The Range Rover Sentinel screamed through the night, a black bullet tearing through the rural darkness towards the nearest cluster of lights on Chén Léi's hastily consulted navigation screen – a mid-sized industrial city called Fengtai, fifty kilometers away. Inside, chaos warred with controlled panic.
Qí Hǔ lay sprawled across the back seat, unconscious now, his breathing shallow and ragged. Zhāng Měi knelt beside him, applying desperate pressure to the gash on his ribs with wads of gauze that were rapidly saturating crimson. Her hands were slick with blood, her face pale as porcelain under the harsh dome light, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "Faster, Chen! Faster! He's bleeding too much!" Her voice was a raw scrape, edged with hysteria.
"I'm flooring it, Mei!" Chén Léi growled, the powerful engine roaring in response as he swerved around a lumbering truck, the Sentinel's tires protesting on the damp asphalt. "Wang! Navigation! Best route to the hospital!"
Wáng Jiàn, wedged in the middle seat, his tablet discarded, was expertly inserting an IV line into Qí Hǔ's uninjured arm, his face a mask of intense concentration. A bag of saline solution hung from a makeshift hook on the grab handle, already flowing. "Confirmed. Fengtai Central Hospital. ETA seven minutes. Preparing transfusion kit." His voice was clipped, clinical, the anchor in the storm. "Liú Xīngchén, maintain pressure on the leg wound. Tourniquet is proximal but not yet cinched. Monitor capillary refill."
Liú Xīngchén, her own hands trembling but steadying as she pressed a thick pad against the deep puncture in Qí Hǔ's thigh, nodded mutely. The coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils, mixing with the scent of sweat and fear. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, terrifyingly shallow, his face unnervingly still beneath the streaks of blood and dirt. The fierce warrior who had carved through five assassins in the dark forest was reduced to this broken stillness.
"Sample," Qí Hǔ had rasped before slipping under. Wáng Jiàn had secured the vial containing the strange, iridescent material inside a padded case within his pack. He glanced at it now, a flicker of frustration crossing his normally impassive features. "I cannot analyze this here," he stated, more to himself than the others. "The equipment is rudimentary. We need the Nest. We need Shanghai."
Seven minutes felt like seven lifetimes. Finally, the harsh glow of city lights appeared, then the stark, utilitarian sign for Fengtai Central Hospital Emergency Department. Chén Léi didn't bother with parking; he screeched to a halt directly under the brightly lit ER awning, horn blaring. He was out of the car before it fully stopped, yelling, "GURNEY! EMERGENCY! GUNSHOT! STABBING! NOW!"
Chaos erupted. Orderlies and nurses spilled out, drawn by the blaring horn and Chén Léi's frantic shouts. Zhāng Měi scrambled out of the back, blood staining her expensive hiking pants, still shouting instructions. "He's lost a lot of blood! Multiple wounds! He's unconscious!" Liú Xīngchén helped guide the gurney as it was wheeled frantically towards the open doors, her face hidden behind a hastily donned baseball cap and pulled-up collar, a silent, terrified ghost.
Wáng Jiàn briefed the triage nurse with terrifying efficiency as they rushed inside: "Adult male, multiple penetrating traumas. Probable knife wounds. Torso laceration, deep thigh puncture, blunt force trauma suspected. Significant blood loss. IV saline running. Dislocated finger reduced in field. Allergies unknown." His calm, precise delivery cut through the panic, instantly commanding the medical team's attention.
Qí Hǔ was whisked away through swinging double doors marked 'TRAUMA BAY 1'. The heavy doors slammed shut, leaving the four of them standing in the harsh, fluorescent-lit waiting area – Zhāng Měi trembling and bloodstained, Chén Léi pacing like a caged animal, Wáng Jiàn staring at the closed doors with unnerving focus, Liú Xīngchén leaning against a wall, looking small and lost.
