The door creaks open.

“Well, that was a thoroughly humiliating ordeal.”

I twist around.

Henry is standing behind me, his expression calm, hands in pockets, the collar of his shirt rumpled. A reddish-yellow bruise has started to bloom over the curve of his left cheekbone, a violation of his otherwise perfect skin.

Without thinking, I grab his face in one hand and tilt it up to the moonlight, inspecting the injury. It looks swollen. Painful.

“Holy crap, Henry,” I say, no longer laughing. “You didn’t have to go that far—I mean, I’m grateful, obviously—so grateful—but... Does it—does it hurt?”

He doesn’t answer me, but his eyes widen slightly. Flicker to the point of contact between us, where my hand is still cupping his cheek.

I let my hand drop and step back, mortified.

“Um, sorry. Really don’t know why I just did that...” I shake my head, hard, as if I can somehow shake the awkward moment away too. What is wrong with me? “Do you need a bandage though? Or ice? Or one of those cloth things they tie around...” I trail off when I see the corners of his lips twitch with ill-suppressed amusement. “Is this somehow funny to you? Because you could’ve been seriously—”

“I appreciate the concern,” he says. “But I’m honestly fine. I promise. I’ve done this before.”

I stare at him. “What? Why?”

He hesitates, and I can almost see the gears in his mind working, trying to decide how much information he can afford to disclose. Finally, he says, “It was a long time ago...when I was seven or eight. My father had signed me up for violin lessons and I really, really did not want to go...”

It takes me a minute to understand what he’s saying, to grasp the sheer absurdity of it. This is truly the last thing I’d expect from Henry Li. “Wait. So you’d fake faint just to get out of violin lessons?”

“I only did it once.” He grimaces. “All right, twice. But in my defense, it was very effective; the violin teacher was so concerned for my well-being she personally asked my father to keep me home.”

I choke out an incredulous laugh. “And you couldn’t have just—I don’t know, faked a cough or a cold like a normal kid?”

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes harden. “That wouldn’t have been enough. So long as I was physically conscious, my father would’ve insisted that I continue with my studies, push through until I was perfect.” He turns his head away from me, the moonlight washing over his stiff profile, lining the slight furrow in his brows, and I realize, with an odd pang, that the conversation is over.

I also realize that for all the glamorous magazine profiles and interviews and SYS-related news I’ve devoured in my attempts to better understand my competition, I don’t know Henry that well at all... Yet now, more than ever, I kind of wish I did.

A few beats of heavy silence pass. Then Henry asks, “Do you have everything you need?” His voice is formal again, perfectly professional. I hate it.