Gifford High School's orbital ring slowly rotated in the endless darkness, like a giant silver bracelet carelessly tossed into space. Its outer layer of glass and steel intertwined, the transport pipes pulsating with blue and gold light like neon veins; from a distance, it looked like a prop from a science fiction movie. But once inside, it was pure, strictly controlled chaos: the circulating air carried the bitter smell of synthetic coffee, the corridors forever echoed with the low rumble of a maglev train, and thousands upon thousands of teenagers, their hormones raging, believing themselves invincible after surviving an asteroid migration.
Ethan Harrington walked down the upperclassmen's corridor as naturally as if he were walking into his own living room.
His black uniform jacket was deliberately left unbuttoned, revealing a crisply ironed white shirt underneath; the silver badge of the Commonwealth Preparatory School seemed to taunt under every lamp: Come on, question me! His hair was the kind of messy style that "I could just tousle it a couple of times and it'd be perfect," and a few little followers trailed behind him—two guys from the gravity ball team, and a girl clearly vying for the "prom queen" spot—but Ethan barely noticed them. His mind was elsewhere.
Six years.
For the first two years, he desperately tried to forget her name. For the next two, he pretended to have forgotten. For the last two… he was obsessed, updating the transfer list every day. The kids from Willow Creek were the easiest to spot: their grey uniforms were a lighter shade, their backpacks were patched, and their eyes widened when they saw the size of the school.
Today was orientation day for new students.
The main atrium was a five-story atrium, with holographic nebulae floating lazily overhead, like someone had torn a hole in the Milky Way, letting out the most beautiful fragments. New students huddled together for warmth near the registration holographic pavilion, while upperclassmen leaned against the railings of the suspended walkways above the third floor, gossiping, flirting, and trying to look cool.
Ethan leaned against the third-tiered railing, arms crossed, his gaze scanning the crowd below like a scanner.
Found her.
She had just stepped out of the maglev tube, as if she couldn't wait to disappear.
Ava Hayes.
Now taller—definitely over 1.8 meters, a head taller than most boys, and towering above the girls. Her hair was still a practical ponytail, a few stray strands clinging to her face. The grey Gifford school uniform looked remarkably plain on her: sleeves rolled up to her elbows, trousers just barely touching the ground, the large white "GIFFORD HIGH" lettering on the back already cracking. No makeup, no cosmetic enhancements, only the small scar on her left cheekbone, like a thin silver comma under the lights.
She didn't look up in awe at the starry sky in the atrium like other freshmen, nor did she frantically snap photos with a holographic camera. She simply gripped her tablet, shoulders taut, and walked towards the freshman information area with a quiet, efficient gait—as if she had already calculated the optimal path, bypassing everything else.
Ethan's heart pounded.
He pushed open the railing.
"Hey, Harrington, where are you going?" someone called from behind.
"Coming right back." He didn't turn around, already striding down the stairs.
The escalator was too slow. He took the emergency stairs directly, two steps at a time, his boots echoing crisply on the metal steps. When he reached the first floor of the atrium, she was already in line at information booth C-4, her back to him, looking down at the rotating holographic course catalog above.
He slowed down. Suddenly, a hint of uncertainty crossed his mind.
What was he going to say?
Hey, remember me? The bastard who dumped you in Willow Creek, promised to come back, and then broke his promise? Surprise, I'm practically royalty now.
Smooth sailing indeed.
But just then, she slightly turned her head, scanning the crowd—her eyes met his precisely across the thirty-meter-wide throng.
Time began its slow-motion replay, like something out of a novel.
Ava's expression flashed through her mind: calm → slight frown → pupils dilating suddenly → shock → then instantly sealed off by the high wall of indifference she had built around herself.
Ethan felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest.
She recognized him instantly. Without a second's hesitation. Without that "Wait, isn't this..." kind of hesitation.
She was just... angry.
Not the kind of anger that involves screaming and smashing things. It was a quiet, dangerous anger, the kind that had already decided you weren't worth wasting your energy on.
Ethan still walked over.
