Senior year teaching building, the last class of evening self-study.
Lin Yue lay on the desk, his face pressed against the cold tabletop, his eyelids fighting for ten minutes.
"Lin Yue!"
The math teacher's voice rang in my ears like thunder.
He raised his head suddenly, and more than fifty pairs of eyes in the class looked over. The derivative question on the blackboard has not yet been wiped off, and chalk dust is floating under the fluorescent lamp.
"Come up here and finish this question."
Lin Yue stood up, his legs were a little numb. He glanced at the blackboard - the penultimate question, the finale.
Rustling laughter echoed in the classroom.
"Teacher," he scratched his head, "I don't know how."
"No? You can't sleep?" The math teacher pushed up his glasses, "Stand and listen."
Lin Yue leaned against the wall resignedly, his eyes drifting out of the window habitually.
Then he froze.
There was a person standing on the roof of the teaching building opposite.
No, that's not right.
It was human-shaped, but the body was twisted—like a water-soaked painting, its outline swaying in the wind. Its limbs were stretched very long, hanging on the outside of the building, but its head was turned 180 degrees, facing this way.
Lin Yue's pupils suddenly shrank
