Fu Jing Rong said nothing.
Dr. Liang sat back slightly and observed him.
"You're still running on sheer willpower."
Fu Jing Rong finally glanced at him. "Is that a diagnosis?"
"It's a warning," Dr. Liang replied. "Now—"
His eyes flicked to Fu Jing Rong's abdomen.
"How's the wound on your stomach?"
Fu Jing Rong's expression shifted slightly.
He looked down as if he had just remembered it.
The old injury.
A shard of steel had pierced him there in the crash.
He hadn't paid it much attention—too preoccupied with the overwhelming need to find her.
He pulled up his shirt.
Dr. Liang let out a small, sharp breath.
There it was.
A thick, jagged scar running along his left side.
The skin around it looked strained, the stitching had long dissolved, but the wound hadn't entirely healed.
It looked angry. Raw.
It pulsed faintly with each of Fu Jing Rong's breaths.
Dr. Liang reached forward without asking and examined it gently.
"You've been bleeding here," he muttered.
