike. *Yes. Change it. Make her ugly. Make them all see what I always saw in the mirror.*

Chen Yanxi’s own thoughts flickered weakly—a whisper of resistance, a memory of herself in soft pastels and simple ponytails—but it was drowned by the growing hum of Luo Jia’s satisfaction. The foil strips were placed, the bleach painted on, and she sat still, letting the chemicals burn against her scalp.

Two hours later, she stared at her reflection. The purple streaks ran through her black hair like crude brushstrokes, garish and uneven. The stylist had tried to warn her, but she had insisted on a chunky, haphazard application. She looked cheap. She looked like someone trying too hard to be noticed.

*Perfect,* Luo Jia purred inside.

Chen Yanxi paid and walked out, the bells on the salon door jingling behind her. The campus was alive with the last golden hour of the day. Students milled about, some heading to the library, others lounging on the grass. She felt their eyes land on her, linger, then slide away with whispers.

At the bench near the fountain, a group of girls froze mid-conversation. One of them, a sophomore with round glasses, nudged her friend.

“Is that… Chen Yanxi? The campus belle?”

“No way. She looks like she got attacked by a box of crayons.”

The words carried on the breeze. Luo Jia absorbed them like oxygen.

Chen Yanxi’s hand trembled, but she forced a smirk onto her lips. *You think this is bad? Wait till you see the rest.* She walked toward the nail salon on the corner of campus street, her steps light, almost skipping.

Inside, she chose the loudest colors: neon pink, glitter gold, and electric blue. The nail technician raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Chen Yanxi extended her hands, watching as the brush painted over her nails in thick, sloppy strokes. She asked for sharp, pointy stiletto shapes. The finished product looked like claws—gaudy, aggressive, alien against the soft skin of her fingers.

She paid with cash, leaving the change on the counter. As she stepped out, the evening air wrapped around her. Students were heading to dinner, and more glances followed her. A freshman almost dropped her phone.

“Oh my god, is that her? She used to be so pretty.”

“I heard she’s been acting weird ever since that accident.”

“It’s like a different person.”

Luo Jia basked in the noise. *Yes. A different person. Me.* Her consciousness swelled, pushing deeper into the body she was stealing. The resistance she had felt that morning was weaker now, a faint murmur beneath the roar of her own triumph.

She passed by the art building, where she used to spend hours painting watercolor landscapes. The door was open, and she could see the easels set up for the evening class. She paused, staring at the clean white paper, the neat rows of brushes, the orderly palettes.

*So boring.*

She turned away, heading toward the dormitory. Her dormitory now.

In the common room, a cluster of students watched her enter. The whispers grew louder. Someone snapped a photo. She didn’t care. She walked past them, her heels clicking against the floor—heels she had bought that afternoon, bright red pumps that pinched her toes but made her feel taller, louder, more visible.

She climbed the stairs to her room and closed the door. Alone, she stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her hair was a disaster. Her nails were claws. Her makeup—she had bought a cheap red lipstick and applied it crookedly, smudged at the edges.

*You’re finally becoming what I always knew you were,* Luo Jia whispered inside. *A mess. A joke. And soon, no one will miss the real you.*

Somewhere deep in the shadows of her own mind, Chen Yanxi cried. But her weeping was soundless, a fragile echo that Luo Jia ignored.

Outside, the gossip spread like wildfire. Group chats exploded with photos and questions. *Did you see Chen Yanxi? She’s lost her mind.* *New look is aggressive.* *I feel bad for Yang Hong.* *Honestly, she’s just ugly now.*

Yang Hong saw the photo on his phone while sitting in the library. His thumb hovered over the image of his girlfriend—purple-streaked hair, glitter nails, a smirk that didn’t belong to her. He had tried to reach her twice that day. Both texts went unanswered.

He typed again: *Can we talk? Please.*

The message delivered. No reply.

In her room, Luo Jia saw the notification pop up on the bedside phone. She picked it up, read it, and laughed. *Not yet. Let him suffer a little more.* She tossed the phone onto the bed, then walked to the window, watching the lights of the campus flicker on in the twilight.

Her progress bar was halfway. But to her, it already felt like victory.

She opened the window, letting the cool air hit her face. Down below, a group of students looked up, saw her silhouette, and whispered again.

She smiled, a crooked, triumphant smile.

*Step by step. Piece by piece. I’m taking everything.*