CHAPTER 25
The steam clings to the walls, slow and thick, as if it refused to leave the place where our bodies surrendered to each other. The scent of hot water mixes with her skin, with mine, with the sweat of everything we've just done. There's no sound except the dripping water over us. Everything else has gone quiet. No words are needed.
I step out of the shower and tie a towel around my waist. She stays inside a few seconds longer, as if the warmth of the water protected her better than my arms ever could. But eventually, she steps out, and the sight of her steals the air from my lungs.
Yiran is soaked. Her wet hair falls down her back, strands clinging to her face like ink lines on ancient parchment. Her body glistens like a cursed treasure. I see the marks I've left today and yesterday: the bite on her neck, the pressure of my fingers on her thighs, the reddish shadows along her ribs. Wounds without blood. Mine. All mine.
I don't speak. I don't need to. I take a clean towel and step closer. I dry her shoulders first. Then her arms, one by one, sliding the cotton cloth over her skin like a silent prayer. Her body trembles, but she doesn't move away. She lets me. She gives in. That alone crack something inside me.
I wrap her completely in another towel. I cover her entirely. I don't want her to be cold. I don't want the air to touch her before I do. I lift her into my arms, and she stays limp, her head resting on my chest. I carry her to the bedroom and gently set her in front of the vanity mirror. She doesn't resist. She's exhausted—not just from the day she's had, but because of me.
She stays silent while watching me through the mirror. And I... I stay there. In her eyes, in that reflection that feels more real than the world.
"Where do you keep your pajamas?" I ask, my voice low, still rough with desire.
She lifts her hand and points to a drawer in the wardrobe. It's not a command. It's a concession. A simple gesture that still tightens my chest. I walk to the wardrobe, open the drawer, and what I find makes me stop for a second.
Panties folded with precision. Lace bras, some soft cotton, others with little bows in the center. Delicate fabrics. Pale colors. The kind of lingerie worn by a woman who, without knowing it, has inhabited my darkest, dirtiest, most honest thoughts.
I take a pair of ivory panties and a lightweight cotton pajama—soft, with three buttons at the neckline. Light grey. Untouched. I return to her. She's still silent. Still unmoving.
"Stand up," I ask.
She rises, slowly. Still wrapped in the towel. When she lets it fall, there's nothing lascivious about it. Just the certainty that she no longer has to fear me.
I, on the other hand, am trembling inside.
I kneel with panties in my hand. Lift her right foot, then the left, and slide them up slowly. The fabric grazes her marked skin, that curve branded into my memory. I adjust the waistband gently around her hips. She doesn't shiver, but I know she felt it.
I pick up the pajama pants. I help her put them on the same way—slow, silent, not clumsy, but without rush. As if I were dressing a sleeping empress.
Then the top. I undo the three buttons with care. She waits, motionless. I lean in and pull the garment over her head. Her face disappears for a moment under the cotton, and when it reappears, her hair slightly tousled, her gaze surrendered, something breaks inside me again. I help her slide her arms into the sleeves and let the fabric fall on its own over her torso, covering her. The pajama rests over her chest, her stomach, her hips... and seeing her like this, clothed by my hands, shakes me more than any nakedness.
She sits again.
I remain standing behind her, breathing slowly, with everything I feel burning inside like sacred fire. I grab the hairdryer and plug it in. The soft hum fills the room. She doesn't move. I begin to dry her hair.
First with my fingers, separating the damp strands. Then with the brush. Step by step. Each time the warm air touches her nape or back, I feel farther from the world. Because this moment is mine. Only mine. No one else has seen this. No one else will ever know. Just me.
We look at each other through the mirror. We say nothing. But we say everything. When her hair is dry, I smooth it with my fingers. I lean in. I kiss the top of her head. Then her neck. Not with lust. Not this time. This is something else. This is surrender.
I lift her gently. I carry her to bed, lay her down, tuck the sheets around her as if they were petals, and just as I'm about to pull away, she stretches out her arms. She grabs me by the neck. Pulls me in and kisses me.
A slow kiss. Warm and sweet. A kiss that doesn't ask. It offers. I look at her. She smiles at me with her eyes.
"I'll be right back," I whisper.
She nods, and I step away. From the door, I watch her for a few seconds more. The image pierces me like an arrow. Then I turn and leave. Because tonight... I want to feed her too.
