Yesterday was my birthday. Mum didn't come home again. Promised a buffet, then went to play mahjong with her new boyfriend. A hundred yuan on the table and "Happy Birthday" on a scrap of receipt. I threw it away. Dad? After buying the computer years ago, his business failed and he ran away. Nobody knows where he is. Whatever. I don't need them. I ate instant noodles and coded alone until 03:14in the morning. The computer is my only friend.

It wasn't always this way. When I first made a little program run, my parents were even happier than I was. All evening they called me a genius. But when I showed Mum an amazing script the other day, she was on the phone. Without looking up, she said""Oh"". That's all,""Oh"". I understand. To her, this family died when Dad left. Whether her son is a genius or an idiot doesn't matter. Everything in this house, living or dead, means nothing to her.

People are trouble. I don't need anyone. If nobody will look, I'll make things for myself. At least code doesn't lie. One is one, zero is zero. It doesn't promise to come home and then never come.

In computer class, Mr. Wu praised Wang Anqi in front of everyone again. Saying""Anqi's logic is so clear""、""Anqi is a rare genius"". Bullshit!!!

She plays a few stupid games. Does she understand low-level architecture? What a joke.

At first I was the best in the club. They admired me and Mr. Wu praised me. Then more people learned to code and got better. Mum doesn't want me. Dad doesn't want me. If even code can't prove I'm better, am I nothing? Of course that's impossible. But sometimes I think it. Weak. Whenever I do, I slap myself.

I'll never admit Wang Anqi is smarter. One day I'll make everyone watch her fail.

And Li Heng.

I hate him even more. Rich enough for any tutor, always in the top three, even on the basketball team. Yet his coding is rubbish. He copies even my simplest homework.

Everyone still orbits him. Even when Mr. Wu scolds him, his voice is gentler than when he talks to me.

I hate Song Yuming too. Always laughing. What's so funny? And Liu Shu, playing the saint. Don't comfort me. Zhou Jiayi and Liu Zixuan: a little follower and a big idiot. Chen Yang says nothing yet everyone likes him, even the girls. Chang Xiao gets praised just like Wang Anqi, though neither is better than me.

They're all luckier. I never expected fairness. Computers are the only thing I can beat them at: my one talent, something that won't leave me, what makes me different.

I've always believed I'm special.

The password to my next, ultimate entry is hidden in the forum.

Late Monday night, June 15. I remember because the website was due for awards inspection on June 16. Mr. Wu kept insisting nothing could go wrong. I used a proxy to get past the school's useless firewall for a routine check. Guess what I found? A rat secretly tampering with the site.

They'd written a hidden script hijacking the homepage and replacing it with a horror site! Who was it? Several relays concealed the IP. Cunning, I'll admit. I couldn't immediately identify them.

I didn't care who it was, whom they wanted to frighten or punish, or what grudges and factions were involved. To me it was a tedious, low-grade infinite loop.

I cared about one thing: nobody gets past me.

I examined the rat's source. The logic was passable. Funniest of all, the script ended with a scheduled self-destruct command:
if (system.time >= "06:00:00") { execute(Delete_All_Traces); }

Clever. Erase everything before sunrise and escape like an uncatchable hacker? Come and go as you please? Did I give permission?

Out of boredom, or because I couldn't wait to see their panic when the perfect escape failed, when teachers caught them and the precious awards entry was ruined, I added two symbols before the deletion code://。

One tiny comment disabled the automatic deletion. Their masterpiece was stuck on the server, an endless loop that couldn't shut itself down.

By the morning of June 16, the whole school knew. That bleeding planet was fixed on every computer screen. Panic. The principal and Mr. Wu looked sick.

I congratulated myself on punishing a troublemaker and waited all day. But when I proudly entered the computer room that afternoon, it was empty. No club. Then someone spoke. Wang Anqi.

"Club's canceled. Go back to class."

She seemed to be passing by. She left after saying it.

"Did you see the website yesterday?"

I followed, wanting to show off. "Yes. Mr. Wu cleaned it up. Luckily it didn't reach the education bureau," she sighed.

I lowered my voice and told her I'd stopped the automatic deletion and exposed everything. She looked surprised, then smiled and said I was impressive. I asked whether she knew who'd made it. Another sigh: "I know, but Mr. Wu told us not to discuss it. I can't tell you."

Whatever. I enjoyed my triumph for days. After Saturday's graduation ceremony, I was walking toward the computer room when something flashed down past me. Then a sound like an egg breaking.

Curious, I looked over the railing. Someone lay among the graduation confetti. At first I just stared, not yet afraid. Screams, crying, a gathering crowd. The shattered head was unrecognizable, but I knew this person. Almost immediately I knew his name.

Then cold sweat, a pounding heart. I sank to the floor, hands braced, unable to stand. Someone running past stepped on my hand. Pain made me pull it back.

I heard Mr. Wu shouting. Li Heng, Wang Anqi, Liu Shu, the others further away: he was taking them away.

Finally I stood, smiling strangely, perhaps to reassure myself. On the way to his office I passed the computer room. A screen by the window was on. Without knowing why, I went to it.



"The plaster god in the middle of the classroom clasps its hands. Outside, the thunderstorm ceases.

Rigid bodies form a hill, pale fingers pointing at the ceiling. Blood runs through the desks and pools into rivers. Just before it reaches our necks, the classroom door opens inward. Blinding daylight pours in. Beyond the door is tomorrow, where the Sun stays forever."

Those strange, abrupt words were on the screen, like a poem.