WARNING: THIS NOVEL CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEXUAL AND CRIMINAL CONTENT. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ALL THE EMOTIONS YOU MAY EXPERIENCE FROM THE WORD "BEGINNING" ONWARD...
For lovers of dramas with dangerously dominant men.
BEGINNING
Beijing, China, 2019
I can barely feel the searing pain of the wound anymore; adrenaline is pushing me forward, even though blood is soaking through my shirt. My steps falter in the darkness of the night as I zigzag through poorly lit alleys. Damn it—neon lights from a nearby bar sign blur and dance before my eyes. I need to find somewhere to hide, just a moment to catch my breath... and not die right here. My pursuers can't be far behind; I can already picture Liu Jian's men sweeping the streets, eager to finish what they started.
I press one hand to my side where the bullet struck—saying it burns is an understatement. It's liquid fire, tearing through every nerve. Still, I can't stop. If they catch me now, I won't stand a chance.
In the distance, I spot a sign in English: Red Lotus Bar. The music pounds loudly enough to drown out my ragged breathing and the frantic thud of my heart. I stumble toward the side entrance. The emergency door is slightly ajar—maybe an employee stepped out for a smoke. I slip inside before anyone can see me.
The hallway is narrow and dim, filled with the muffled thump of electronic music and distant laughter. I move forward, leaning against the wall, leaving a crimson smear on the faded wallpaper. Each step is a battle against the darkness closing in at the edge of my vision.
I barely make out a sign on the wall: Restrooms. I push open the door to the men's room first, but I hear voices—too many people. I can't risk collapsing in there and drawing attention. With what little judgment I have left, I turn to the next door—the ladies' room. If I'm lucky, it'll be empty. I shoulder it open and slip inside.
The relief of solitude hits me immediately. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bouncing off the white tiles. I lean on the sink, my fingers leaving bloody prints on the cold marble. The room spins. Focus, Shi Tong, I tell myself. This isn't how it ends...
But my strength is fading. As my knees buckle from weakness, I stagger toward a stall. I need to hide, even if it's just to die. Once inside, I let myself slide down to the floor, slumping against the wall. I swallow and taste blood—metallic and sharp. I don't know if it's from an internal wound or just fear crawling up my throat.
"Help..." My voice comes out hoarse, barely a broken whisper. I don't even know if anyone can hear me in here. Maybe I'm doomed to die alone on the floor of a public bathroom like a stray dog. The thought stirs a bitter wave of self-disgust in my chest.
Suddenly, the bathroom door creaks. My dulled senses snap to attention. Someone walks in. I hear the click of heels on the tile. Shit. Any normal person would scream and run at the sight of a bloodied man in the women's restroom. I try to move, to lift myself even slightly, but a sharp jolt of pain nails me in place.
Under the harsh lighting, I glimpse the silhouette of a woman. She has dark, loose hair and wears a long coat. I blink to clear my vision as she stands frozen, staring at me with wide eyes. I can only imagine how this must look from her side—a man, soaked in blood, pleading in the corner of the women's bathroom. Pathetic. A low grunt escapes my throat. I don't want to hurt her—if anything, she might be my last chance.
"Please..." I manage to say, raising a trembling hand. "Help me..."
*****
I've stepped out of the room because I can't stand being in there any longer. I know I'm supposed to socialize, that the people I'm with are colleagues and that at some point I might need their help—but I just can't take another minute. That's just how I am. I prefer to stay away from the world, and I only engage with it when I'm working. That's when I truly enjoy people—but only then. Singing, drinking, laughing, and listening to pointless chatter? I hate it.
I head into the bathroom, already thinking of what excuse I can use to leave, when I notice something on the floor—something red and shiny that shouldn't be there: blood. A trail leading straight into one of the stalls. My eyes follow the stain in horror and land on a pair of men's shoes… and legs stretched out on the floor.
A jolt of fear freezes me for a second. The muffled music reminds me that I'm in the women's restroom of a pub, and yet—there he is: a stranger slumped against the wall, gasping for breath.
I instinctively take a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. I think about running for help, but then the man lifts his head toward me. The harsh white bathroom lights reveal his condition—shirt soaked in blood, pale face beaded with sweat, and eyes… God, dark eyes filled with urgency and pain, locked onto mine.
Is he hurt? What happened? The questions flood my mind, but my body reacts before my reasoning does: I step toward him, letting my purse drop to the floor. The doctor in me takes over, momentarily drowning out the fear.
"What happened to you?" I ask, my voice shaky as I kneel beside him. My tights touch a warm pool of blood, and I stifle a shiver.
The man tries to speak. I see his lips move, but barely a sound comes out. He's on the edge. His fingers are pressed to his left side, just below the ribs. With trembling but determined hands, I move his away to check the wound. A gunshot, probably from a small-caliber weapon. Blood seeps steadily from the hole. His soaked clothes make it hard to see clearly.