I walk down the hallway as if carrying a promise inside me. I'm not hungry. I'm not tired. But there's a need crawling through me with the same force as thirst: I want to see her eat something made by my hands.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge calmly. I find rice in a ceramic bowl, still fresh. Chopped vegetables, slices of chicken on a tray—she probably planned to cook something quick before bed and didn't have time.
I didn't let her. Because when I arrived, she had to be mine again.
I put water to boil with ginger and a bit of salt. I add scallions and a touch of sesame. While the rice bubbles in the pot, I cut the chicken into thin strips, brown it in sesame oil with some soy sauce and a hint of garlic. The smells wrap around me like a memory. Like a recollection I didn't know I had. It's been years since I cooked for anyone. My hands have been used too long for punishing, commanding, killing. And yet now they slice carrots as if they were jade. They sauté with care. They stir the ladle gently, disarming me. As if they weren't mine anymore.
I serve everything into two deep bowls and place them on a wooden tray. Two pairs of chopsticks, two napkins, and two glasses of warm water. No frills. None needed. The gesture is everything. Because feeding someone in silence is an act of love stronger than any word. And I have no words. Not for her. Not for this.
I return to the bedroom.
She's not asleep. She's sat up. Watching me from bed like she's been waiting all this time. Her legs folded beneath her, pajamas slightly wrinkled, hair falling over her shoulders with a natural ease that squeezes my chest. I approach, place the tray on the low table, and without a word, offer her the smaller bowl.
"Did you make this?" she asks, with a faint smile.
"What did you expect? That I'd call a chef?"
She lowers her gaze, smiling. Not mockingly. With something close to tenderness. She takes the bowl in her hands as if trying to warm herself. Blows. Tastes a little of the ginger broth. Her eyes closed.
"It's delicious."
"Of course," I reply, without arrogance.
I sit beside her with my bowl, but before I can reach for the chopsticks, she takes them from me. Looks at me. And without a word, blows on a spoonful and offers it to me.
"You too," she says softly.
And I don't know what to do. No one has ever fed me before. Not as a child. Not as a boy. Not now. I've shared drinks, stolen meat, and dirty silver, but never this. I open my mouth and eat, while something inside me shatters.
We eat slowly, in silence. As if the world had stopped around us. Sometimes our fingers brush. Sometimes her lips curve like she's about to say something, though she never does. It doesn't matter. Because there are moments when words are unnecessary.
When she finishes, she hands me her empty bowl. I take it, and she picks up a napkin. With gentle movements, she wipes a bit of broth from the corner of my mouth, as if I were someone who deserved that kind of care.
"Thank you," I whisper. Not for the food. For existing.
She nods. Doesn't reply. I clear everything away without rushing. Then I return to the bedroom to find her lying on her side, watching me. Her face half-hidden by loose hair, her lips still moist, her chest rising and falling slowly.
"Get some rest," I say. My voice isn't a command.
It's a plea disguised as routine. But she understands. Yiran nods. She sits up slightly. And before I leave, her voice reaches me:
"Be careful."
I stop, but I don't turn around. I don't need to. Because with those two words, she's touched a place no one had ever reached.
"Always," I murmur.
And then I do leave. Because tonight, even if she sleeps alone… she knows I'm still by her side.
CHAPTER 26
I don't know why I'm nervous. My hand doesn't shake when I pull a trigger. I don't flinch at the sound of a gunshot. I don't bow my head in front of blood or death. But now, with her on the other side of the door, I find myself waiting. What am I waiting for? For her to be beautiful? For her to prove what I've been told? To disappoint me? To have cruel eyes or a voice like ice? I don't know. All I know is that my leg pulses beneath the cane, as if it knows I'm not here today because of pain.
I got her name from a waitress with a trembling voice and a sharp memory. She told me about the car. Said a woman pulled a blood-covered man out the back door of the pub, and the license plate was the only thing she could remember clearly. That clue was enough. The rest was routine: surveillance, cross-checking data, an anonymous visit to hospital records. And here I am. Sitting in a waiting room that smells of bleach, among white walls and flickering fluorescent tubes, surrounded by people who have no idea who I am or why I'm here.
A mother soothes her coughing child. A man dozes in the corner. A nurse scribbles something without lifting her head. Everything is mundane. Too simple for what's about to happen. But maybe that's exactly what unsettles me—the normality. The brutal contrast between her world and mine. There are no threats here. No shouting. Just soft footsteps and doors that open with a quiet click.
