After anchoring in the bay for a night, the Snowfield Ship set sail again, heading toward Canada. The plan was to officially enter the Arctic’s Northwest Passage via the Bering Strait.
Song Yu woke up unusually early that morning. The seasickness was bad enough, but now her migraine had flared up too. She threw up again in the bathroom, her stomach churning with acid.
Wu Yue was still asleep, smacking her lips just like Kasi, who also mumbled in her dreams.
Song Yu didn’t turn on the light or draw the curtains, not wanting to wake her. But she couldn’t just sit there in the room either, so she grabbed her camera and slipped out quietly.
As she pulled on her jacket, she felt the Old Man Puppet in her pocket. Over the past year, she’d taken it everywhere with her, rarely letting it out of her sight.
She pulled it out. In the dim light, the old man’s hollow eyes seemed even more eerie.
She stared at it for a long time before tossing it casually onto the table and heading out without a backward glance.
A thick fog blanketed the deck that morning, visibility low. Sunrise photos were probably off the table.
The heavy mist clung to her cheeks like dew.
The Snowfield Ship crawled along at a snail’s pace, like a frail old man trembling through the Bering Strait.
Suddenly, Song Yu recalled something Kasi had asked her long ago: Were the Native Americans’ ancestors from Asia?
Thousands of years back, they might have crossed this once-frozen strait, step by step, to reach the Americas.
Even at its narrowest point between continents, the Bering Strait spanned thirty-five kilometers.
They’d trudged on through hunger and cold, pushing forward across fog-shrouded glaciers without a clear path—like dandelion seeds drifting on the wind—until they finally took root on the American continent.
The Snowfield Ship’s coffee shop was crowded that morning.
The professors sat in their usual spots, reading or chatting idly.
The place had only one staffer: a young crew member in his early twenties whom everyone called Xiao Chi. He had dyed blond hair and a carefree slacker vibe, never seeming too serious.
He didn’t stick around the coffee shop full-time, though. When there was heavy deck work, he’d head out. His coffee skills weren’t great either, so the pickier folks just helped themselves.
When Pei Zhi walked in, he saw Xiao Chi busy clearing out the garbage from the night before.
He went over and patted his shoulder. “Sorry about that. We borrowed the coffee shop for some gaming last night.”
Xiao Chi rummaged through the bin, dumping dry trash into another empty bag. “No big deal. Gotta sort it all eventually anyway.”
Garbage sorting was strict on the Snowfield Ship.
Expedition Team members handled their own room trash, but public areas were the crew’s job.
“What game were you guys playing?” Xiao Chi asked.
“League of Legends.”
Pei Zhi grabbed a coffee cup from the shelf, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and started a pour-over with practiced, unhurried motions.
“Hit me up next time you fire it up,” Xiao Chi said, puffing out his chest. “I’m killer at it.”
Pei Zhi couldn’t help thinking of the night before—Song Yu, lips pale from puking, still desperate to win. He rubbed his brow. Too intense; better pass.
Just then, the captain strode in, naval cap tucked under his arm. His voice boomed. “Hey, Captain Pei making coffee himself? Whip me up a cup too.”
Pei Zhi gave him a flat look, poured exactly one cup’s worth, and slid it across the counter. “Make your own.”
The captain jammed the cap on his head, adjusted it, and freed up his hands for a self-serve. He joked, “Come on, mine never tastes as good as yours. Getting a cup from you is like pulling teeth.”
Xiao Chi wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist and started to stand. “Boss, let me brew you one. I’ve got this new blend—tastes great.”
The captain flinched, nearly dropping his cup, and waved him off frantically. “Nah, you’re good. Keep at it.”
Last time he’d tried Xiao Chi’s salted egg yolk vanilla latte, the flavor was etched into his tongue and guts forever.
A bit deflated, Xiao Chi crouched back down to finish sorting.
Not much trash in the bin—mostly soiled tissues.
Xiao Chi flipped through it efficiently, but halfway down, he spotted a crumpled photo.
The photo was dimly lit, the background a dark cave.
A man held an old kerosene lamp, a silver six-pointed star earring dangling from his left ear. The yellowish glow lit his face, accentuating his sharp features and chiseled jawline.
He tilted his head back, eyes bright as polished obsidian, gazing at something unseen.
Xiao Chi turned the photo over and over, frowning as he slowly stood. His gaze drifted to the window seat.
