In Song Xiaoyang's drawer, there was a utility knife hidden away.
The blade was new, silver and sharp, like a slender snake curled in the dark, waiting for its chance. Every day he would touch it, feeling the cold metal against his skin, imagining the sound it would make slicing through flesh—not his own, someone else's.
Bai Ye sat on his desk, swinging her legs. Her ankles were wrapped in rotten bandages. Her smile grew wider and wider, the corners of her mouth nearly tearing to her ears, revealing sharp, bone-white fangs.
"Want to try today?" she whispered, her fingers tracing the back of his neck like a venomous serpent.
Song Xiaoyang said nothing, but his fingers tightened on the knife handle in the drawer, knuckles cracking from the pressure.
1.
Wang Lei's seat was just diagonally in front of him.
The boy who once poured urine on his head was now bragging loudly to those around him about his gaming victories from the night before. His laughter was shrill, like nails scratching a blackboard, making Song Xiaoyang's temples throb.
"He's wearing new shoes today," Bai Ye whispered in his ear, her voice sticky like rotten honey. "Limited edition. His dad just bought them."
Song Xiaoyang stared at the shoes—bright white sneakers with fresh, crisp soles. Wang Lei deliberately propped his feet on the desk, swinging them to show off.
"Imagine if the blade scraped across..." Bai Ye's fingers lightly touched his wrist, guiding his imagination. "The sound of leather ripping, like tearing paper... then the blood slowly oozing out, staining the white shoes red..."
Song Xiaoyang's breath grew rapid. His fingers stroked the knife's handle in the drawer—the cold metal sobering and maddening him all at once.
"Do you dare?" Bai Ye tilted her head, her rotting eye sockets glinting with a sick light.
Song Xiaoyang's throat tightened. He didn't dare—not yet. But he knew, one day, he would.
2.
That night, Song Xiaoyang lay in bed, moonlight streaming through the curtains in slashes of silver—like a blade cutting through the darkness.
Bai Ye sat beside him, her fingers lightly tracing the red, swollen bruises on his skin. Her touch was icy cold, like a corpse's hand.
"You hate them," she whispered, her voice crawling out from the abyss. "Tian Mingyuan, Wang Lei, your father... even..." She paused, rotten lips close to his ear. "Your mother."
Song Xiaoyang jerked his head, glaring at her.
"No... I don't hate her..."
The shadow laughed, a sound like shattering glass.
"You do hate." Her voice sharpened. "You hate that she died so early, left you alone in this hell. You hate that she taught you 'kindness,' and turned you into what you are now—a worthless piece of trash anyone can step on."
Song Xiaoyang's chest heaved violently. The shadow's words cut open his deepest secret like a blade.
Yes.
He hated. He hated everyone.
Bai Ye watched his expression with satisfaction, then reached into the darkness and pulled out a knife—not the utility knife, but a real kitchen knife, its blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
"Take it." She shoved the knife into his hand. "One day, you'll use it."
Song Xiaoyang's fingers closed tightly.
The handle was icy cold, like the bones of the dead.
The next morning, Song Xiaoyang stood before the mirror, staring into his own eyes.
Those eyes... were different.
No longer timid or evasive, but cold and pitch-black, like two bottomless pits.
The shadow stood behind him, rotting fingers resting on his shoulders, her smile grotesque.
"Welcome back," she whispered.
And slowly, the corners of Song Xiaoyang's mouth curved into a smile.
The rotting seed had finally sprouted.