"I'm a doctor. I'm going to help you," I say as calmly as I can, even though my heart is slamming against my ribs. I don't have my kit with me—what can I do?
The stranger stares at me, as if weighing whether he can trust me. His pupils are slightly dilated, maybe from shock or pain. By instinct, I take a clean handkerchief from my purse and press it firmly against the wound to try to stop the bleeding. He groans in pain but doesn't pull away. In fact, his hand clamps down over mine with surprising strength for someone on the verge of passing out.
"No… hospital…" he whispers, breathing raggedly. "Please…"
I look at him, confused. He doesn't want me to call an ambulance? Up close, I catch the scent of alcohol and gunpowder. His plea puts me on high alert—was this a hit? Something illegal? My mind swirls with dangerous possibilities. He could be a criminal… or someone caught up in very serious trouble.
My rational instinct screams that I should leave, call security or the police. But the way he grips my hand and the desperation in his voice… I look again at his wound. If I don't act fast, he's going to bleed out in minutes. Forget all caution, Yiran, I tell myself. First, save his life. There'll be time for questions later.
"Alright, calm down. I won't call anyone," I whisper, leaning over him. The closeness lets me feel his breath laced with the scent of blood. His face is contorted in pain, partly obscured by black hair stuck to his forehead. "But I need to get the bullet out and stop the bleeding."
He gives a weak nod, eyes closing for a moment, as if relieved I won't turn him in. I swallow hard, uncertain. I have nothing here—just my handkerchief and… I glance around, desperate. The bathroom is spotless, just as I'd expected; this pub clearly takes care of its clientele. I spot the soap dispenser, paper towels… and a first-aid kit mounted on the wall near the door. Thank God.
"I'm going to find something to help you. Don't move, okay?"
Sure, as if he could even stand up, I think wryly as I rush toward the small first-aid kit. Luckily, it's unlocked. My hands rummage through gauze, antiseptic, and… saline solution. Not much, but it'll do. I also find a pair of tweezers and small scissors.
Thank you, Red Lotus, for complying with health regulations.
I return to the wounded man. He's resting his head against the wall, his lips moving like he's murmuring something I can't quite hear. Hold on, please, just hold on, I silently beg. My scissors tremble slightly as I cut through his shirt, but I manage to expose the wound beneath the blood-soaked fabric. The bullet is still lodged under the skin—shallow enough to glimpse the tip peeking through torn flesh. I have to get it out. Without anesthesia, it's going to hurt. But there's no other choice.
"Bite this," I say, rolling up my scarf and placing it at his lips.
His gaze locks with mine. Despite the pain, there's a steadiness in those dark eyes that hits me hard. It's as if he refuses to die, as if some fire inside him is keeping him tethered to this world. For a second, that look pierces through me and takes my breath away.
I shake off the feeling and focus. With sterilized tweezers and a splash of alcohol from the kit, I move quickly. He growls into the scarf when I insert the tweezers into the open wound. Warm blood covers my fingers, but I don't flinch. This is just like the emergency room, Yiran, I tell myself.
A wounded body. A life to save. Nothing else matters right now.
After a few seconds that feel like an eternity, the tweezers touch metal. I locate the bullet and carefully extract it. A guttural cry bursts from his throat, his body tenses like a drawn bow, and then starts to slacken. The small, jacketed bullet clinks as it hits the blood-soaked floor.
I quickly grab the saline and pour it over the wound, cleaning it as best I can before pressing gauze tightly over the hole. My hands work almost automatically—trained by countless emergencies. I feel for his pulse at his neck: rapid, but strong. He pants and lets the scarf fall from his mouth, trying to catch his breath.
"It's done… it's done," I whisper, my face drawing close to his as I lean in to wrap a bandage tightly around his torso.
I feel his warmth, the sweat-damp skin beneath my fingers. He turns his face toward me, and for a moment our eyes are very close. My lips part, but I don't know what to say. In those dark pupils, pain mixes with something that sends a chill through me: gratitude? Relief? Danger?
"Thank you…" he murmurs, so low I barely catch it.
"I'm going to get you out of here," I say, finding my voice again.
I don't know who hurt him or if they're still looking for him, but staying here isn't safe. Adrenaline keeps me moving. I loop his arm over my shoulders and brace myself to lift him. He's tall and muscular; a groan escapes his throat, but he does his best to cooperate, leaning on me.
With effort, we manage to stand. His weight slumps against me. I bite my lip to keep from groaning—my back aches, but I'm not about to give up. I open the bathroom door cautiously and peek out. The hallway is empty. The distant thump of music and the murmur of the pub continue, oblivious to the quiet tragedy that just unfolded behind this door.
"Come on… slowly," I whisper, encouraging him.
He grits his teeth; I can see the struggle to stay conscious, to stay on his feet. Step by step, we move down the hallway. My car is parked around the corner—if I can get him there, I can take him… where? My apartment, I suppose. The hospital is out—he begged me not to. And something tells me that if I take him to a police station, I'd be signing his death warrant.
What kind of mess are you getting into, Wan Yiran?
I don't have time to answer myself. When we reach the side door he probably came through, I glance at the dark street. It looks clear. We stumble out. The night air hits my face, hot with tension. He exhales a pained grunt and his legs buckle for a second.
"No—don't give up!" I urge in a desperate whisper, holding him up with all my strength. I can feel his warm blood seeping through the makeshift bandage and into my side. I have to move faster.
I spot my car a few meters away—thank God. A small blue sedan. I release my grip on his waist just long enough to dig my keys from my pocket and press the unlock button. I guide him to the back door and open it. With one final effort, I manage to get him inside. He collapses with a muffled groan, his eyes half-closed.
"Hold on, please… we're almost there," I murmur, more to myself than to him. I rush around to the driver's seat and throw myself in. My hands are shaking so much it takes me a couple of tries to get the key in. Finally, the engine roars to life.
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of his face in the dim back seat—his head tilted to one side, eyes closed. For a second, I fear he's lost consciousness… or worse. But then I see the faint rise and fall of his chest. He's still alive.
"Hang in there, okay? You're going to be fine…" I say softly, not sure if he can hear me. I step on the gas and head for the avenue, my mind racing.
As I drive through the night streets of Beijing, only one thought pulses clearly in my head: I did the right thing. I saved a life tonight—even if the uncertainty gnaws at me. Who is this man? What is he running from? Part of me knows that whatever happened before, his life is now in my hands… and I won't let it slip away.
CHAPTER 1
I wake with a jolt, not knowing where I am. For a moment, I think I'm still in that dark alley, with death at my heels. My senses sharpen instantly; I sit up fast, my body on alert like a cornered animal. But a sharp pain slices through my left side, knocking the air out of my lungs. I groan and instinctively press my hand to the wound. It's firmly bandaged. Everything floods back in a rush: the bullet, the pub, the woman...
I blink, trying to focus. I'm no longer in the Red Lotus bathroom. I'm in a dimly lit room, faintly illuminated by the amber glow of a floor lamp in the corner. The air smells of mild antiseptic mixed with something sweet—jasmine, maybe? I glance down at myself: I'm lying on a small sofa, covered by a blanket. My blood-soaked shirt is gone; instead, my bare torso is wrapped in clean gauze around the abdomen. The pain is dull but bearable, a constant throb reminding me I'm still alive.
This time I sit up slowly, letting my eyes scan the place. It looks like a modest apartment. Next to the sofa, there's a low table with several bottles—I recognize disinfectant, topical antibiotic, and painkillers. There's also a bowl filled with reddish water and stained cloths—proof that someone recently cleaned my wound.
Then I see her. The woman from last night. She's a few steps away, facing the other direction, bent over a small table as she arranges some metal instruments... Her straight black hair falls midway down her back. She's tied it up hastily into a loose ponytail. She's wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants now, very different from the elegant outfit I caught a glimpse of at the pub. She must have changed to better care for me.
A sudden wave of dizziness blurs my vision, and clumsily, my foot nudges an empty bottle on the floor. The noise alerts her. She turns her head, and our eyes meet. For one heartbeat, neither of us speaks. Her features, relaxed in concentration a second ago, tense the moment she sees I'm awake.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, coming over at once.
Her voice is soft, low-pitched, unexpectedly calming. There's genuine concern in her warm brown eyes.
"I've been worse," I manage to say, forcing a half-smile.
Truthfully, I feel like I've been hit by a truck, but I'm not about to admit that. I clear my throat, still dry. She frowns slightly at my comment, perhaps annoyed by my lack of seriousness. She kneels beside the sofa, very close. I can feel the heat of her body in subtle waves. She gently takes my wrist. I tense instinctively—I'm not used to a touch so... considerate. Her fingers seek my pulse.
"A little fast, but steady," she murmurs to herself, counting beats as she glances at the watch on her wrist.
I stay still, watching her. She has dark circles under her eyes—clearly from exhaustion and lack of sleep. I wonder what time it is. I also notice a smear of dried blood on her right cheek—undoubtedly mine. Guilt brushes against me. This woman pulled me back from the grave with her own hands, and all I've done is cause her trouble.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, without thinking too much.
She looks up at me, puzzled.
"For what?"
"For… this." I gesture, barely moving, at the mess around us: the bloody gauze, the remnants of the makeshift procedure. My very presence on her sofa.
Her lips curve into a fleeting smile, a mix of relief and a touch of tenderness.
"Don't apologize. I've seen worse messes at work." She tries to joke, but her voice carries a hint of built-up tension. She stands. "I'm glad you woke up. I thought you'd sleep through the night. Are you thirsty?"
Now that she mentions it, the dryness in my throat is unbearable. I nod cautiously. The woman—she can't be more than thirty, maybe younger—disappears for a moment into what I assume is the open kitchen behind the bar counter. I take the opportunity to try sitting up straighter against the cushions. Every movement tugs at the wound, but it's manageable. I've endured worse, no question.
She returns quickly with a glass of water in hand. I thank her with a nod and take it. I notice a faint tremor in my fingers, a frustrating sign of weakness. To hide it, I drink slowly, savoring the cool relief.
She watches me with her arms crossed, maybe assessing whether I still need assistance. It's strange being under someone's careful gaze instead of the calculating or wary stares I'm used to.
After a few seconds of silence, she clears her throat and asks:
"What's your name?" Her eyes lock with mine, cautious curiosity glinting in them.
I hesitate. Giving my real name might not be wise. Still, the honesty in her gaze disarms me a little. Besides, I owe her my life—I can't start off with a blatant lie.
Though I won't reveal everything...
"My name is Shi Tong," I reply slowly.
I don't add anything else. I doubt the name means anything to her anyway. If she's not involved in criminal circles, she won't have heard of me.
"Shi Tong," she repeats, as if testing the syllables. Her accent is surprisingly accurate. She smiles faintly. "I'm Wan Yiran." She pauses briefly, then adds, "But you can call me Yiran."
Yiran. I take note of it. It suits her. Soft and gentle, at least on the surface. But she's already proven she's got guts and determination beneath that delicate appearance.
"Thank you, Wan Yiran," I say, tasting her name for the first time. She looks away slightly, a bit flustered, maybe because I used her full name.
"Just Yiran," she corrects kindly, then kneels beside me again to check the bandage on my side. "There's nothing to thank me for. I did what anyone… well, what any doctor would have done. I was lucky to find you in time."
She carefully loosens the bandage to inspect the wound. I stifle a hiss of pain as she peels away the gauze stuck to the flesh, and I see her brows furrow with concern.
"Sorry," she murmurs, lightly blowing on the inflamed skin in a distracted gesture of empathy. The warmth of her breath against my side sends a shiver through me, one that has nothing to do with pain.
What the hell's wrong with you, Tong? I scold myself for that flicker of sensation sparked by her simple touch. I force myself to focus on something else: the ceiling, the pain, anything.
Yiran continues speaking softly as she applies ointment to the wound.
"The bullet went through your side without hitting any vital organs. I removed it and cleaned it the best I could here. You need stitches, but..." She hesitates a moment. "I didn't want to sew you up while you were unconscious, just in case you needed internal surgery. But it looks like the bleeding's under control."
I nod in silence. I appreciate her caution, I guess. Though I wouldn't have minded her stitching me up while I slept—I've been treated by far rougher hands. Still, I understand her fear of making things worse without proper equipment.
"I'm going to stitch it up now that you're awake and can tell me if anything feels off, alright?" she informs me, glancing at the small metal tray where a needle and thread are already prepared.
"Do what you have to, doctor," I reply, more harshly than I intended.
It's not that I mean to sound ungrateful; I'm just not used to being this… vulnerable. Sitting here, letting someone sew me up like a broken doll. I try to relax by leaning my head against the back of the sofa and exhaling slowly. She seems to notice my discomfort and offers a small, reassuring smile.
"I promise I'll be gentle. And please, call me Yiran."
I nod again and close my eyes for a moment as I hear her getting ready. For a second, I imagine what my men would say if they saw me now: their fearsome leader, wounded, being stitched up on a stranger's couch. A bitter taste fills my mouth as I remember why I'm here. Liu Jian… that bastard will pay, I swear silently. But first, I have to survive this and recover.
A sharp sting pulls me from my thoughts. I open my eyes to see Yiran focused, stitching the edges of the wound with steady hands. Her face is close to mine; I can see the fine line of concentration in her lips, her long lashes trembling with the effort. I grit my teeth, staying stoic. The pain is sharp, but seeing it reflected in her eyes every time I groan pushes me to stay silent. To distract myself, I speak:
"You work at a hospital, I assume."
"Yes," she replies without looking up from the suture. "Beijing Central Hospital, emergency department. Though I'm often in the OR."
That makes sense. It explains why she knew exactly what to do. And why she was at the pub last night—probably unwinding after a brutal shift. I really know how to ruin someone's night...
"I'm sorry," I murmur again.
"Why do you keep apologizing?" she asks, confused, pausing for a second. Her eyes meet mine again. They're large and warm, despite how tired she must be.
I don't answer immediately. Why do I keep apologizing? It's not like me. Maybe because I know my presence has completely disrupted her life. Because I sense the mess I'm in could reach her if I don't get away fast enough.
"For dragging you into this," I finally say, with a rare honesty. "You shouldn't have gotten involved."
She frowns and returns to her task, tying off the last stitch with practiced precision.
"I couldn't just walk away. You would've died if I hadn't helped. And as you can imagine, I wasn't about to let that happen."
She cuts the thread and sets the needle aside, then gently places a clean gauze over the wound and begins wrapping the bandage again with care.
"Even so," I insist quietly, "now you… you're in danger because of me."
Yiran freezes for a moment, her fingers still holding the half-fixed bandage. She meets my gaze, and for an instant, I catch a flicker of restrained fear in her eyes—as if she's just now truly considering that possibility. Of course she had. She's smart. I'm sure she's already figured out I'm no saint, no random victim.
"Who did this to you?" she finally asks in a low voice.
My body tenses. I don't want to pull her into my world. The best thing would be to give her a vague answer. I look away, fixing my eyes on some invisible point on the wall.
"Enemies. Dangerous people." I'm not lying, but I don't offer details either. My tone hardens involuntarily at the memory of the ambush. "They shouldn't bother you. They don't know who helped me."
She lowers her gaze, finishing the bandage with medical tape. Her next words are barely a whisper:
"They found you once… they could do it again."
I look at her and see her biting her lower lip nervously. A surge of anger flares in me—because she's partially right. If those bastards find out I survived thanks to her, they might use her to get to me. I won't allow that. I'd rather die than let her get hurt because of me. The intensity of that thought surprises me, but I accept it as a new debt—unspoken but binding.
"I won't let anything happen to you," I say, with more force than intended, reaching for her hand without thinking.
It's both a promise and a vow. Her fingers feel cold against mine. She lifts her eyes, startled by the gesture. I realize instantly how bold it was and release her hand clumsily, curling my fingers into a fist. What was I thinking, touching her like that?
"I'm sorry…" I begin, but she shakes her head.
"It's okay… just… please don't make any sudden moves," she murmurs as she steps away to dispose of the used supplies.
I lean back again, cursing inwardly. This woman stirs up impulses in me I thought I'd buried under years of violence and discipline. I need to pull myself together.
She returns after tossing everything in the trash and sanitizing her hands. She stands in front of me, hesitant, rubbing her palms together in a nervous gesture.
"I don't want to overstep," she begins cautiously, "but… wouldn't it be better if you contacted someone from your side? Someone who…" she hesitates, "can protect you better than I can, I mean."
I translate her concern: Do you have someone who can come get you? She's likely not trying to kick me out, but she knows having me here is risky for both of us. And she's right. My men are probably searching for me like mad since last night.
I nod slowly.
"I need a phone," I say, remembering I lost mine during the escape.
She gestures toward the small table. Among the medicine bottles, I spot my gun—which she must have removed while I was unconscious—and my wallet. She must've checked my pockets, maybe to find out who I was, or for safety. I'm grateful she didn't call the police after seeing the weapon.
"Yours wasn't with your things. You can use mine."
She offers it, and I take it. It's a modern model; the screen is on, showing 4:30 a.m. and several missed calls from someone named Liang—probably a worried friend wondering why she left without a word.
I dial Zhang's number by memory—my right-hand man. The ringing feels endless. I'm about to hang up when he answers:
"Hello?" His voice is sharp, alert despite the hour.
"It's me," I say firmly.
"Boss! Oh God, are you okay?" His relief is palpable even through the phone. "We've been searching everywhere. We thought the worst."
"Listen," I cut him off, urgent. "I'm safe. Injured, but alive. I need you to pick me up immediately." I glance at Yiran. "Where are we?" I whisper.
"In… Jianguomen Nei Dajie. Huashi Xinyuan Residential Compound. Building 3, apartment 502," she answers, also whispering as if not to interrupt.
I repeat the address to Zhang.
"We'll be there in twenty minutes, boss," he confirms.
I hang up. Twenty minutes. Good. Every second here puts her at greater risk. I need to leave as soon as possible. I turn to Yiran and hand back her phone.
"Thank you. My… people will come get me soon."
She nods slowly, and although I expected relief on her face, what I see instead is a faint shadow of… disappointment? Maybe I'm imagining it. She tries to muster a sympathetic smile.
"I'm glad you have someone to help you." She pauses, her eyes scanning my face as if memorizing it, then adds quietly, "It's good you're not alone right now."
Her words stir something unexpected in me. In the past few hours, her presence has been a warm anchor amid chaos. Now, the idea of leaving and not seeing her again… I shouldn't care, but it unsettles me. Still, I know it's for the best. There's no place for someone like her in my world.
I sit up with effort, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning at the pull of the fresh stitches. I need to get dressed. I look around and spot a clean shirt folded neatly on the back of the sofa. Must belong to a male relative—or maybe an ex. I try not to think about why that idea irritates me. What matters is I have something to wear.
Seeing me reach for the shirt, Yiran steps forward.
"Let me help you," she offers, taking the shirt. I stay still as she carefully slips it onto my arms, avoiding the wound. Her fingers brush my skin by accident—cold and light. I hold my breath at the unintended contact.
"Thank you," I murmur again once she finishes buttoning the front. I've said that word too much today… but I've never meant it more.
"No need," she replies gently. "I already told you, it's my duty to save lives."
She steps back, hugging herself against the early morning chill drifting through the window. I see the exhaustion in every line of her posture—her drooping shoulders—but her eyes remain locked on me, full of concern.
I nod. I pick up my gun from the table and tuck it into the waistband of my pants out of habit. Yiran watches the weapon but says nothing—she just swallows hard. Then she hands me my wallet, which she also found. I take it, noticing all the cash is still there—untouched. I expected nothing less from someone like her. It confirms her honesty.
I pull out all the bills—quite a wad—and place them on the table in front of her. Her eyes widen in surprise.
"What are you doing?" she exclaims, shaking her head. "No, I can't accept that."
"I insist," I say firmly. "For the trouble, and for the medical supplies you used on me."
She presses her lips together, and I see a flash of indignation in her eyes. She pushes the money back toward me.
"I'm not a mercenary. I didn't help you for money."
"I know," I reply quickly. Damn it—I offended her. I try to explain. "Look, Yiran… you risked a lot for me. I just want to make it up to you somehow."
"Then don't pay me," she says firmly. "Just… get better and make the risk I took worth it."
Her words hang in the air between us. I'm stunned. It's been so long since anyone has spoken to me like that—without expecting anything in return. I don't know what to say. Finally, I put the money back in my wallet.
"Alright," I concede. "But I'll make it up to you some other way… when you least expect it."
She exhales, maybe relieved I'm not insisting, and gives me a tired smile.
"You don't have to. Honestly, knowing you're alright is enough for me."
Before I can respond, I hear the sound of a powerful engine approaching outside, and headlights flicker through the window. My men are here. Duty calls, pulling me away from this improvised refuge.
I walk toward the door, still a little unsteady, but with the firm resolve of a man returning to his mission. Yiran follows a few steps behind. Before leaving, I stop and turn to her. There's something I need to say.
"I'll never forget what you did for me, Yiran," I say slowly, each word carrying weight. "I owe you my life."
She shakes her head softly.
"I just did what was right."
My lips curl into a faint smile. What's right. A concept nearly foreign in my world.
I open the door slowly. In the empty hallway, Zhang—my most trusted man—appears, his face full of relief and disbelief at seeing me. Two more of my men flank the stairs behind him, on high alert.
"Boss," he whispers, scanning me. "Quick, let's get you somewhere safe."
I nod, but before I go, I turn once more to the woman. She watches us with a mix of timidity and unease. This is my world breaking into hers—men with guns under their jackets, all sharp edges and tension. I don't want that to be her last memory of me. So, summoning words I rarely speak, I say quietly:
"Take care of yourself, Yiran. And… thank you. Truly."
Our eyes meet for one eternal second. I want to memorize her face—just in case… in case fate doesn't cross our paths again. She nods, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips as she wraps her arms around herself.
"Goodbye, Shi Tong." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper.
I clench my jaw and nod once more before turning away, leaning on Zhang. His grip is steady as he guides me toward the elevator. My men surround us, alert to any danger.
As we exit the building toward the black car waiting below, I can't help but glance over my shoulder. Up above, in a fifth-floor window, I think I see a shadow. Maybe it's her, watching. Or maybe it's just my imagination.
Either way, Wan Yiran is burned into my memory. With every step away from her door, I swear this debt won't go unpaid. Even if I have to walk through hell, I'll make sure my savior is safe… and maybe—just maybe—someday I'll see those eyes full of compassion look at me again, without blood between us.
CHAPTER 2
The door closes, and silence once again fills my apartment. I stand there, unmoving, staring at the spot where Shi Tong just left, supported by his men. I can still smell the faint metallic trace of blood in the air… and the subtle scent of sandalwood that seemed to cling to him.
My legs suddenly feel the full weight of exhaustion and tension. I lean against the wall, pressing my hand to my forehead. I'm burning up; I barely slept at all, and the emotions of the night have left me on edge. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to process everything that happened in the last few hours.
Did it really happen? I wonder, overwhelmed. I look around: bloodstains on the floor, the improvised operating table I turned my coffee table into, the bloodied shirt I cut off him now lying in tatters in the trash. Undeniable proof that it wasn't just a dream.
A shiver runs down my spine as I remember how close he came to dying in that bathroom. If I'd arrived just a few minutes later… I shake my head, refusing to go down that line of thought. He's alive. He walked out on his own—more or less. That's what matters. I did my duty as a doctor.
And yet, something else is stirring inside me. A restlessness that isn't purely professional. Flash images: his dark eyes locked on mine, the way he held my hand and promised nothing would happen to me, the brush of my fingers as I helped him into his shirt…
I bring a hand to my cheek, feeling a strange heat rising. God, Wan Yiran! I scold myself. You don't have time for fantasies. That man is, in all likelihood, a criminal.
I've all but confirmed it—his vague answers, the gun he carried, the armed men who came for him. I was lucky I didn't end up in bigger trouble.
I open my eyes, resolute. First thing's first: clean up this mess before I start overthinking everything. I need to erase the traces—not out of guilt, but for safety. I gather my strength and head to the kitchen for a bucket, soap, and cloths. Back in the living room, I kneel where the blood remains on the floor. I scrub hard, watching as the red slowly fades away. As if, by doing so, I could also wash away the image of his wounded body from my mind.
It takes me maybe an hour to make the place look decent. I crack open a window to let out the antiseptic smell. The first light of dawn paints Beijing's horizon in bluish gray. I check the time: almost 6:00 a.m. I'm due at the hospital in three hours for my day shift. My body aches with exhaustion, and my mind is still racing. I don't feel capable of facing patients right now—or anyone.
I sigh and reach for my phone to notify work. I find it on the table next to the bandaging supplies. There are several missed calls and messages—most from Liang. A couple from my supervisor, asking if I can cover extra hours today. I shake my head. I'm in no condition for that.
I quickly send a message to my supervisor: I'm sick. I won't be able to make it today. A pang of guilt hits me—I never miss work. But today, I just can't.
Then I open Liang's messages:
"Yiran, where did you go?"
"Are you okay? Call me."
"I'm worried—you left without a word!"
I bite my lip. After seeing Shi Tong in that bathroom, I completely forgot why I was at the pub to begin with. I left behind the bouquet, the little flag a grateful patient gave me...
With clumsy fingers, I type a brief reply: "I'm fine. I came home because I had terrible abdominal pain. We'll talk later."
The lie tastes bitter, but I have no choice. What am I supposed to say? That I found a gunshot victim in the bathroom and brought him home? He'd be obligated to report me—by our professional code. And the police… that cannot happen.
I toss my phone onto the couch in frustration. I know withholding information about a gunshot wound is illegal. I should've notified the authorities. I'm a doctor, not a judge, and rules exist for a reason. What if that man is a dangerous criminal and I let him go?
But the alternative was letting him die. Or handing him over dead. Neither option would let me live peacefully with myself.
I close my eyes, drained. I need to sleep, even if it's just for a couple of hours. My body feels heavy. I walk to the bedroom on autopilot and collapse onto the bed without even changing. The pillow smells like my jasmine shampoo—a contrast of normalcy against the chaos inside me.
As I slip into unconsciousness, the last image in my mind is of Shi Tong saying goodbye at my door.
*****
When I wake, the midday sun pours through the curtains. I sit up abruptly, taking a few seconds to remember that I didn't go to the hospital today. A restless dream left me drenched in sweat; I can't recall all of it, but I think I kept going back to that bathroom over and over—and every time, I arrived too late and found Shi Tong already dead. I shake my head, trying to dispel the images.
I take a quick shower, as if trying to wash away the anxiety still clinging to me. The hot water relaxes my muscles, though my mind remains restless. I press my forehead against the tiles and let my thoughts flow freely for a moment: What is he doing now? Did he make it somewhere safe? Is he being properly taken care of?
A small, irrational part of me wants to know more. It's the same curiosity that's gotten me into trouble before—that need to understand people beyond what they show. Who are you, Shi Tong? We barely spoke last night, but in the way he apologized, the way he said thank you, I glimpsed someone more human than even he seems to believe. And that fierce promise to protect me… he said it with such determination, I almost believed it.
I sigh and shut off the water. Enough. The truth is, I probably won't hear from him again. I have to accept that. It was a fleeting crossing of paths—something rare. Now we both return to our own lives.
I change into comfortable clothes and make something to eat, though I have almost no appetite. As I force myself to swallow a bowl of rice with vegetables, I turn on the TV for background noise. The local news drones on about politics and the economy—no mention of shootouts or violent incidents. At least I know no bodies were found, which means Shi Tong and his men cleaned things up well. I wonder how many terrible things happen in this city unnoticed by the average citizen.
