There was only one person in the dorm room, so it seemed that David Clark was the second to arrive. That guy was busy cleaning the dorm; his bed and desk were both neat and spotless, almost to the point of being obsessive-compulsive. David Clark felt a headache coming on—it looked like the good old days of piling up a whole basin of dirty socks were gone for good. That guy looked about the same as David Clark, very average, nowhere near handsome or stylish, but he didn’t make people uncomfortable either. He was just a bit shorter than David Clark, but still fair-skinned and clean, wearing a pair of half-rim glasses—a typical southerner. When he saw David Clark, he stopped what he was doing and greeted him enthusiastically, “My name is Frank Thompson, I’m from Shanghai. And you are?”

“David Clark, from Tangshan, Hebei,” David Clark replied with a smile. He’d heard that people from Shanghai liked to treat outsiders as country bumpkins, but that didn’t seem to be the case—at least this roommate Frank Thompson’s enthusiasm didn’t feel like a PR act. David Clark could tell as much; after all, he’d started working odd jobs at a subsidiary of the Zhao family business every school break since high school, so he’d had some exposure to society. Plus, with the influence of his family and his wild, mixed-up high school years, whether or not he was mature in his understanding of human nature was debatable, but at least he wasn’t naive.

“That’s an interesting name. Great, from now on we’re bunkmates.” Frank Thompson grinned. “Go ahead and put your stuff away, I’ll finish cleaning the bathroom. I’m almost done. When I first got here, it was like a pigsty—the previous seniors really had no manners.”

David Clark didn’t have much luggage. Besides the straw mat and quilt he got from the school, all his belongings fit into a single outdated phone stuffed in his pocket and a cheap suitcase containing three sets of clothes, two pairs of canvas shoes, and a pair of flip-flops. The bulk of the suitcase was taken up by seven or eight well-worn German textbooks—big and heavy. The only valuable item was an IBM laptop, as tough as his phone, which could be fished out of a cesspit, dried off, and still work fine. His old IBM wasn’t flashy, but it was reliable; some of its professional functions still ran smoothly even now. In this, he was the complete opposite of his Apple-fanatic younger brother.

“Frank Thompson, is there a supermarket near the dorm?” David Clark planned to go downstairs to buy some pots, pans, and maybe some cheap underwear and other basics.

“Yeah, go downstairs, turn right, and walk straight ahead. There’s a small commercial street over there—they sell everything, but it’s a total rip-off. They’re more ruthless than butchers. It’s best to bring your own stuff.” Frank Thompson poked his head out of the bathroom, looking indignant. Apparently, he was still upset about forgetting to bring toothpaste and getting ripped off at the shady supermarket. Clearly, he’d already counted David Clark, who would be sleeping in the bunk above him, as a comrade-in-arms. “I’ll go down with you and help you haggle, so you don’t get fleeced.”

“You finish up first. I might just wander around a bit.” David Clark smiled. He’d always been instinctively wary of overly friendly people. Of course, this Frank Thompson was a good guy, but he really couldn’t stand haggling over a few cents or a couple of bucks until his face turned red. He was the type who didn’t mind letting shrewd people take a little advantage of him, as long as he knew what was going on. Losing a bit of money didn’t matter; the important thing was not to be kept in the dark. In business, taking a small step back to make bigger gains was a basic beginner’s trick. As for the details, David Clark always watched coldly from the sidelines, constantly pondering and studying.

Frank Thompson went back to tidying up the new battlefield where he’d spend the next four years. After putting away a few things, David Clark went downstairs to look for the supermarket. As he walked out of the dorm building and pulled out his phone, he saw that Ryan Clark was still rambling on. This standard second-generation rich kid, who had just started eighth grade, was already talking about his life plans—basically, how he and his “Eight-Two Bro” would conquer the world together. David Clark couldn’t help but laugh and scold, “Little chick, if your mom finds out you’re calling me to get close, don’t expect any pocket money this month. That’s it for now—give your mouth a rest, go have some tea, and play your ‘God of War’ like a good boy, or chat with your brainless girlfriends. Aren’t you always bragging that they’re begging you to take their virginity? I don’t have time to talk about dreams with you.”

Actually, Ryan Clark’s nickname was “Pigeon,” but David Clark called him “Little Chick,” which was pretty fitting.

The brat paused for a long time, probably really out of breath, with no more spit to waste. Finally, in a childishly sad voice, he asked softly, “Bro, Shanghai is way hotter than Tangshan. I heard college dorms don’t have air conditioning. Should I secretly mail you one?”

David Clark sighed. He had pretty much watched Ryan Clark grow up bit by bit, but the cold truth was that from the day Ryan Clark was born, that clever but ambitious woman had naturally seen him as a major threat. And from the first time she entered the Zhao family as the lady of the house, David Clark had seen her as an enemy. For more than ten years, they’d just gone through life not seeing eye to eye. So, the not-so-scheming Ryan Clark became the sacrificial lamb caught in the middle. Even now, David Clark was still lukewarm toward him, not nearly as close as he was to his crazy older sister. That was what they called “guilt by association.” But the carefree little Derek Clark never seemed to mind, always sticking to David Clark, following him around, which drove his mother crazy. The little spendthrift got scolded plenty for it.