The bell did not stop at three.
It kept tolling, low and patient, and Zhou Mu stood very still before the open door with his own crossed-out name lying beneath his finger, and for three full seconds nobody in that packed, silent hall dared to breathe loud enough to break whatever moment was happening in front of them.
Then Zhou Mu closed the ledger.
He did it gently — the way a person closed a book they intended to open again, not one they were finished with. He set it down on the lectern, squared its edges with both hands until it sat perfectly parallel to the wood, and when he looked up again, the strange, unmoored expression that had crossed his face a moment ago was gone. In its place was the same composed, unbothered calm he'd worn for seventeen days straight.
"Zhou Mu—" Lin Yue started.
