Old Chen had always been the sort of man who could speak as if he were complaining, but every sentence still carried the weight of a decision that had already been made. Standing by the elevator, he patted Xun Yuming's shoulder in a familiar, almost fatherly way and said, "I know you're anxious about the funding. But honestly, the main reason is that kid hasn't made up his mind yet. I need to give him a little push, some incentive, you understand? Don't worry. I'm not going to let your project hang in the air forever. I promise you, once it's approved, the money will go straight to your lab." He lowered his voice, as if the elevator cameras could read lips. "And it just so happens you and he are old classmates. Take this chance. Persuade him to stay with us. If he agrees, everything gets easier. If he doesn't… then you and I will both have headaches."
As if remembering something only after he'd finished the more important part, Old Chen fished around in his pocket and pulled out a business card that looked like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. The edges were frayed, the center creased. He shoved it into Xun Yuming's hand with the casualness of passing someone a receipt, yet the gold foil lettering on the black card made it feel oddly ceremonial. "Oh, right. This is his address. Go there on your day off. It's not far. He used to do consultations in the outpatient building's big lounge, but recently…" Old Chen paused, chewing his words as if he found them amusing. "Recently he had a son. So he's been home all the time. Says he doesn't have time to come over except when he visits his mother."
"Son?"
The single word knocked Xun Yuming out of his careful composure. He stopped so abruptly that the elevator doors, sliding shut at exactly the wrong moment, caught him from the left and pinched his shoulder between them. The pain was mild, but the humiliation of it was immediate, as though even the elevator were mocking him for being stunned by something he had no right to be stunned by.
"Tsk, what are you doing?" Old Chen quickly pressed the door-open button twice, then grabbed Xun Yuming's arm and pulled him inside before the doors could chew on him again. "Are you okay? Didn't get squeezed, did you?"
"No… it's nothing." Xun Yuming kept his head down, one hand instinctively resting on his shoulder where the elevator had clipped him. He stared at the black business card in his palm, the gold letters swimming faintly in his vision, and asked in a voice he tried to keep casual: "Is he… married?"
"Never heard of it." Old Chen shrugged, hands back in his pockets, speaking with the confidence of someone who loved collecting other people's gossip. "I've known his dad for more than ten years. If that kid got married, he'd definitely invite me to the banquet. I haven't heard a single word about a wedding, just him talking about his son, his son, his son." He sighed dramatically, as if lamenting the state of youth. "You young people are really something. You say you're not in a hurry to have kids, then suddenly you have one. Don't date, don't talk, just boom, child. It's worrying…"
Xun Yuming didn't hear the rest.
Somewhere between "son" and "worrying," his mind had gone quiet, as if it had shut a door to avoid making noise. The card in his hand felt heavier than paper should. When he looked up again, the elevator ride had already ended, and at some point , without him clearly remembering how, he had stepped onto an unfamiliar street as if sleepwalking.
The road curved along a hillside, lined with tall plane trees whose leaves overlapped so densely that sunlight filtered through in scattered, coin-sized patches. A green road sign stood beneath one old tree. Xun Yuming slowed, squinted at the words, then at the broader signboard above it.
Mountain Ring Road.
So this was it.
He walked uphill, passing rows of reddish-brown villas that looked expensive in the quiet, understated way of old money. no loud gates, no glittering decorations, only clean lines and heavy silence. He counted doorplates one by one, double-checking the numbers as if afraid the digits might change when he blinked, until he reached a black iron gate.
Roses were in season. Pink and white blooms spilled over the wall in thick clusters, their vines reaching as if they were trying to climb out. Hydrangeas crowded in behind them, lush and unapologetic, the whole yard looking like it had never learned the meaning of restraint. Xun Yuming pressed the doorbell. It rang twice. A moment later, Zhuang Yi's voice came through the intercom: clear, unhurried, as if he'd been expecting him.
"Come in."
The gate clicked open. Xun Yuming pushed it, stepping into a sea of flowers that felt almost too alive. The yard smelled faintly sweet, damp earth and petals warmed by sun. Under a trellis hung with pale violet blossoms, a blue-and-white Munchkin cat lay sprawled on a swing, belly exposed, eyes half-closed, basking like a landlord inspecting his territory. The swing creaked softly when the breeze moved it, and the cat didn't even bother to lift its head.
Xun Yuming followed the stone path through the garden and entered the living room.
Zhuang Yi was on the phone.
He had changed into casual clothes: a dark gray shirt, black trousers, light gray suede slippers. Everything fit him too well, as if even off-duty he still dressed with precision. Years of exercise kept him lean and strong; broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, standing near the floor-to-ceiling window, he looked like a mannequin placed there for display. Hearing the door, he turned slightly, gaze meeting Xun Yuming's with the kind of calm that made other people feel overly emotional by comparison. He pointed toward the navy velvet sofa and said, still on the call, "Sit. Wait a moment."
Xun Yuming sat, but his eyes refused to rest. They roamed the spotless room, scanning for signs of chaos, baby bottles, diapers, toys, anything that matched Old Chen's words. Instead, he found order. Too much order. The floors were so polished they reflected light like shallow water. The furniture sat perfectly aligned, like it had been measured. On the coffee table, a glass vase held roses freshly cut, still beaded with dew. The scene was less "new parent" and more "a man who has time to arrange romance into a vase."
Eight years ago, Zhuang Yi had lived brightly, like a person who could always breathe. Eight years later, he still seemed to. Meanwhile, Xun Yuming walked through hospital corridors carrying rumors like invisible bruises, listening to other people's malice behind stairwell corners, swallowing it because he didn't know how to spit it back.
The contrast made him feel something complicated: a faint comfort that Zhuang Yi was still Zhuang Yi, and a sharp envy that he had never stopped being that way.
Zhuang Yi murmured a few final instructions into the phone and ended the call. Then he walked over, voice neutral, as if this were purely business. "Old Chen sent you?"
"Yes." Xun Yuming stood, feeling strangely formal in his worn shirt and jeans, the folder of documents heavy in his hands. "I'll do the psychological evaluation."
Zhuang Yi nodded once, then turned and walked deeper into the entry corridor. "Come with me."
Where to?
Xun Yuming followed him down the hallway, past doors and framed art and the faint smell of flowers drifting in from outside, until Zhuang Yi stopped before a walnut door and pushed it open.
Behind it was a study.
Three walls were lined with old books, their spines worn from use, not decorative. A large writing desk sat at one end, serious and heavy; at the other end, a sofa and coffee table faced a tall window that let afternoon light spread across the floor in long rectangles. The room looked like a place where people told truths they didn't want to admit.
Xun Yuming moved toward the dark green sofa chair out of instinct, soft surfaces felt safer, but Zhuang Yi's voice stopped him mid-step.
"Sit there," Zhuang Yi said, indicating the chair opposite the desk. "This is an assessment. No need for counseling."
So Xun Yuming straightened, swallowed whatever protest rose in his throat, and sat where he was told. Zhuang Yi opened a drawer, removed a black folder, and took out a thick stack of forms. He set them down in front of Xun Yuming, along with a pen, as if placing surgical tools before an operation. "Fill these out first."
Xun Yuming stared at the thickness and couldn't help asking, "Is filling out a form really enough?" He meant: why did I have to come here? Why not do it at the hospital like any other paperwork? But he already knew the answer. Zhuang Yi wanted control of the space. Control of the process. Control of him.
"Fill it out first," Zhuang Yi repeated, tone unchanging. "I have other things to do."
Then he left, the door remaining slightly ajar.
Xun Yuming turned his head and saw Zhuang Yi's profile at the far end of the corridor. He went into the kitchen, took out a small glass baby bottle, poured in milk powder with practiced movements, added hot water, capped it, and shook it briskly, then walked into the next room.
Xun Yuming froze.
A baby bottle.
So Old Chen hadn't been entirely wrong?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Dean Chen: Xiaoming, don't forget to tell Xiaozhuang about the counseling room.
He turned off the screen, exhaled slowly, and forced his attention to the questionnaire.
