An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

Tyler knelt on the dorm floor, knees pressed against the linoleum, fingers trembling as they hovered over the shattered remains of his laptop. The screen was cracked like dry earth, the keyboard torn up like someone had raked nails through it. He kept pressing the power button anyway—over and over—because what else could he do?
Next to him, Peng was crouched low, swearing furiously at the orange cat pacing guiltily in the corner.
“Jesus, Big O—you little menace,” Peng snapped, then turned to Tyler. “Don’t panic, man. We’ll find someone who fixes this stuff. Maybe the data can be salvaged.”

But they all knew.
Even if they sent it to the manufacturer, it was a lost cause.
There was nothing to save.
Across the room, Rui stood ghost-pale, sweeping up broken plastic and fragments of screen into a dustpan, as if trying to make the damage less real.
Tyler stayed kneeling, silent. Each press of the power button was a quiet act of desperation. He knew it was useless—but he couldn’t stop.

Then Shane’s voice came through the phone from where it lay beside them on speaker.
“Tyler,” Shane said calmly, “put me on speaker.”
Tyler didn’t move.

“What's going on?” Shane asked.
Peng and Rui took turns filling him in—stumbling through details, each sentence more hopeless than the last.
When they finished, Shane’s voice came again, sharper now.
“Don’t touch anything else. Not the laptop. Not the pieces. Leave it all exactly as it is.”

Peng blinked. “Wait, what? Shane—are you saying this wasn’t the cat?”
It looked like the cat—Big O had gotten in through the open window, after all. Everyone assumed it was just one chaotic accident.
But Shane’s voice was low and deliberate. “No. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were destroying.”

Tyler flinched.
There was a beat of silence.
“Tyler,” Shane said softly, “don’t be afraid. Help is already on its way.”

 
He wasn’t lying.
Ten minutes later, two police officers arrived with a security guard, followed by a student advisor, a resident director, and the student life coordinator himself.
The hallway filled with whispers. Doors cracked open. Curious faces peeked out.
It was enough noise and commotion to make the interviews easier. Everyone had seen something. Everyone had questions.

Eventually, the three of them—Tyler, Peng, and Rui—ended up sitting on the edge of a bare bed in an unused dorm room, backs against the cinderblock wall. Exhausted.
Peng rested his head on his hand. “If it wasn’t the cat… then someone really did this. Deliberately. To stop us from submitting.”
Rui’s expression was grim. “The timing’s too perfect.”
Less than twenty-four hours until the submission deadline.
Even if they worked all night, there was no way to remake a full animated short from scratch.

Tyler tucked his head against his knees, eyes hidden, voice muffled when he finally spoke for the first time that night.
“I’m thinking…”
Peng leaned in, ready for names, for blame.

But Tyler said, “I’m thinking if there’s… any way to fix it. Even a little. If we could submit something else, maybe…”
His thoughts were a blur. The police had already started piecing together the scene.
It wasn’t the cat.
Tyler knew that now.
He even had a sinking feeling about who it might’ve been.
But none of that mattered right now.

He had to swallow all of it—the fury, the shame, the helplessness—because what mattered most was the deadline. Tomorrow afternoon. And the fact that six people’s work might vanish if they didn’t find a way.
His phone buzzed.
Shane Xie: I’ve arranged backup laptops.

Tyler stared at the message.
How did he…?
Before he could respond, someone knocked. The door creaked open.

Two more teammates entered. They didn’t live on this floor, but word had spread.
Tyler sat up, guilt pressing on his chest. He opened his # Nоvеlight # mouth to apologize—but they were faster.
“Ty,” one of them said gently, “don’t beat yourself up. The police will figure it out.”

“Can you even stay in that dorm tonight? If not, come crash with us for a few days.”
Tyler blinked. “But the contest…”
This wasn’t just a contest—it was their whole semester, their work, their vision.

One of them nodded. “I’ve still got some early assets on my desktop. Maybe we can rework them.”
The other added, “None of us want to back out. We’ll find a way. We just have to start now.”
Rui sat up straighter. “If it’s a special circumstance, maybe we can ask for an extension. Two days? We’ll explain everything.”