Hours crawled by. They were a grim island in the sterile bustle of the ER. Zhāng Měi refused to sit, refused to wash the blood off her hands. Chén Léi paced relentlessly, radiating angry helplessness. Wáng Jiàn used the hospital's weak Wi-Fi to send encrypted updates to Commissioner Li and his research team in Shanghai, attaching preliminary scans of the vial's contents – data that looked frustratingly alien. Liú Xīngchén sat finally, her head in her hands, the image of Qí Hǔ falling through the car door replaying on a loop behind her closed eyes. The sample, the fight, the blood – it all coalesced into a crushing weight.
Finally, after an eternity, a doctor in green scrubs emerged, looking weary but calm. He approached their anxious huddle. "Family of Qí Hǔ?"
Zhāng Měi surged forward. "Yes! How is he? Is he alive?"
"He's stable," the doctor said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "He came through surgery well. The knife wound to the ribs was deep but missed major organs. We repaired the muscle damage. The thigh puncture was nasty but clean; we irrigated and closed it. The dislocated finger is splinted. He has significant bruising, two cracked ribs, dehydration, and blood loss, but nothing immediately life-threatening. He's a very strong man."
A collective gasp of relief escaped them. Zhāng Měi swayed, tears welling up again, this time of pure gratitude. "Oh, thank god... thank you, Doctor."
"He's heavily sedated and will be for several hours," the doctor continued. "He needs rest, fluids, and antibiotics. We'll move him to a room shortly. You can see him then, but quietly. One at a time initially."
"Can he travel?" Wáng Jiàn asked immediately, his voice low.
The doctor frowned. "Travel? Not for several days. He needs monitoring for infection, and those ribs need time to start healing before any significant movement."
Wáng Jiàn exchanged a look with Chén Léi. The sample, the potential pursuit – staying here was a risk. But moving Qí Hǔ prematurely was a greater one. "Understood," Wáng Jiàn said. "We will ensure he receives the necessary care."
Once Qí Hǔ was settled in a quiet, private room (arranged with unnerving speed, likely courtesy of Commissioner Li's influence), they took turns sitting with him. He looked pale and diminished against the white sheets, tubes snaking from his arm, monitors beeping a steady, reassuring rhythm. But he was breathing. He was alive.
Zhāng Měi sat by his bedside, holding his uninjured hand, whispering fiercely about how stupid he was and how he better not scare her like that again. Chén Léi stood guard by the door, his posture relaxing fractionally now that the immediate danger had passed. Wáng Jiàn used the time to establish a secure connection, his fingers flying over his tablet. Liú Xīngchén stood silently in the corner for her turn, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the unfamiliar vulnerability on his sleeping face etching itself into her memory. The steel was still there, beneath the bandages and the sedation, but it was tempered now by the stark reality of his mortality.
Two days later, against the doctor's initial recommendations but with the promise of private nursing care in Shanghai and Wáng Jiàn's assurances of advanced medical monitoring equipment at the Nest, Qí Hǔ was discharged. He moved stiffly, heavily bandaged, his left arm in a sling to support the cracked ribs, his splinted finger resting awkwardly. He was pale and clearly in pain, but his eyes held their familiar flinty resolve. The Sentinel, cleaned of blood but still bearing the scars of their ordeal, carried them back towards Shanghai, the journey this time subdued, focused on the fragile cargo in the back seat.
The familiar alleyway, smelling of damp stone, stale cooking oil, and the comforting, lingering scent of sandalwood, felt like a haven as Chén Léi parked the Sentinel. They helped Qí Hǔ out – he insisted on walking, though he leaned heavily on Chén Léi's shoulder – and approached the unassuming back door of Qi's Silken Threads.
As Chén Léi pushed the door open, the soft chime of the shop bell sounded. The interior was dim, lit only by the afternoon light filtering through the front display window, illuminating bolts of rich fabric. But the shop wasn't empty.
Standing behind the refurbished counter, meticulously arranging a display of delicate silk embroidery threads, was a young woman. She looked about eighteen, dressed in simple, neat clothes – dark trousers and a cream-colored blouse. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, revealing a face with wide, intelligent eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She looked up as they entered, her expression shifting from concentration to surprise, then to warm recognition as her gaze landed on Qí Hǔ.