"Mr. Yu Jin."
I don't recognize her because I've heard her before. I recognize her because her voice sounds exactly as I imagined. Firm without being harsh. Soft without fragility. I look up, and there she is.
Doctor Wan.
She's young. Younger than I expected. A calm face, no makeup. Her hair tied back simply. The white coat drapes over her body without concealing or exalting it. But it's not her beauty that strikes me. It's the absence of judgment in her eyes. She looks at me like any other man seeking help. As if she doesn't know what I carry. And something tells me that even if she did, she'd still look at me the same way.
"Would you come with me?"
I try to stand, but I let my leg falter for a second. The cane slips slightly. She steps in without hesitation and offers her arm. Not with pity or fear, but naturally. With a gentle steadiness, she knows exactly how much weight she can carry without causing harm. I accept it. I walk beside her without a word. I don't know if it's her arm holding me up or my desire for that gesture never ends.
The room is small and orderly. An examination table, a chair, a desk with a few papers. She reads the intake report the nurse left: sharp leg pain, no recent trauma. Then she sets it aside, puts on gloves, and turns toward me.
"Please have a seat on the table. I'd like to examine the affected area."
I obey. Sit down with feigned awkwardness. She doesn't waste time. Kneels, pulls my pant leg up to the knee. Her fingers move with skill. She grabs a jar of cream and begins applying it in circular motions. Technical, precise—but there's something more. She touches with respect. As if she knows this wound isn't just damaged flesh, but history.
"How long have you been feeling the pain?"
"A few days now," I reply. "Got worse last night."
A lie, delivered just right.
"Any prior intervention?"
"Yes. Years ago."
"What happened?"
I could say anything. A fall, a sports injury. But I want to see how she reacts, so I tell the truth.
"I was hit with an iron bar."
She looks up. Her eyes meet mine. There's no hollow pity. No horror. Only a clean kind of sadness. A silent sorrow. As if the pain I endured could somehow hurt her too.
"I'm sorry."
Two words. Sincere. Undramatic. That hurts more.
She spreads the cream with her fingertips. No shaking, no hesitation. The contact is light, but enough to awaken something that isn't desire—vulnerability. The sudden awareness that no one has touched me like this in… I don't even remember when. Not with fear, not with urgency. Just with the intent to soothe. That surprises me.
Now I get it. I understand why she saved Shi Tong. It wasn't out of pity or duty. It's because she can't help it. Because some people run into the fire without asking who's burning. Because she can't look at someone bleeding out and just walk away.
"I suppose you've seen worse wounds," I murmur.
She looks me straight in the eye.
"Wounds can't be compared. They only matter what a person has suffered."
I close my eyes for a moment. Try to shield myself from her words, from her touch, from her voice. Suddenly, I hate myself. I hate that it wasn't me bleeding that night. Because for a second—just one—I wish I had been the one lying there. So her hands could have held me. So, her voice would've been the one I heard as I was saved.
But it wasn't me she saved. It was the only person I want dead.
*****
I don't say a word as I get into the taxi. The driver watches me through the rearview mirror, waiting for the address with the quiet impatience of someone who thinks all destinations are the same, but I only murmur:
"Dongzhimen."
Beijing surrounds me with its usual breath: humid, dirty, dense like smoke you no longer feel in your lungs because you've breathed it too long. But something in me has changed. The city is the same: a beast of buildings and flickering lights. Only this time… it's watching me. And not from the outside—but from within.
I lean my forehead against the window. Rain slides down the glass like it's trying to erase what just happened. But it can't wash away the feel of her hands, the tone of her voice, or that look that, without meaning to, opened a crack where there should've been nothing.
I grip the cane. The metal handle is cold, but that's not what makes me tremble. It's not pain. Not even rage. It's something worse: a fissure. Small, silent, but real. And it's spreading—right at the center of what I always believed to be safe.
Yiran…
I knew her name, her face, even the hospital where she worked. I found it all out. I did it the way I always do: following trails, buying silence, pressuring the right people. But no matter how much I was told about her, it wasn't enough. Not until I saw her. Not until I heard her say my false name with that clear voice, free of judgment.
That was when I understood what no one could explain: why she saved Shi Tong. What kind of woman leaps into the abyss without looking at who she's pulling out. What kind of doctor crosses a line even many criminals fear to touch.
She touched me as if she didn't see the poison under my skin. She looked at me as if she could heal me. Not with medicine. Not with scalpels. With something far more dangerous: compassion.