Tyler’s phone buzzed again.
It was a text from their other teammate, a girl who must’ve borrowed someone else’s phone:
[Class Rep, I just heard. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out together.]

[I can’t get into your dorm now, but I’ll meet you first thing in the computer lab tomorrow.]
Tyler’s throat tightened.
His vision blurred.
They were… all still here.
No one had walked away.

The door opened again.
This time it was Mr. Ye, their advisor.
He didn’t mince words.

The police would handle the investigation.
As for the competition—he’d talk to the organizers himself.
He believed, given the circumstances, they could negotiate a deadline extension.
Everyone lit up.

Peng, emboldened, blurted, “Do you think we could ask the lab supervisor to keep the computer lab open overnight? We could start now.”
Ye hesitated. “That’s a management issue. Probably not something they’ll approve so quickly…”
Tyler’s chest thumped. His fingers moved fast, texting again.

Tyler: Can we borrow your place tonight? For the project. They want to start now.
Shane replied instantly.
Tyler looked up at the advisor. “Mr. Ye… my friend says we can use his computers. Right now. His place is open.”

A collective gasp.
Everyone turned to the advisor, hopeful voices overlapping.
Mr. Ye weighed the risk. Then made a call.

When he came back, he nodded.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t waste this momentum.”
 
Tyler was the last one out the door.
He stepped outside—and froze.

Shane was waiting under the amber glow of the streetlight.
He stood straight, wrapped in a black coat, the collar turned up against the breeze. There was a quiet stillness to him, a presence that belonged more to an older man than a college student.
The moment Tyler saw him, his eyes burned.
He wanted to run to him, say it all in one breath:
It’s ruined. All of it. They wrecked everything.
But also—
They stayed. No one quit. Everyone’s still trying.

He wanted to say it.
But instead, he bit it down.
And stood there, holding it all in his chest.
He didn’t have time to cry.
No space to fall apart.
No breath to spare on how scared or overwhelmed or grateful he felt.

All Tyler could do was bite down hard on his lip and look at Shane.
Really look at him.
Shane strode forward without hesitation. Right in front of the others, he wrapped his arms around Tyler and held him tight.

“Don’t be scared,” he said.
Tyler trembled. He couldn’t help it.
“You... why are you here?” he mumbled, eyes catching on the pale clouds of Shane’s breath. “It’s freezing.”
The winter air was damp and sharp, cutting through their coats, lingering in their bones.

Shane gave a small nod to the others behind Tyler before turning back to him.
“I figured your place wouldn’t be big enough,” he said. “So I arranged for a studio. You can all work there.”
“I’ll take you now.”

Tyler blinked, following as Shane led the way out of the building. “But… I only texted you ten minutes ago.”
Ten minutes wouldn’t have even been enough for Shane to get from his place to the university gate.
“I came earlier,” Shane said.

“What?”
“I guessed you wouldn’t be able to wait. That you’d want to start tonight.”
He paused. Then, softer: “So I came to pick you up.”

Tyler’s chest constricted again. He could barely breathe.
“Don’t be scared,” Shane repeated.
Tyler swallowed hard and nodded, wordless.
There was no room left inside him for anything else.

 
The “studio” Shane mentioned was just a few floors down from Tyler’s apartment.
The computers were already set up. The internet was fast. There were blankets in the spare room and snacks in the kitchen.
No one had the energy to ask questions. There wasn’t time for curiosity. They simply moved, fast and focused, dumping every saved asset onto the hard drives, arguing over what to salvage.

Half an hour later, they had a plan.
Still animation. Shorten the run time. Keep the core story. Use static panels where full animation had once been. Cut the transitions. Rebuild what they could.
Everyone split tasks.

They slept in shifts on couches and spare beds. When someone’s energy flagged, they’d take a few bites of milk-drenched cookies from the kitchen before jumping back in.
When something got stuck, they crowded around one screen and talked it through.
By sunrise, they’d finished a ten-second animated segment.

For a bunch of first-years, it was nothing short of a miracle.
Eyes bloodshot, shoulders aching, they looked at those ten seconds like it was a lifeline.
Just two more days. That was all they needed.
Morning light crawled through the windows.

