A weather front, as if issued a death warrant, clung stubbornly to the island of Taiwan. From the concrete walls seeped not only dampness, but a rancid rot.
The afternoon sky hung heavy, the color of a corpse seven days dead.
A four-story school building stood in the rain, gray and decrepit, like some obsolete Party directive long overdue for demolition. On the second floor, every classroom light burned, every curtain drawn tight; the glow that leaked out was like a secret half-exposed, brightest at the corners, so bright that even the hallway lights dared not compete.
The old air conditioner sputtered to life, exhaling a musty, sour draft, as if some long-delayed internal memo had finally been approved and released.
“What the hell is this weather? Is Taipei a basin or a spittoon?” someone joked behind him, voice low, tinged with the self-satisfied humor of officialdom.
Zhao Ruyi led the way, one hand on the banister, each step heavy, as if his skin disguised someone far older within. Every movement cost him, every heartbeat like a fist thudding against a wall. He said nothing; he couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to.
Despite his slow pace, no one behind him dared to overtake.
His heart thudded, echoing Dr. Xu’s words in his ear: “This heart comes from a schoolgirl, eighty jin. Your weight is nearly two hundred jin. It will be a strain to use—please, don’t overexert yourself.”
At the second floor landing, the Director of Education, flanked by staff, approached with folders cradled respectfully.
“This is this year’s assessment data. All samples are confirmed free of communicable diseases and certified by the school doctor as unused. Inspectors need no extra precautions, and may proceed with testing as they wish.”
Zhao gave a slight nod, gesturing for Secretary Shen to accept the folder.
The staff handed out the rest to the other officials, who were then led to their respective classrooms.
Zhao’s room was the closest to the stairs. Once everyone else had entered, he said to his secretary, “Tea.”
Secretary Shen waved off the Education Director and took out a stainless steel thermos from his bag.
From his inner pocket, Zhao produced a small blue pill, placed it on his tongue, took a sip of water. No sound, no expression. His throat bobbed—swallowing down a secret not to be released.
Secretary Shen opened the door. Zhao entered the classroom alone.
On the blackboard hung a red banner: “Compliance Evaluation, Class of 203X—Network Paralysis Response.”
Only two wooden chairs in the classroom: one for the girl, one for himself.
Only one desk: his.
The girl stood at attention, greeting him, her voice clean and clear.
He gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing.
Zhao shuffled to the desk, settling his swollen bulk onto the chair with a creak.
He flipped open the folder, slapping it onto the desk—a sound like a bureaucratic stamp, sealing fates and certifying character.
“Last four digits of your student number: 1724. Height: 1.6 meters. Weight: 87 jin. Measurements: 85, 24, 80. Graduating this year?”
“Yes.”
“Sit.”
“Thank you, Director.”
“1724, you should know this is a comprehensive compliance evaluation—your performance affects not only your own prospects, but your entire class’s standing, as well as the annual metrics for your school and its affiliated care centers.”
“Yes, Director. I am an outstanding student from Ji’an. It is an honor to take part in this evaluation.”
“You are also aware this evaluation is strictly confidential. If the scoring criteria were ever leaked, future assessments would lose their integrity, correct?”
“Yes, Director. From the moment we arrived at the station yesterday, nothing will be disclosed. Not a word.”
“I will begin, then.”
“Yes, Director, please proceed.”
“Remove all fabric obstructions. When finished, sit on the chair with your heels firmly on either side of the seat.”
1724 hesitated—did not understand, or perhaps understood too quickly.
“Remove!” Zhao barked, voice sharp. “This is a test of your obedience.”
1724 shuddered, lowering her head to unbutton her uniform, as if undoing an expired institutional file; her fingers trembled, buttons stuck, but no one helped her. She had to finish on her own. Hesitation meant defiance, and defiance would cost her.
When she finished, Zhao stood and approached her.
“Now I will test whether you have been influenced by hostile foreign forces—illegally accessing content harmful to youth development.”
“Reporting, Director: absolutely not!”
“According to inspection protocol, I will perform a sensitivity test to determine if your essential nature has remained untainted.”
1724 grabbed her ankles, letting Zhao do as he pleased.
After a while, he withdrew his hand, holding his fingers before her eyes.
“This is your moral education? Disgraceful.”
He spoke quietly, but every word landed on her eardrums like a lead weight.
“Barely a simple inspection, and you fail completely. And you dare speak of correct thought?”
1724 bowed her head in shame. She didn’t know what she had done wrong, nor what exactly he was scolding her for; only an instinct that, whatever this was, it was her fault.
Seeing Zhao begin to mark her score, 1724 panicked, pleading, “Director! I—I don’t know why this happened. The other girls in my class are all good. I don’t want to drag them down… If my score is too low, our care center will fail, and my little sisters won’t have winter coats… Sir, please…”
He glanced at her, then back at his folder, frowning.
“With a reaction like yours, you would normally fail. But I’m not without compassion…”
Seeing the hope bloom in 1724’s eyes, Zhao stood and lowered his zipper.
The bait cast, the fish bites. The angler delights in control, enjoying the last throes of the catch.
For 1724, it felt longer than any lesson; her cheeks ached, unsure how long she would have to endure before she could pass this evaluation.
The fish, played by an experienced hand, grew limp and desperate; she collapsed back into her chair, desperately wiping away the traces of her earlier failure, sobbing, “Director, please check again… I’m not disgraceful, I’ve always been proper… Please, I really want to improve…”
Zhao was deeply satisfied with what he saw—obedience, diligence, the pure product of ideological education. Someone striving to prove their submission by any means.
This was what the Party’s soil cultivated: row after row of fresh, juicy chives; grasped, cut down, still sparkling with dew.
He looked at the hand that had gripped the rod: warm, sticky, like a belated certificate—but at last, it had arrived.
He didn’t wipe it off right away. Instead, he admired it, as if it were a confidential document. This was not the end of desire, but proof.
Proof that he could still perform, proof that he still possessed output. For a man long impotent, that last remnant of productivity outweighed any scepter.
There was no pride in his expression, only a silent satisfaction; a quiet boast in the continued operation of the machine, enough to prop up his entire spine.
He let that residual warmth drip from his fingers, then pressed three together—like a bureaucratic seal—forcefully stamping it onto 1724’s body, grinding it in, round after round, until every mark was pressed deep into her flesh.