It feels like a scene straight out of the wuxia films my dad loves to watch after work. It wouldn’t even surprise me if someone in billowing robes were to leap out from the clouds right now, sword swishing in hand; this place seems made for assassins and empresses and heroes from legends.

“You’ll each be given an instant camera for the next activity,” Wang Laoshi tells us, speaking at only half his usual volume, like he doesn’t want to disrupt the peace. He sets his duffel bag down on the forest floor and begins unpacking the cameras, passing them from one person to another. “Feel free to wander around and take photos, but don’t walk too far from the group. We’ll all meet back here in …” He glances at his watch. “Let’s say an hour. Once you’re done, you and your teammate will need to pick out five photos to submit to me by tomorrow morning. The team with the best photo will win—and they’ll get to keep their instant cameras as the prize. Got it?”

Quick, eager nods from the group. Compared to all the contests so far, this one actually sounds pretty relaxing—or at least there doesn’t seem to be a significant risk of tumbling off a cliff.

The second Oliver gets his camera, he holds it up and turns it around to take a selfie. There’s a soft whirring sound as the photo rolls out.

“What?” he says when he catches everyone staring at him, our judgment pronounced in the silence. Wang Laoshi appears one impulsive move and forgotten Teacher’s Code of Conduct away from snatching the camera back.

“There must’ve been a gross misunderstanding—I don’t believe the teacher was asking for photos of you,” Cyrus says, voice flat. He’s grabbed two cameras, and without a word, he walks over to me and presses one of them into my hand. “It’s meant to be a photography contest. A form of art.”

“My face is art,” Oliver counters without missing a beat, shaking the photo in the air. “It deserves critical acclaim. Don’t you agree?”

Cyrus’s brows rise. “Well—”

“I wasn’t asking you; I was asking Leah.” Oliver turns to me. “Don’t you think my face is art?”

I search between them for the best response, my eyes flicking from Cyrus’s unimpressed scowl to Oliver’s expectant grin. “Art is subjective,” I say diplomatically.

“So: no,” Cyrus tells him.

“So: yes,” Oliver says, and moves closer, his white sneakers crunching over the fallen leaves. When he’s only a foot away, he lowers his head a little and winks at me. “Feel free to take a closer look if you aren’t convinced.”

I hold up my camera to block the space between us. “You’re getting in the way of my shot, Oliver.”