Peng and Rui had collapsed—one snoring over a keyboard, the other curled on the rug.
Another teammate had passed out on the couch.
Even the energy of youth had its limits.
Only Tyler was still up, eyes burning, working on the last frame with trembling fingers. Every click of the mouse was deliberate, every second earned.

He didn’t even hear Shane come up behind him.
“Alright,” Shane said gently, “get some sleep.”
“Just a little more,” Tyler muttered, his voice hoarse.

“Sleep,” Shane said again, firmer this time.
Tyler didn’t answer.
A beat passed. Then Shane said softly, “Did you forget? You’re contractually obligated to stay healthy.”

Tyler froze.
Oh. Right. The contract.
He shut his eyes, barely holding himself up. “Right…”

And then, more dreamily: “Y’know… it almost feels like that contract was a lie…”
He didn’t even know what he meant. The words just slipped out.
By the time they did, his head had already drooped forward—out cold.

Shane sighed, stepped forward, and lifted him in both arms. Tyler’s body went slack, curled into him like instinct. Shane carried him to the couch and gently laid him down.
 
At first light, their last teammate—the girl who’d sent the message—arrived from campus.
All six of them worked like hell for the next three days.

They pushed to the edge of exhaustion, stopping only to eat or crash for a handful of hours.
By the final afternoon, on the absolute deadline the advisor had negotiated for them, they were done.
They burned the files onto a disc, sprinted it over to the judges’ office, and waited until someone confirmed: Received.

Only then did the breath leave them. Shoulders sagged. Jaws unclenched.
“We made it,” someone whispered.
“Oh my god,” Rui moaned. “I didn’t even try this hard for finals.”

“I’m gonna sleep for, like, three days. Unless it’s mealtime—then wake me.”
They were exhausted, yes.
But their eyes still glittered.
Not one of them—not one—had said a single word of complaint to Tyler.

Rui clapped Tyler on the shoulder. “We made it, man.”
“I think version two’s actually kind of good.”
Peng leaned into Tyler’s side. “Hey, Fish. You’ve been quiet for days. Can you say something now? I think we’re all worried you forgot how to talk.”

It was true. Since the moment the hard drive shattered, Tyler hadn’t said anything that didn’t involve work.
His mouth twitched.
“…Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Thank you. All of you.”

Peng clicked his tongue. “That’s not what we meant. This was everyone’s mess. Why were you carrying it alone?”
Tyler opened his mouth, then shut it again.
No words.

Just then, Peng looked up and whistled. “Well. Guess we’re not needed anymore—look who’s here.”
Tyler turned.
Shane was standing at the edge of the courtyard, framed by the old red-brick wall and bare winter branches. He looked the same as always—back straight, coat dark, calm.

But to Tyler, at that moment, he looked like the one safe thing in the world.
He stopped walking.
Then he took two steps.
And then he ran.
Ran straight into Shane’s arms, burying his face in Shane’s shoulder with a sound that cracked straight down the middle.

Peng made a quick hush gesture to the others and led them away, down another path, silent.
So there, in the quiet between leafless trees and aging brick, Tyler finally broke.
The sound of his crying filled the space—ragged, breathless, impossible to contain.

Shane held him tightly and murmured in his ear, over and over:
“It’s okay now. It’s over.”
“The police are handling it. They’ll find out who did it.”

“There’ll be consequences. They won’t get away with it.”
Tyler shook his head against Shane’s chest. “I know… I know…”
“But that’s not it…”

Shane stilled.
He understood.
Tyler wasn’t crying over broken hardware or sabotaged work or unfairness.
He never cried over things like that.

And sure enough, Tyler choked out:
“Everyone… everyone was so good…”
“They worked so hard… didn’t stop…”

“Teachers, classmates…”
“No one gave up… no one blamed me…”
“I just—”
“I just—”
“I’m so damn lucky I got to meet them…”

Shane didn’t say a word.
He just stroked Tyler’s back, slow and steady, and held him even closer.
Held the boy who’d never once let himself fall apart—until now.