Flying Snow Razor Alley
Chapter 3
The game began in earnest the next day.
I hadn’t even made it to my desk before the scent hit me—pungent and unmistakable—cilantro.
There on the teacher’s desk sat a steaming bowl of beef noodle soup, absolutely swimming in the green herb. Beside it, a sticky note was slapped down, two flamboyant characters scrawled across it: “Eat it.”
Signed, Patrick.
Every eye in the classroom swiveled my way, followed by a chorus of muffled glee and whispers.
“Oh my god, did Patrick actually get Sophie breakfast?”
“Cilantro noodles? But he hates cilantro.”
“You don’t get it. This is a power move!”
Face blank, I walked over. Without even glancing at the bowl, I picked it up, note and all, and dumped it straight into the trash at the back of the room.
Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.
The classroom fell dead silent.
[Host is a legend! Perfect arc!]
[Hahaha, Patrick paid five grand for that intel and it was fake. He must be fuming.]
[Bet a pack of spicy strips he storms in any second.]
The comments were right.
The moment morning self-study ended, Patrick stormed up to our classroom door, his usual entourage in tow.
Tall—over six feet—dressed head-to-toe in edgy black streetwear, his sharp features were etched with a natural, untamable arrogance.
Right now, those eyes were locked on me, burning.
“Sophie,” he snarled, his foot connecting with the doorframe with a loud bang. “What the hell was that?”
I didn’t even look up, keeping my focus on the practice problems in front of me. “Nothing. I don’t like cilantro.”
“Don’t like it?” He let out a cold laugh, pulling out his phone. A tap on the screen, and an audio file blared into the hallway at full volume—my chat history with “Ethan.”
My voice, processed through a modulator, came out raspy and low: “…She doesn’t actually hate cilantro. It’s just… when she was little, her family was poor. Her brother loved it, so she’d always say she didn’t like it, let him have it all… Truth is, she loves that flavor more than anyone.”
That piece of audio—a complete fabrication of my own tragic backstory—echoed with painful clarity down the quiet corridor.
The surrounding students were stunned.
I almost believed it myself.
Patrick clearly hadn’t expected such calm. He snatched my workbook and slammed it on the desk. “What’s with the act? If you don’t like it, why throw it away? Seems to me you just can’t appreciate a good thing when it’s handed to you!”
Finally, I lifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes held no anger, no fear—just a flat, dead calm.
“Patrick,” I said, each word deliberate. “If your idea of ‘liking’ someone is forcing on them something you yourself despise, and then demanding they pretend to enjoy it… then I want no part of that kind of ‘like’.”
My voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a sledgehammer.
His expression froze. The fire in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a flash of shock… and something like panic.
[Whoa, Host! Reverse psychology masterclass!]
[Patrick.exe has stopped responding.]
[Yes! Wreck him! Love seeing these arrogant rich kids get taken down a peg!]
Ignoring him, I retrieved my workbook from his grip. “You’re blocking the light,” I said flatly.
Patrick stood there as if turned to stone, utterly motionless.
His lackeys exchanged uneasy glances behind him, unsure what to do.
In the end, he practically fled.
Watching his retreating back, I felt no satisfaction. Only a cold, hollow emptiness.
This was just the beginning.
That evening, another huge transfer hit the “Ethan” account. From Patrick.
A full fifty thousand.
The attached message was a single line: “Tell me what she really likes. Don’t lie this time.”
I stared at the string of digits, my grandmother’s kind, weathered face floating into my mind.
I typed back: “She likes money. Specifically, money she’s earned cleanly, through her own effort. Because that’s what lets her and her grandmother live with a little dignity.”
This time, I wasn’t lying.
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