I whirl around to face him, squinting into the sunlight, and for the briefest moment I catch something almost like hurt flicker across his features—

No. I must be imagining it. There are few things in this world that have the power to hurt Henry Li—things like a sudden drop in SYS’s stocks, or his name coming last on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

Certainly not me.

“What did you think this was?” I demand, motioning to the space between us.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure.” He stares at me a beat. Slides his hands into his back pockets. “A fun competition?”

“Fun,” I repeat in disbelief.

But then again, of course he sees our four-year rivalry as a fun competition. For someone like Henry, who will always have his father’s business, his family’s wealth as a safety net, everything is just a game. There are no true consequences. No real threats. He could fail a thousand times in life and still sleep easy, knowing there will be food waiting for him at home, medical insurance for his parents, more than enough money in the bank.

Henry and I might share similar goals and grades, but at the end of the day, we will never be the same.

“Do you seriously hate me?” Henry says, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. And maybe it’s just the angle from where I’m standing, but his eyes look suddenly lighter in the sun, more gold than their usual coffee black. Softer, somehow. “Well?”

I cross my arms over my chest, weighing out my response.

Yes, is the obvious answer. I do hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate you so much that whenever I’m around you, I can barely think straight. I can barely even breathe.

But when I open my mouth, none of that comes out. What I say instead is, “Don’t you... Don’t you hate me too?”

Immediately, I regret it. What a ridiculous question to ask. He’s obviously going to laugh at me and say yes, the way that I should have just now, and whatever sense of comradery we’ve built over these past couple of weeks will collapse, which will then affect our efficiency in completing Beijing Ghost tasks. But it’s not just that. For some reason, the thought of him telling me he hates me—right here, out loud, in plain English—feels like a punch to the chest. Which is even more ridiculous, because—

“No.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“No, Alice.” The faintest movement in his throat. I still have no idea what his expression means, why his voice sounds so strained. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh.” My mind goes blank. “Well, that is... That’s something. For sure.”

That was not a legitimate sentence, Alice, I scold myself.

“A very good thing to know,” I try again. “Glad we spoke of it.”

Neither was that.

Thankfully, I’m saved from what’s shaping up to be one of the most awkward exchanges of my life by a new phone notification. I turn around and open up my Beijing Ghost messages. To my surprise, it’s from Rainie again: