Xingchen finally understood the sudden media reversal declaring him unharmed. Internal strife and external threats had the political climate teetering on a knife's edge.
She met Leng Fei's anxious gaze. "I'll take care of him," she affirmed, her voice steady despite the churning in her stomach.
Leng Fei gave a curt nod and guided her inside. The unassuming exterior hid a meticulously equipped interior, surprisingly spacious. Only a handful of grim-faced security personnel moved through the tense, hushed space, the air thick with unspoken dread.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Where is he?"
"This way." Leng Fei led her towards the solitary bedroom at the end of the hall. He paused outside the heavy oak door, his knuckles poised to knock. "Be prepared," he warned, his voice low. "It's… graphic."
Xingchen steeled herself, drawing a deep, shaky breath. "I'm ready."
But preparation shattered the moment Leng Fei pushed the door open. She stumbled back, a wave of visceral horror hitting her like a physical blow. The metallic tang of blood flooded her senses.
Blood.
So much of it. It soaked the once-pristine sheets, pooled in dark, viscous puddles on the floor, and painted Bai Yeqing's prone figure a grotesque crimson. The sheer, brutal carnage stole her breath. He lay deathly still, his sculpted chest now a horrifying landscape of shredded flesh and raw, exposed tissue. One arm bore a deep gash where fractured bone protruded obscenely against the ruin of muscle.
Her knees buckled, threatening to give way. "How… how could it be this bad?" she whispered, her voice raw. With his security detail… surely…?
"He shielded a child," Leng Fei stated flatly, the stark simplicity of the explanation echoing the terrifying weight of responsibility Bai Yeqing bore.
The truth struck her. Power and peril were inseparable companions for a man like him. President Bai Yeqing, the nation's youngest and most fiercely revered leader, didn't have the luxury of retreat. Only sacrifice. Duty demanded he walk through fire.
A complex surge of emotion washed over Xingchen as she looked at the broken figure on the bloodied bed – profound respect, deep admiration, and a fierce, unexpected gratitude: Dabai's father was forged from this rare, unyielding mettle.
Later, Dr. Fu Yichen emerged, wiping his hands on a stained towel, lines of exhaustion deepening on his face. Xingchen rushed forward. "Doctor? How is he?"
"Unconscious. Injuries this severe guarantee a raging fever tonight." His tone was clipped, professional. "Alcohol rubs – thorough, full body – every few hours. It's critical."
"Understood. Absolutely. Anything else?" Every word felt heavy with responsibility.
"Keep the wounds bone dry. Not a drop of moisture." He scribbled a number onto a scrap of paper. "If this fever hasn't broken by dawn, call me. Immediately."
Xingchen frowned, her gaze darting anxiously towards the closed door. "You're not… staying?" The paralyzing fear of facing this alone, of failing him, tightened her chest.
"Baiyu Plaza is overflowing with casualties. I'm needed urgently. And," he added, his expression grim, "my known association with the President… my prolonged absence would raise dangerous questions."
She understood the terrifying logic, but her helplessness deepened. Dr. Fu departed swiftly. Soon after, Leng Fei and the small team melted away, leaving Xingchen utterly alone with Bai Yeqing. Only the silent, vigilant shadows of security patrolling outside offered a thin illusion of safety.
Taking another steadying breath that did little to calm the tremor in her hands, Xingchen pushed the bedroom door open again.
The room had been transformed. Gone were the blood-soaked sheets and rug. Bai Yeqing lay swathed in stark white bandages, a fragile, pale contrast to the earlier scene of visceral horror. Yet…
The image of that broken chest, the exposed bone, was seared into her mind. Her heart remained clenched, a dull ache of sympathy and worry settling deep within her core.
...
Nightfall brought the predicted crisis. Fever consumed him. His skin burned crimson beneath her tentative touch, sweat plastering dark hair to his temples. His brow furrowed into deep valleys of suffering, his breath ragged and shallow.
Xingchen moved quickly, dampening a cloth with cool water. She pressed it gently to his scorching forehead. The moment her fingers made contact, his breath hitched violently. A hand shot out, fingers clamping around her wrist with feverish, desperate strength.
She froze. His grip trembled violently, fueled by raw, protective instinct rather than conscious power. A single, gentle tug would free her. But she dared not move an inch, terrified of jarring the brutalized landscape of his chest, of hearing that agonized gasp again.
"Shhh," she murmured, her voice as soft and soothing as she could make it. "It's me. Xingchen. You're burning up. I need to help you."
Lost in the haze of delirium and pain, Bai Yeqing heard only a gentle murmur, a cool balm against the searing agony that consumed him. His eyelids fluttered wildly, struggling against the weight of unconsciousness, before finally dragging open. Her face swam into blurry focus, etched with unmistakable, deep concern.
"You?" His voice was a raw scrape, his lips painfully cracked and bleeding. Visible, profound relief washed over his strained features.
"Leng Fei sent me. I'm here to help. Just relax," she urged softly. "I'll be gentle."
His eyes blinked slowly, once, twice, in weary acknowledgment. The fierce, trembling grip on her wrist gradually loosened, his hand falling limply back to the sweat-dampened sheets, utterly spent.
Xingchen adjusted the cool cloth. Then, steeling herself, she picked up the bottle of pungent rubbing alcohol. Her gaze drifted downwards, tracing the lines of bandages across his powerful torso, and a wave of scalding heat flooded her cheeks. His body. Full body.
"Why?" he rasped, sensing her hesitation even though his eyes remained closed, his voice barely audible.
"Dr. Fu… he was very clear… alcohol rubs… for the fever…" Her explanation dwindled to a mortified whisper. "It… it helps bring the temperature down."
His eyes opened, heavy-lidded but sharply aware despite the fever's haze. He took in her evident discomfort, the flush creeping across her neck and cheeks, the way she couldn't quite meet his gaze.
"Give… it here," he managed, summoning monumental effort to stay conscious. His uninjured arm lifted weakly, trembling, towards the bottle on the nightstand. His fingers brushed it clumsily, leaving damp streaks on the glass.
Alarmed, Xingchen seized his hand, guiding it gently but firmly back down. "Stop! You'll tear the stitches! Please, just lie still."
A ghost of a smile touched his bloodless lips. "This… pain… is nothing."
He'd endured countless wounds since his earliest days in military barracks. Gunfire, blades, the relentless lash of brutal training regimes. This was merely another mark on the tally. Survival was the only currency he traded in.
The stark simplicity of his dismissal struck Xingchen like a physical blow, igniting an ache of profound sympathy deep within. He dismissed agony as casually as changing his shirt.
"I'll do it," she stated, her voice firm despite the blush still warming her face. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, her resolve hardening. "You just focus on resting. Don't move. Promise?"
Bai Yeqing watched her, his gaze heavy-lidded but intensely focused. She dipped a cotton ball into the sharp-smelling liquid. With meticulous care, she began: the sensitive dip behind his earlobe, the strong column of his sweat-dampened neck, the sharp, elegant line of his collarbone exposed above the bandages… then lower, towards the unmarred, powerfully defined expanse of his chest.
Her breath hitched. She couldn't do this. Not under that unwavering, assessing gaze. It felt like being slowly roasted alive.
"Close your eyes!" she blurted, her voice thick with embarrassment, unable to meet his look any longer.
If he kept watching her with that unnerving intensity… she genuinely feared she might spontaneously combust from sheer mortification.
Five years ago, they'd shared everything. But that felt like a distant, hazy fever dream, unreal and disconnected from the woman she was now. This?
This was excruciatingly, undeniably real. Awake. And mortifying.