Chapter 119: The Sky Is Falling
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic, sharp and clean, but it couldn't mask the fragility in the air. Dr. Xin lay in the bed, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. His once-vigorous frame had withered overnight—high cheekbones jutted beneath papery skin, and his snow-white beard, usually neatly trimmed, now looked unkempt. He'd survived the emergency, but the fight had drained him, leaving him looking a decade older, as if the life had been siphoned out in one cruel rush.
A middle-aged man paced the room, his footsteps heavy on the linoleum floor. Xin Chengji, Beitian's vice mayor, stopped beside the bed, his broad shoulders tense. "Dad, why?" he said, his voice loud but frayed, more plea than accusation. "I've told you a hundred times—we don't need the money. You don't have to work these shifts, rushing to emergencies at your age. But you never listen. Now look at you."
Dr. Xin's eyes fluttered open, clouded but sharp. "It's not about money, Chengji," he said, his voice thin as thread. "It's about *living*. While I can still hold a scalpel, while I can still save a life… I have to."
Xin Chengji sank into the chair beside the bed, his posture rigid. At fifty, he cut an imposing figure—broad-shouldered, with a jawline chiseled like granite and thick eyebrows that gave him a perpetually stern look. His blue suit, tailored to perfection, screamed authority, but in this room, he looked smaller, almost boyish. He'd served seven years in the military, rising to battalion commander before a injury forced him to retire. Politics had been a second act, a decades-long climb to vice mayor, but nothing—no battle, no budget crisis—had ever scared him like seeing his father like this.
He'd lost his mother when he was ten, raised by Dr. Xin alone. His father had worked double shifts to put him through school, skipping meals to pay for textbooks, all while volunteering at free clinics on weekends. To see that man—gentle, selfless—broken by thugs? It made Xin Chengji's blood boil.
"But those *animals*," he muttered, his fist slamming into the bedside table. The IV stand rattled. "They made you bleed, Dad. Over what? A kid overdosing outside their stupid club? They should rot in prison."
Dr. Xin's expression hardened. "Chengji. Your tone—"
"I know, I know," Xin Chengji said, softening. He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It's just… seeing you like this. I want to burn that place to the ground."
His father's laugh was a dry cough. "And then what? You'd be no better than them. You're vice mayor. You have to set an example. This country wasn't built on revenge."
Xin Chengji looked away. He'd heard this lecture before. His father, a man who'd treated war refugees in his youth, who'd refused bribes and honored his Hippocratic oath even when it cost him promotions—he believed in justice, not vengeance. But Xin Chengji had learned in the military: some enemies only understood force.
"You talk about setting examples," he said, "but half the officials in this city are too busy lining their pockets to care about people like you. They let places like Eastern Coast thrive. They look the other way while thugs beat up old men."
Dr. Xin closed his eyes, weary. "Then *fix it*. Do your job. Root out the rot. But don't stoop to their level." He paused, then added, "I don't have much time left, Chengji. Don't waste yours on anger."
Xin Chengji stood, pressing a kiss to his father's forehead. "Rest. I'll handle this."
Outside the ward, the corridor hummed with activity—nurses rushing by, visitors murmuring, the distant beep of monitors. Waiting for him was Director Hu, the hospital's chief administrator, a portly man with a perpetually worried expression. He jumped when he saw Xin Chengji, straightening his lab coat. "Mayor Xin, I—"
Xin Chengji's gaze turned icy. "My father. Explain."
Director Hu paled. "It's a misunderstanding, sir. We never meant—"
"Spare me," Xin Chengji said. "He's seventy. He shouldn't be rushing to emergencies at nightclubs. Why was he there?"
"Your father insisted," Director Hu said, wringing his hands. "We got a call—young man overdosing outside Eastern Coast, seizures, critical. I tried to send a team, but Dr. Xin said, 'No, I know how to handle this.' He was always stubborn about helping. You know that."
Xin Chengji's jaw tightened. He *did* know. His father had a gift for crisis—calm under pressure, quick with a diagnosis. It was why he'd refused to retire.
"Let's talk in your office," he said.
Director Hu led him down the hall to a tidy room, its walls lined with diplomas and photos of Hu shaking hands with officials. He poured tea, his hands trembling, then gestured to the couch. "Old Xin, this is bigger than it looks. Those guards… they didn't just insult your father. They—"
"Spit it out."
Hu nodded to his assistant, who slipped out and returned with three people: the doctor and two paramedics who'd accompanied Dr. Xin. They stood at attention, faces tight.
"Tell him," Hu said.
The doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Mayor Xin, we arrived to find the young man on the ground, foaming at the mouth. Dr. Xin started treatment—stabilized his heart, administered benzos for the seizures. Then four guards from Eastern Coast showed up. Drunk, aggressive. They kicked the kid, called him slurs. When Dr. Xin tried to stop them… they turned on him."
He hesitated, then added, "They said… terrible things. Called him a fraud, said he was 'too old to get it up,' that his 'son was a bastard.'"
The paramedics nodded, their voices small. "They said he should 'stick to nursing homes' and 'stop pretending to be a hero.'"
Xin Chengji's knuckles whitened. He'd dealt with corruption, with greed, with incompetence—but never with such *viciousness*. To insult a man who'd dedicated his life to healing? To drag his son into it?
"Eastern Coast," he said, his voice low. "Who runs it?"
"Qian Baocui, sir," Director Hu said. "He's… well-connected. Owns half the nightlife in Beitian."
Xin Chengji stood, draining his tea in one gulp. "Get me everything you have on him. Police reports, permits, tax records. And find those guards. I want them in custody by morning."
Director Hu nodded, relief flooding his face. "Yes, sir. Right away."
As Xin Chengji headed for the door, he paused. "And Hu? Keep my father comfortable. No more emergencies. Not ever."
"Of course, Mayor."
In the corridor, Xin Chengji pulled out his phone, dialing his chief of staff. "Li, get me the police report on the Eastern Coast incident. And dig up everything on Qian Baocui—businesses, associates, political ties. I want it on my desk by dawn."
He stared out the hospital window, at the skyline of Beitian—tall buildings, bright lights, a city that prided itself on progress. But beneath the shine, rot festered.
His father was right: anger wouldn't fix this. But justice would.
Qian Baocui had made a mistake. He'd hurt the wrong man.
And Xin Chengji was going to make him regret it.
The sky, he thought, was about to fall—on Eastern Coast, on Qian Baocui, and on anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.