Pei Zhi sat there, sipping his coffee, lounging back in the chair.
The captain was chuckling about something; Pei Zhi leaned in to listen, responding halfheartedly, tapping his index finger on the cup’s rim, looking only mildly engaged.
Xiao Chi walked over with the photo, holding it up next to Pei Zhi’s face for comparison. He said suspiciously, “Captain Pei, I found this pic in the trash. This guy—isn’t that you?”
Pei Zhi blinked, taking the photo. He recognized the shot instantly.
It was clearly a candid snap—the photographer’s pinky finger had slipped into the bottom right corner, slender and pale as jade, nail faintly pink like a seashell.
“…”
Pei Zhi stared at it, quickly piecing together where it came from.
Xiao Chi peeked over since he wasn’t reacting. “Right? Skin’s a tad darker, hair’s longer, but otherwise identical.”
“What’s the pic?” The captain crowded in for a look.
Pei Zhi pressed his lips together, flipped the photo over, and pocketed it in his jacket. “Nothing to see. It’s mine.”
“Where’d you find it?” he asked.
Xiao Chi jerked his thumb. “Trash bin.”
Pei Zhi: “…”
Xiao Chi added, “Be more careful next time. Lucky it was me who fished it out for you.”
The captain, who hadn’t glimpsed it, pried. “What’s the big secret?”
He snapped his fingers at Xiao Chi. “Spill—what’s he look like in it?”
Xiao Chi thought back, tilting his head with a grin. “Way handsomer than Captain Pei now, total manly vibe.”
“What’re you saying—Captain Pei ain’t handsome?” The captain clamped a big hand on Xiao Chi’s blond mop and ruffled it, teasing. “Rookie doesn’t know jack about manly. Don’t embarrass me in tomorrow’s basketball game, or if the Ship Crew Team loses to the Expedition Team again this year, I’ll have no face left.”
Xiao Chi squirmed but couldn’t break free. “Don’t worry, Boss. I got you.”
“Damn straight. Lock down Pei Zhi—he’s the only real player on the Expedition Team. Shut him down, and we win.”
The captain and Xiao Chi huddled excitedly, whispering dirty tricks.
Pei Zhi sat silently off to the side, hand in his pocket, index finger tracing the photo’s creases.
His pupils darkened, lost in thought.
The Snowfield Ship had all the amenities, but being at sea meant no internet, no signal—cut off from the world. Evening entertainment was scarce.
The basketball friendly had become a staple of polar expeditions.
Teams formed by departments: big groups like the Ship Crew Team and Expedition Team fielded their own; smaller ones like maintenance and the galley teamed up. Six teams total.
But the Ship Crew vs. Expedition Team matchup always stole the show.
Not long after dinner, Wu Yue dragged Song Yu out.
Wu Yue had changed and suddenly remembered something. She’d only put on one shoe and hopped back from the entryway, rummaging in the cabinet for a sparkly cheerleader pom-pom. “Almost forgot this.”
“Take lots of pics later, okay? Extra ones of my Senior Brother. Oh, and Captain Pei too.” Wu Yue grinned. “His photos sell like hotcakes to the undergrads.”
“…”
Song Yu’s finger paused on the keyboard, lashes lowering. “I still need to sort photos a bit. Why don’t you go? I’m not big on basketball—wouldn’t get it anyway.”
Wu Yue tugged on her other boot. “Come on, just for the fun. It’s a blast, and we gotta cheer ’em on.”
“The rest of the Expedition Team are all introverts—won’t chant or anything. We’d lose the vibe to those crew guys.”
Song Yu: “…”
That made her want to go even less.
“Come on, you’ll be bored in here anyway. Hurry up!” Wu Yue prodded eagerly.
With no escape, Song Yu shut her laptop, grabbed her camera, and headed out.
The basketball court was on the fourth deck, a snug single-court space—no room for more.
Halfway down the corridor, Wu Yue smacked her forehead. “That’s it—I forgot something. The USB I borrowed from Senior Brother yesterday. Supposed to give it back today.”
“You go ahead. I’ll grab it and catch up.” She shoved the colorful pom-pom into Song Yu’s arms. “Hold this for me too.”
She pointed ahead. “Left at the corridor end, first door’s the entrance.”
Song Yu watched Wu Yue dash off, shaking her head helplessly before turning toward the court.
The corridor split at the end; left was a gray door.