"Are there times of day when the pain feels unbearable?" she asked, her voice clear, steady, without drama.
There was no disgust in her gaze. No fear. Only that damn tenderness. That human touch no one had dared to offer me since childhood was ripped out of me like a rotten root.
The taxi drives down an avenue I could navigate blindfolded. Yet this time I'm not thinking about escape routes, or settling scores, or new ways to kill. I'm thinking about her, kneeling with the same calm she had when she offered me her arm. Not out of weakness, but because she knew it was the right thing to do.
I could make a call right now. I could order her to be followed and get updates every three minutes. I could have all the footage I want of her… But I won't. Because if I—who haven't trembled in over a decade—felt that tremor in her hands… who's to say one of mine wouldn't feel it too? I don't want other eyes on her. I won't allow another gaze to touch her. Not even professionally. This is mine. Only mine. A secret so delicate the world would devour it with pleasure—like it devours all things pure.
As the car enters the Dongzhimen overpass, a thought bites into me with the insistence of an unwelcome truth:
Why isn't she protected?
I saw no bodyguards. No shadows in the halls. No eyes stationed at corners. Not a single sign that Shi Tong surrounds her with security like he would any treasure he considered his. Does he not know someone could kill her just for saving him? Or does he know… and not care? Or is he watching her from afar, as I do now?
Each possibility poisons me in a different way. If he doesn't protect her, he's a fool. If he does and I didn't notice, then I'm the fool. But if he guards her so subtly that even I can't detect it… then I've lost control. And that's something I never forgive.
The taxi stops. I say nothing. I get out in silence, limping slightly beneath the rusted awning that crowns my den. A sign flickers above me like a drunken eye that never sleeps. No one asks questions here. No one enters unless they want to disappear.
I look up at the sky before crossing the threshold. The rain has stopped. But the storm… hasn't begun yet.
I will return to the hospital. Not because my leg hurts. Not because I need a diagnosis. I'll go back because I need to know if what I saw in her was real. If that compassion was sincere… or just a mask for something even more dangerous.
And if one day I discover that she didn't save him out of duty, but out of love… then next time her fingers touch me, I may not hold back. Because the heart of a monster doesn't beat. But sometimes… it breathes.
CHAPTER 27
Sometimes, what hurts most isn't absence.
It's the routine that goes on, as if the world doesn't know someone is missing. But my body knows. It feels it in the cold hollow of the bed, in the way I still reach for his warmth upon waking, in the involuntary shiver when the wind brushes the exact places where his hands used to rest. My body knows he's gone—in the way my skin tingles for no reason, in how my fingers hesitate over a second cup of tea that won't be drunk, in the tremble of my lashes when my eyes linger every night on the door, hoping for a return that never comes.
It's been twenty days since I last saw him.
I don't mark the calendar. I don't count the days. But my body remembers them with cruel precision. No messages. No sign. Not a word to tell me if he's still alive. And yet… I wait. I didn't ask where he was going. I didn't demand answers. Because I know who I'm dealing with. Because from the very start, I understood that loving Shi Tong meant accepting the abyss, the shadow, the silence. But understanding it doesn't make it any less devastating.
I move through the house with the same stillness he used when he left. I fold the sheets without a sound. I water the plants. I leave the living room window open, even though the breeze cuts my skin. He used to lean out of it before he left, as if he could measure the world from there… or say goodbye without words.
The kettle whistles. I pour the water over the tea leaves. I know this cup won't be his. I close my eyes. For a second, I see him again in the kitchen—bare chest, damp hair, firm fingers holding a bowl of rice, watching me like nothing else mattered.
The television is off. I don't want voices, or distractions, or canned laughter mimicking a life that isn't mine. Only the echo of his footsteps still lives here—in the corners, in the rug, in the clothes I haven't fully washed. I'm not his wife. I'm not his lover. I'm simply the place he returns to… if he survives.
I still carry on my skin some of the marks he left. The ones only I can see, the ones that burn every time I take a deep breath and don't find him. Outside, a siren cuts the air like a blade. My back tenses. What if it's him?What if this time… he doesn't come back? I have no way of knowing. No one will come to tell me. I have no right to demand it. I can only stay here… waiting.
At the hospital, life doesn't ask permission. It crashes in like a flood—like an avalanche of broken bodies, of screams tearing through hallways, of silences heavier than heartbeats. Every day I sign certificates that declare someone won't be waking up again. Every day I watch mothers collapse, wives empty themselves in sobs, children cling to lifeless bodies. I've learned to hold my gaze when death passes beside me. Sometimes it brushes past. Sometimes it goes right through. But since Shi Tong disappeared, every death hurts a little more.
There are days when men come in with stab wounds, bullet wounds, vengeance wounds. None of them are him. And yet, every time the ER doors burst open, my heart contracts as if expecting to see his body roll in on a stretcher. And every time it's not him… I break a little more.
I don't say it. I don't show it. I swallow fear like bitter medicine. Because loving a man like him is like loving a fire. You can't get close without being burned.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing pieces of myself. If I'm slowly fading. How long can someone live like this? How many more nights can I sit in front of an empty window before falling apart? I never asked him for promises or certainty, because I know what he is.
What we have isn't ordinary.
I can't call him when I'm afraid. I can't share with him the good or the terrible parts of my days. All I can do is wait. Wait without knowing if I'm waiting for the living… or the dead. He doesn't belong to my world. And I… I'm starting to vanish from mine.
My coworkers at the hospital watch me with the silent unease of those who sense a change but don't understand it. They ask if I'm okay, if I'm tired, if I need more time off. Some offer to cover my shifts. Others invite me out for coffee, which I never accept. They don't understand why I've grown quieter, more distant, why my smile no longer reaches my eyes. They don't know my body belongs to someone who appears on no form, that my heart beats for a man who can't be in my life without endangering it. No one knows. And maybe… that's what makes it real.
I dialed the supervisor's number at noon. I meant to ask for more shifts—to bury myself in routine like a life raft. But I didn't complete the call. I let it ring twice and hung up. Because if I fully return to that world, if my hands are filled with other lives… and he comes back—I won't be there. I won't see him walk in with that way of his, sliding through reality without noise, without permission, as if life itself owed him a place in my home. In me.
What will I do if he returns… and I'm not here?
I tell myself I must be strong. That I'm not a teenager waiting for midnight texts, not a woman begging for attention. I repeat that if he's alive and wants to see me, he will. That love doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. But that conviction, which should bring me peace, is just a quiet lie I whisper to myself to keep from breaking. Because the truth is… I don't know how to live without his shadow.
I walk to the balcony. The night air cuts through me like a warning, like a question without an answer. Beijing glows under the streetlamps, full of indifference, as if the city knows nothing of absences or waiting. No one here pauses for anyone. Not even for those we love most.
And I'm surprised, just for a moment, by who I've become. A woman with degrees, with independence, with strength—reduced to a sigh at the edge of a closed door. And yet, I'm not ashamed of what I feel. Because this love that hurts isn't weakness—it's courage. Loyalty without witnesses. It's a form of faith that needs no proof, no comfort. It's silence… full of meaning.
I take a deep breath and go to the bedroom. I turn off the lights without thinking, without making a sound. I lie down in my silk nightgown. Even though I'm certain he won't come tonight, I'll wait for him—like every night.
The world may forget his name. The city may go on beating without him. But my body… doesn't forget.
CHAPTER 28
I hadn't planned to return so soon, but I couldn't help it—not since the memory of her fingers on my leg started chasing me like a fever that won't break, like an invisible burn that leaves no mark but scorches just the same.
I walk slowly down the hallway—not from pain, but by strategy. Yes, the leg aches, but no more than usual. And the cane, though necessary since my bones were shattered, serves today as another excuse—to feign more weakness than I feel. Because in this city, no one looks twice at someone who already seems defeated. No one stops for a man who limps with a grimace of pain he barely bothers to hide.
The receptionist is new. Younger. More distracted. She hands me a clipboard without even glancing up. Her gesture is automatic, empty of attention—the movement of someone who repeats the same task dozens of times a day. She points to a chair along the wall, and I sit without looking at anyone. Around me, an old man dozes in a light sleep, a feverish child stares wide-eyed, a woman fidgets with the zipper of her purse like she's looking for a certainty she once lost inside. None of that matters. My eyes are fixed on that white door that opens now and then like a nervous eyelid, as if the hospital itself is breathing with caution.
And then I hear her.
"Mr. Yu Jin."
Her voice hasn't changed in the three weeks since. Still clear, firm, calm. No artificial sweetness, no surgical coldness. I look up—and there she is, just as I left her. White coat. Clean face. Steady steps. And that peaceful expression that should soothe me… but instead, destroys me.
I rise with calculated slowness. The cane hits the floor with a practiced rhythm. My mouth twists slightly in a grimace of discomfort. She approaches without hesitation, without asking permission to exist in my space.
"Do you need help?"
"Is it that obvious?" I murmur, unable to stop a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
"Obvious enough not to leave you alone," she replies, naturally offering me her arm.
I take it. And while anyone might think I do it out of politeness, the truth is different. I do it for the touch—for the steady pressure of her fingers on my forearm, for that faint scent rising from the collar of her coat. She wears no perfume. She doesn't need it. Her presence carries a purity that wounds.
"When did the pain return?" she asks as we walk toward the door.
"Since I decided to come back," I answer plainly, letting the words carry everything I can't say aloud.
She doesn't press. Doesn't dig. Just glances sideways at me with the briefest flick of her eyes—as if she already knows this pain has nothing to do with bones or tendons, but another kind of wound altogether.
We reach the room, and she closes the door with a soft click. Inside, everything is as it was last time. She guides me with a precision that isn't deference, but something exact. She gestures toward the edge of the examination table.
"Can you sit?"
"I can do many things," I say, lowering my voice. "Sitting is the least dangerous of them."
She doesn't flinch. Her eyes don't blink. She steps away to wash her hands, pulls on her gloves with the calm, almost ritualistic precision that marks each of her movements.
"Does it hurt more when walking or when putting weight on it?"
"That depends on the moment," I reply. And when her eyes lift to mine with surgical precision that cuts deeper than any scalpel, I add, "Pain can flare up even when I'm at rest."
"That's normal, given the intensity," she says without raising her voice, as if her words need no defense.
She kneels in front of me with professional ease. Takes hold of my leg—not with tenderness, but with a respect for the body. She rolls up my pant leg without asking. Here, she's in charge. And I… I obey.
She slips a towel beneath the leg. The fabric is warm. But not as warm as her hands.
"Last time, I didn't ask how long it's been since your surgery."
"Years," I say. "Though I was so out from the pain, I don't recall if it was done by an expert or a back-alley butcher."
She doesn't respond. Opens a jar of cream and sets it on the tray. Then she begins the treatment. Her fingers move with a precision that's more than technical—it's vocation. Every motion is exact. No excess. No hesitation. Yet there's something else, something not found in medical textbooks. A touch that doesn't try to seduce yet awakens everything that should be asleep in me. A tremble not born of flesh—but of that part I've long pretended doesn't exist.
She doesn't know who I am. Doesn't know how many I've destroyed, how many I've silenced, how many I've condemned. Yet she touches me like I'm still redeemable. Like under the wound… there's something human left. And the worst part is—I let her.
"Are you still taking the anti-inflammatories I prescribed?"
"No," I answer, voice rough. "I prefer the pain."
I say it without thinking—because it's true. Because I have no reason to lie to someone who's touched me with a truth so clean, any defense feels ridiculous. She looks up—and her eyes lock onto mine without a trace of reproach. Only that quiet pause that settles in the chest like an invisible needle… sharper than any judgment.
"Chronic pain doesn't always make you stronger," she says, without raising her voice, as if she knew it long before she ever studied medicine. "Sometimes… it poisons."
And in that moment—right there—something inside me fractures with a muted sound that never reaches my lips, but ripples through my spine like a tremor in the marrow. She lowers her gaze and continues her task as if she hasn't just uttered a sentence that stripped me bare, as if the world keeps spinning while I try to regain my balance. Her fingers keep moving with the same precision, though now each stroke feels like an intimate incursion—dangerous, as if her touch knows more about me than I do, as if it knows exactly where to disarm… and where to remain silent so as not to destroy me completely.
"May I ask you something, doctor?" I whisper, with no intention to provoke, without the arrogance I usually wear to shield myself—just as a man trying to understand why he hasn't been pushed away.
"That depends," she replies calmly, not looking up. "Are you going to lie to me?"
"Not this time."
She nods, gently.
"Then ask."
"Why do you never turn away a patient?"
This time, she does look at me. And in her eyes, there's no surprise, no hesitation. Only that composure that unsettles me, irritates me, fascinates me.
"Because I'm not supposed to," she states.
"Even if he's the most dangerous man in the world?"
"If he needs saving, I don't care who he is, what he's done, or what he might do."
Her words aren't compliments. They're not comfortable. They're certainty. And that's what disarms me the most. Because in her logic, I'm not a threat—not because she doesn't see it, but because somewhere in her view, she believes there's still something worth saving.
Her fingers continue applying the cream with the same calm, the same rhythm. The heat seeps through the glove. And I'm no longer here. I'm somewhere without scars, where her touch means something else. Where I'm not what I've been. And that fantasy hurts more than the truth.
"Has anyone ever told you that you touch like you're not afraid of getting dirty?" I ask, eyes locked on hers.
She blinks, as if processing the phrase before answering.
"No. But no one's told me to stop, either."
And in that moment, I know I'm lost. Because if she knew who I really am—if she had even a glimpse of what lies behind this false name, if she saw one image of my past—she wouldn't be here. She wouldn't be leaning over me. She wouldn't be touching me with a gentleness that's beyond price.
"Is the leg getting better?"
"I don't know," I answer, unblinking. "But you… you're making things worse."
She arches an eyebrow, and for the first time, something in her seems to stir—though she doesn't flinch, doesn't speak. She waits.
"Because I don't know if I want you to heal me… or kill me."
This time, she stops. She picks up a cloth and wipes away the excess cream with slow, meticulous movements, as if silence is part of the treatment. She straightens without a word.
"You need to walk less and more rest."
I want to kiss her. Not because my body demands it. Not out of hunger or lust. But from that desperate need to grasp what shines too close, to tarnish what should never be mine. But I don't. Because if I did… I wouldn't stop. And she doesn't deserve that.
"You may get up slowly," she adds with neutrality, jotting something on the chart. "I recommend applying the cream twice a day and avoiding stress on the joint. The bone is in good condition, but the muscle tension can become a problem if you don't take care."
I watch her as she writes, without blinking, as if her handwriting might offer a way to stay. There's nothing in her that seeks approval. She doesn't smile, doesn't embellish, doesn't sell herself. And yet… she's the most valuable thing I've found in years.
I rise slowly, not entirely pretending this time, and when she turns to hand me the cane, I seize the moment.
I don't take it immediately. I lean forward with a feigned ease, close enough that my nose brushes a strand of her hair. I inhale. Jasmine. Hospital. Something impossible to bottle. A scent that belongs to no perfume. A scent I'll never forget.
She doesn't pull back. Says nothing. Doesn't look away.
And that… is her mistake.
"Thank you, doctor," I whisper, letting my voice slide over her like a poisonous caress.
She doesn't respond. But her gaze remains steady. Clean. As if she still believes I'm not what I really am.
"Be careful on rainy days," she adds just as I turn to leave. "Not just because you might slip when walking, but because it's the kind of weather where pain tends to worsen."
It sounds trivial. But it's not. There's something more in her tone. A warning dressed in courtesy. I take three steps. Stop. Don't turn around. I just let my voice hang in the air like a shadow:
"I hope I never see you again…"
Then I leave. Because if I stay one second longer, I'll do what I mustn't.
CHAPTER 29
The restaurant's private room is on the second floor of an old building, hidden in a discreet corner of the Qianmen district. There are no signs, no flashy lights. Just a carved wooden door adorned with symbols, only a few would know how to decipher. The reservation was made under a different name, as always. No one arrives uninvited. No one leaves without permission.
The air is heavy with soft smoke, warm spices, and strong tobacco. The curtains sway slightly as the breeze slips through the cracks in the windows. A paper lantern hangs from the ceiling like an artificial sun, casting shifting shadows across the faces of my men. It's a warm, comfortable place… and yet, everything about it feels distant to me.
There are twenty-two of us seated around a circular table made of black wood, carved with dragons and lotus flowers. Sun, Zhang, and Dai are in the closest seats; the rest belong to members of the old guard. Men with scars I helped close myself. Brothers not by blood, but by iron. They eat as if there were no tomorrow, drink as if the liquor didn't taste like poison, laugh, argue, toast to business, to healed wounds, to enemies who no longer breathe.
The dishes arrive with ceremonial rhythm: lacquered duck, crispy on the outside and sweet at the center; stir-fried vegetables with ginger and garlic; thin noodles in spicy broth; porcelain cups filled with rice wine. Hands move with ease, wielding chopsticks with the mastery only a long, dirty life on the streets of Beijing can grant.
I haven't touched anything. Not the food. Not the drink. I just watch them, as always, like a guardian in his own temple. They believe these dinners strengthen bonds, that eating together means peace. But I know that a feast can also be a trap.
"A feast is a symbol of power, of unity," I think, fingers crossed over the table. Even if my men are happy, they must not lower their guard. I don't.
Sun talks more than usual. He gets loose-tongued when he drinks and cracks jokes, some of them crude. Zhang, on the other hand, remains silent; he chews slowly, drinks in moderation, and occasionally glances toward the windows. Dai checks his phone discreetly. He's wearing a tiny earpiece. I know him well: he's tracking movement. He always is.
The others don't speak unless I invite them. Not out of fear, but out of respect. The kind forged between broken bones and decisions no one else dared to make. From where I sit, I observe them like pieces on a board only I know how to move. And still, something brushes the back of my neck. A thought I haven't been able to shake for days.
Yiran.
In her home, in her world. In that universe without smoke or blood, where life still holds a meaning, I no longer understand. It's been several months since I met her, and I still wonder if she was the one who saved me… or if she doomed me without knowing it.
I lift my gaze just as someone crosses the room. He's no waiter—it's Mao Zedong, firm and silent. The kind of man who only appears when something truly important happens. His presence cuts the conversation in half like a knife slicing a ripe fruit, silent but precise. Everyone falls quiet. Even Sun sets his cup on the table with almost reverent care, as if he senses the air has changed. Mao doesn't need to speak; his face says it all. He brings news about Liu.
"Boss, I've got information about that bastard," he says at last, with a measured pause, his eyes locked on mine.
He doesn't need to say more. I know. It's not good news.
"Speak," I reply without moving.
"This morning, he was at the lady's hospital. He used a fake name and asked for her specifically. According to the file check, it's the second time he's done this. But this time… he was more direct."
I say nothing. I can't. I don't need to. The moment his words hit my ears, everything else vanishes: the food, the wine, the table, the friends. Only one sentence remains. Just one. Burning with brutal clarity in the center of my skull.
My breathing slows, grows heavier. The porcelain cup in my right-hand shatters. Mao straightens and takes two steps back, saying nothing more. No one asks. No one moves. They all feel it. Something has shifted.
The night is over, though no one has yet stood.
I remain seated a few seconds longer, hands clenched on my knees, as if I could still pretend nothing has happened, as if the taste of the air hadn't changed, as if this night hadn't just rotted all at once. But my men know me. And that's why no one speaks. No one eats. No one drinks. Dinner is dead.
"What else have you found?" I ask without looking at him directly.
"No clear footage. The outside cameras were blocked by a poorly parked vehicle. There's no way to confirm how he left."
I close my eyes. Just for a second. And there it is: the scene I didn't see but can no longer erase. Her fingers on him, her soft voice, her compassion. She… my only fragment of light, touching darkness without knowing.
"Anything else?"
"No."
I nod. That's all I need. I stand. The scrape of the chair against the wood sounds like a blade being drawn. All eyes follow me. No one dares to move. Sun sets his chopsticks down. Zhang watches me with a mix of respect and caution. Dai is already sending messages from his phone.
"Zhang," I say, without raising my voice. "Reinforce the hospital's exits. Cover the secondary entrances. If he comes back, he doesn't leave."
"Understood."
"Dai," I look at him. "I want our men to report what they've seen these past three weeks. Have them locate cameras, find a way to access them."
"I'll take care of it."
And then I walk toward the door. I say nothing more. Only Mao follows me. We descend the hallway together. There is no music. No footsteps behind us. Only the certainty carved into my chest: he's seen her twice.
The first time may have been out of curiosity, to find out who had saved me. But the second time… that had nothing to do with the first. No doubt he's become infatuated with Yiran and wants more of her. Because we all desire what we don't deserve.
He doesn't deserve her—because she's mine…
As I step onto the street, the city air hits me like a blade to the throat. It's cold, dirty, and full of noise. And yet, it reminds me I'm still alive. That I still have breath left to kill.
I open the back door of the black car. Before getting in, I glance up at the sky—so gray it looks ready to collapse over everything.
"Boss…" Mao says, stopping beside me. "We need to find out how he got to the lady."
I look at him without fully turning. No rage. No coldness. Only conviction, engraved in the depths of my eyes.
"That information should've come before the news that son of a bitch was with her."
I get into the car. And as the door shuts behind me, I already know where I'm headed next.