It was absurdly long. An A4 stack that felt like it had been designed to exhaust people into honesty. The first pages were basic information, name, gender, education level, current medications, psychiatric history. Then came multiple-choice sections, pages of them, followed by open-ended questions that asked about habits, emotions, stress, relationships. The last pages were for assessment results, professional opinions, and signatures , blank spaces waiting to judge him.
He filled it out line by line, refusing to rush. His handwriting stayed neat, careful, as though if his characters were tidy enough, the answers might be forgiven. By the time he wrote the final word, his watch hand had already pointed to five.
Zhuang Yi came in once during the process, glanced at the half-filled pages, and left without a word neither impatience nor encouragement, only a silent acknowledgment that Xun Yuming was still working.
As the sun sank outside, the study dimmed into a softer light. Xun Yuming finally stood, wrists sore, and stepped out. The living room and corridor were empty. He hesitated, then knocked on the door of the next room, the one Zhuang Yi had disappeared into earlier.
"Come in," Zhuang Yi's voice answered.
Xun Yuming took a breath and opened the door. "I've finished..."
The words caught in his throat.
The room was almost bare. No bed, no sofa. Only two round tent-like nests on the wooden floor, each about the size of a bathtub. Zhuang Yi stood between them, holding a baby bottle in his right hand and in his left, a kitten small enough to fit in his palm, eyes barely open. He was feeding it like it was an infant, the bottle tipped carefully, his movements surprisingly gentle.
"Put it there," Zhuang Yi said, nodding toward a surface. "I can't free my hands. It'll be ready soon."
Xun Yuming stepped forward with the folder, then blinked, startled by the sudden ridiculousness of what he was seeing. "Ah… is this your son?"
"Hm?" Zhuang Yi turned his head and smiled faintly, the expression brief like a flash of sunlight through clouds. "Who told you that?"
"Dean Chen did," Xun Yuming admitted, and the tension in his shoulders loosened without his permission. The relief was immediate and almost embarrassing. "He said you were home taking care of your son. I thought… you really had one. I was about to congratulate you."
Zhuang Yi didn't answer. His smile faded back into neutrality.
Xun Yuming cleared his throat, eyes darting to the tents. "Seven… in total?"
"The stray cat in the neighborhood died after giving birth," Zhuang Yi explained quietly. "Left seven kittens. My cat brought them back."
The kitten in his hand was so small it looked unreal, like a toy that had come to life. Its fur was gray-blue, its little head round, and it sucked greedily, mewing in complaint whenever the bottle shifted. Xun Yuming reached out and touched the top of its head lightly. The kitten squinted as if enjoying it. Xun Yuming couldn't help murmuring, "Its hair looks like a buzz cut. That's… kind of funny."
"That's enough," Zhuang Yi said, tone returning to business. He set the kitten back into the tent, tucked a blanket over it, and covered the bottle's tip as if sealing away softness. "Let's go."
Back in the study, Zhuang Yi's demeanor changed the moment he sat behind the desk. The casual tenderness from the kitten room vanished. His posture straightened. His eyes sharpened. The warmth disappeared so thoroughly it felt like a mask had been removed.
He flipped through the questionnaire, pencil in hand, and asked the first question without preamble.
"Do you drink often?"
Xun Yuming's gaze lifted automatically and collided with Zhuang Yi's eyes.
They were too clear, too direct, like beams that pinned him in place. Under that gaze, Xun Yuming's instinct was to retreat. He looked away almost immediately, fixing his attention on a watercolor painting hanging on the wall, green forest, layered brushstrokes, calm. He forced his voice to sound casual. "Not often. Depends what you mean by 'often.'"
Zhuang Yi didn't let him hide in definitions.
"How often?" His tone remained calm, but the insistence was unyielding. "Three times a week? Five? And how much each time?"
Xun Yuming's cheek felt hot where Zhuang Yi's gaze seemed to rest, like physical weight. He swallowed, still staring at the painting, trying to keep his voice steady. "Maybe… one cup a day," he admitted. Then, softer, almost as if confessing to a crime: "Sometimes vodka. Sometimes… juniper."