The crowd automatically parted for him—his uniform, his posture, that invisible "halo of nobility." Whispers followed behind him: "That's Harrington." "The Deputy Secretary of State's son." "That guy's ridiculously rich."
Ava didn't move. She just watched him approach, arms crossed, chin slightly raised.
He stopped two steps away from her.
"Hey." His voice was steadyer than she'd expected.
Ava's hazel-green eyes narrowed. "Ethan."
One word. Flat. No warmth. No surprise. Nothing.
"You're here." He gestured around. "Gifford High School. Big scene."
Her gaze swept over the silver stars on his black uniform, his gleaming boots, the gold embroidery, then returned to his face. "Looks like some people take the fast track. Others have to crawl."
Another stab.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. "I looked for you. After I left. I messaged your old contact number. Didn't come back, but—"
"The number was reclaimed." She interrupted. "Willow Creek doesn't keep old, useless numbers. A waste of resources."
Yes. Of course.
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Because…everything." Ava stared at him for a long time. Then she shrugged—a crisp, dismissive gesture. "Old stuff. We're not kids anymore."
"No." He agreed. "We aren't." Silence descended like a heavy force field.
Guiding drones buzzed around, distributing timetables. A group of freshmen nearby suddenly burst into laughter at something on a tablet. Life went on as usual, while two ghosts from a desolate asteroid faced off.
Finally, Ava spoke first. "What do you want, Ethan?"
A direct question. Classic Ava.
"I…" He paused, "I wanted to see how you were doing. Need any help. It's tough here… for someone from the outskirts."
Her lips twitched—not a laugh, more like she'd heard a bad joke. "I can manage. Worse since you left."
That was a harsher insult than anything else.
Ethan's facial muscles twitched. "You're right."
She shifted her feet, glancing at the increasingly shorter line behind her. "I need to get my schedule. If you're done—"
"Wait." He took a half-step forward, lowering his voice so she could hear, "Everything I said at the spaceport, I did afterwards. Every single one. Except… the first one." Ava's jaw tightened. She looked up at the holographic nebula floating overhead, then back at him.
"You don't need to explain to me," she said softly. "Six years later, it's unnecessary."
"Maybe I owe you more explanations," he said softly. "Maybe I owe you far more than this."
For a fleeting moment, a crack appeared in her eyes. Not softening—it wasn't that simple—but a glimpse of the Ava from years ago. The girl who once spent three hours teaching a spoiled inner-zone prince how to start a gravity motorcycle with scrap wire, because "you can't do without me."
She exhaled a long breath. "Listen, this place is big. We won't bump into each other every day. You live your upperclassman life—gravity team captain, social queen, and all that. I'll live mine. There's no need to dredge up the past. Let the past stay in the past." Ethan looked closely at her face. The scar. That stubborn mouth. That armor-like self-protection.
He wanted to argue. To say, "No, we can't let it stay in the past." To grab her wrist again, like in the spaceport, and force her to listen.
But he just slowly nodded.
"Okay," he said, "if that's what you think."
"Yes."
She turned to rejoin the queue.
"Ava."
She stopped. Not completely back, but enough for him to see her profile.
He met her eyes again.
"I'm glad you're here," he said simply, honestly, "even if you hate me for it."
Her gaze lingered on his face for a beat longer than necessary.
Then she gave him a very light, almost imperceptible nod.
"Goodbye, Harrington."
She walked into the crowd. Tall, straight, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum.
Ethan watched her disappear into the newborn tide.
His heart was still pounding—intense, foolish, a living feeling he hadn't felt in years.
He smiled. Small. Dangerous. Like the smile of a man who, amidst easily attainable victories across the galaxy, suddenly discovers the only challenge worth pursuing.
Because six years later, Ava Hayes,
was no longer just a survivor.
She was radiant.
Ethan Harrington was finally about to learn—some things cannot be bought, coaxed, or seized with money, charm, or power.
He turned and walked towards the escalator, already planning his next move.
The holographic nebula above continued its indifferent rotation, breathtakingly beautiful.
In the crowd, the girl from Willow Creek stood tall, striding towards her future.
And three stories above, the boy from the Core World felt something real awakening within his chest for the first time.