"Brother Tiger!" she exclaimed, her voice clear and surprisingly steady despite the shock of seeing him bandaged and leaning on Chén Léi. She hurried out from behind the counter. "You're back! And... oh, you're hurt!" Her eyes darted over his injuries, concern flooding her features.
Qí Hǔ managed a faint, pained smile. "Xiao Yanzi," he rasped. "You're here."
"Of course I'm here!" she said, stepping forward instinctively as if to help support him, then stopping, unsure. "You called, said you needed someone reliable for the shop, starting immediately. I came yesterday, just like you said on the phone. Mrs. Chen next door let me in with the spare key." She glanced nervously at the imposing group surrounding Qí Hǔ – the fashion queen, the tech mogul, the intense detective, and the woman hiding half her face behind a cap and mask.
Qí Hǔ straightened slightly, wincing, but his voice gained a touch more strength. "Good." He gestured weakly with his good hand towards the group. "Everyone, this is Yànzi. Little Swallow. She's… from Harbor Light." He looked at Yànzi. "These are Zhāng Měi, Wáng Jiàn, Chén Léi… and Liú Xīngchén." He didn't elaborate on their roles, but the significance of him introducing them by name, and the mention of the orphanage, wasn't lost on her.
Yànzi's eyes widened slightly, especially at Liú Xīngchén's name, recognition dawning despite the obscured face. She bowed her head respectfully. "Ms. Zhāng, Mr. Wáng, Detective Chén, Ms. Liú. Welcome." Her gaze returned to Qí Hǔ, filled with worry. "Brother Tiger, you need to sit down. Can I get you tea? Water?"
"Tea would be good, Little Swallow," Zhāng Měi said, her voice surprisingly gentle as she took charge, guiding Qí Hǔ towards the worn armchair near the antique loom. "And maybe find the first aid kit? We might need to check his bandages soon."
"Right away!" Yànzi nodded, darting towards the small back room that served as a kitchenette.
As Qí Hǔ sank gratefully into the chair, Zhāng Měi and Chén Léi exchanged a look. Harbor Light. Another thread connecting him to the past he'd tried to leave, now woven into the fabric of their present struggle. Wáng Jiàn gave Yànzi an appraising glance as she returned with a steaming cup, her movements efficient and quiet, before turning towards the hidden panel leading downstairs. "I will commence preliminary analysis of the sample. The clock is critical."
Liú Xīngchén watched Yànzi place the tea carefully beside Qí Hǔ. The girl's presence was calming, competent, a grounding force. She saw the unspoken familiarity between her and Qí Hǔ, the ease born of shared history in that drafty orphanage by the river. The mask of 'Stardust' felt heavy suddenly. "I should go," she murmured, adjusting her face mask. "Rest, Qí Hǔ. I'm... glad you're safe." Her eyes met his for a brief moment, conveying a depth of feeling the mask couldn't hide.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you."
With a final glance at Yànzi, who offered her a small, shy smile, Liú Xīngchén slipped out the back door, disappearing into the alley shadows. Zhāng Měi sighed, exhaustion finally catching up with her. "Right. I need a shower that lasts a year and possibly a gallon of wine. Chen, you staying?"
Chén Léi grunted, pulling up a stool near Qí Hǔ's chair. "Someone needs to keep an eye on the patient. And make sure Little Swallow here doesn't let him try to fix the loom with his teeth." He offered Yànzi a gruff but kind smile.
Yànzi blushed slightly. "I'll make sure he behaves, Detective Chen."
Qí Hǔ closed his eyes, the lines of pain etched deep on his face, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He was home. Bruised, broken, but alive. The shop was tended. The sample was secured. The strange girl from his past was here, a quiet anchor. The threads of his life, frayed and bloodied, were slowly, painfully, being drawn back together. The fight was far from over, but for this moment, surrounded by fragments of his found family – old and new – he could rest. The quiet hum of the shop, the scent of sandalwood and now steeping tea, was the only sound he needed to hear.