Song Yu turned the handle and pushed it open.
The room was dimly lit by a low-wattage incandescent bulb that cast a hazy gray pallor over everything.
Rows of metal lockers stretched into the distance. Some doors hung ajar, with clothes, jackets, and towels dangling inside, swaying gently with the ship’s rocking motion.
Behind one half-open locker door stood a man, visible only from a pair of black sneakers and a length of long, toned leg. Even that glimpse hinted at a perfectly proportioned build.
Song Yu froze for a moment, realizing she must have taken a wrong turn. Wu Yue really had no sense of left from right.
Just then, the man seemed to notice the sound of the door opening and her movement. He used his elbow to swing the locker door shut.
He was halfway through changing, his black T-shirt trapped beneath a red basketball jersey bunched at his waist, exposing the lowest pair of abdominal muscles. His stomach was flat, the muscle lines tight and solid.
Pei Zhi lifted his eyelids lazily and glanced over. Surprise flickered in his eyes as they met Song Yu’s gaze, but he quickly pulled the jersey the rest of the way on.
Their eyes locked.
For an instant, they stood frozen in awkward silence.
Song Yu frowned. She hadn’t expected to run into him.
She pressed her lips together without a word and turned to leave.
“Wait a second.” The man’s low voice came from behind her.
Pei Zhi strode over.
Song Yu tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her eyes filled with wariness and distance.
Pei Zhi’s attention fell on the handball clutched in her arms. He raised a brow and asked casually, “Here to cheer me on?”
Song Yu had no idea when he’d become so full of himself. She pursed her lips. “Dream on. This is Wu Yue’s.”
“Oh, right,” Pei Zhi replied offhandedly.
Song Yu glanced at her watch, looking impatient. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”
Pei Zhi stared into her eyes, reading the resistance there.
He pressed his thin lips together. After a long moment, he fished something out of the pocket of his basketball shorts. “It’s nothing much. I just wanted to ask—is this yours? Why toss it?”
Song Yu’s gaze lifted to the photo he held out, wondering how he’d managed to retrieve it.
She met his eyes directly, neither confirming nor denying. “Isn’t it normal to throw out a bad shot?”
The corner of Pei Zhi’s mouth quirked up. He drawled, “You didn’t toss it earlier. Why now?”
Song Yu caught the softening in his tone and found it amusing. There was no point pretending otherwise.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly. “To make up now?”
Pei Zhi gazed at her and decided to be direct as well. “At least we could talk properly.” His expression was earnest, free of the indifference he’d shown before.
For some reason, ever since they’d parted ways in the rainforest, Pei Zhi had been nursing a grudge. But the moment he saw Song Yu standing before him, that stubborn anger evaporated. He couldn’t muster even a spark of resentment toward her.
Song Yu didn’t move to take the photo.
After a long pause, she finally spoke. “I went back to the rainforest looking for you all.”
Pei Zhi’s pupils contracted slightly. He frowned at her.
“It was a few days after the fire, when the smoke was so thick that no pilots would fly in.” She’d pulled every string she had just to get there.
By the time she reached the tribe’s old location, nothing remained but scorched earth.
For safety’s sake, the pilot hadn’t even landed.
God only knew how badly she’d wanted to leap from the helicopter at the sight of that wasteland.
Pei Zhi stood stunned, at a loss for words. He hadn’t realized she’d come back.
Song Yu’s gaze shifted to the photo. The man in it had sharp, handsome features, and the copper six-pointed star earring lent him a wild, carefree air.
She suddenly remembered the dream from the night before.
It had been filled with dense, heavy dark green—the impenetrable undergrowth of the rainforest where no light pierced through.
Then the green was stained blood-red, twisted by serpents of flame, until it crumbled to ash, leaving nothing behind.
This past year, she’d been heartbroken too. But because she’d left first, it had all become her fault.
If Pei Zhi had only told her sooner, she might not have said those things. She might not have left so abruptly.
As time passed, she’d thought less and less about what had happened in the rainforest.
To her, that whole ordeal was like a nasty flu. Now that her body’s defenses had finally kicked in, it was time to recover.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
“How are Kasi and Takwar?” Song Yu asked.
Pei Zhi replied slowly, “They’re fine. They moved deeper into the rainforest before the fire could reach them.”
Song Yu nodded. “That’s good.”
“But Pating died,” she said softly.
Pei Zhi watched her, his heart twisting painfully.