I finish eating and decide I could use some fresh air. I also need to restock the first-aid kit I emptied last night. I checked earlier—I'm out of gauze and antiseptic spray. I should also get some oral antibiotics just in case… well, just in case I ever need them again.
I throw on a light jacket and head out. My building is in a quiet area of the Dongcheng District, with tree-lined sidewalks and local shops just steps away. I walk to the pharmacy on the corner. While the clerk prepares my order, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It's Liang calling.
I answer with a small sigh, bracing myself.
"Yiran?" His voice is full of relief. "Finally. Are you okay? I was worried."
"Hi, Liang. Sorry about last night…" I say apologetically, stepping out of the pharmacy with the paper bag in hand. "I suddenly felt sick and had to leave."
"Sick?" He sounds confused. "So sick you didn't even come back for your gifts? I waited for you, called you…"
I stop dead in my tracks. My gifts!
"Oh, right… I completely forgot," I murmur.
Liang continues, more calmly now:
"I brought them to you. When you didn't answer, I figured you'd gone home. I stopped by your building, but it was dark, so I gave them to your doorman. Do you have them?"
"Oh… not yet. But thank you, really. You're the best." I feel genuine gratitude—Liang always looks out for me like an older brother.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he insists. "At the meeting this morning, the supervisor said you were sick. And last night, you left so… suddenly. It's not like you to disappear like that."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Liang knows me well enough to sense when something's off. I fall back on a half-truth.
"Really, I just felt awful last night. Terrible stomach pain. Probably something I ate…"
He exhales, maybe accepting the explanation.
"Alright, well—if you don't mind, I'll stop by after my shift to check on you."
I hesitate. I honestly don't feel like seeing anyone, but if I turn him away, he'll be calling me all day, and I don't have the energy for that.
"Alright, come by," I say before hanging up.
Thinking about his visit, I return to my building and pick up the flowers and the banner. "In gratitude for your effort and courage," it reads. The family of the elderly man I saved wanted to thank me for my work. Many of my colleagues show these gifts off proudly. I felt self-conscious when I received them. I don't want that kind of recognition—seeing people alive and well is enough for me.
I go inside and place everything on the table. I'll look for a vase after I restock the kit. I take everything out of the paper bag and begin the task when I notice the bullet. Shi Tong won't send me a banner thanking me for keeping him alive—nor do I want one. But I did take the liberty of keeping a memory.
I pick up the small projectile that almost took a life and stare at it. It's still stained with blood—his blood. I close my hand around it, squeezing tight, and walk to the bedroom. Without thinking too much, I open a small wooden box on the shelf—an old jewelry box I inherited from my grandmother—and place the bullet inside, among old chains and valueless earrings. This will be the resting place for a memory that belongs to the past. Forever.
CHAPTER 3
I barely feel the rattling of the car; my senses are focused on figuring out what the hell happened. Zhang drives in silence, throwing furtive glances at me through the rearview mirror every few seconds. I know he wants to ask a thousand questions, but for now, he holds back. Beside me in the back seat is Sun, one of my most senior men, with an open first-aid kit on his lap. He insisted on checking my wound the moment I got into the car.
"The stitches are clean, boss," he says in his rough voice.
"I know," I reply curtly.
My fingers graze the bandaged side; under the clean shirt Yiran gave me, I can feel the neat, professional stitches she made. It's incredible that she managed such precise work with so few resources.
"Stitches?" Zhang repeats, surprised. "Who...?"
"The woman who saved me did it," I cut him off, not willing to give details. I feel Zhang's gaze again through the mirror, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
"Then we were lucky," Sun comments. I can't help letting out a dry laugh at that word—luck? No, it was her.
The car winds through side streets and finally stops in front of an old building in a secluded neighborhood. One of my many safe houses. Two of our men guard the entrance and rush to open the gates, visibly relieved to see me.
"Are you sure you don't want to rest first?" Sun asks again.
"The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can plan my next move," I respond flatly, hoping they'll drop the subject. They do.
Zhang parks the car and, before I can even touch the door, he opens it for me. Sun mirrors his action. They position themselves at my sides in case I need support. Right now, I don't. Adrenaline is still coursing through me, making me walk as if I hadn't taken a bullet.
"Boss!" Gao exclaims as soon as I cross the threshold, leaning slightly on Zhang. "I thought—"
"I'm alive," I growl, cutting off his worry before it starts.
I hate seeing pity or fear on my men's faces; I need them to see strength. When I take my next step, dizziness hits me, but I mask it by clenching my jaw.
Inside, in the windowless room we use for meetings, a few more of my lieutenants are waiting—Jiying and Dai. Their expressions shift from tension to relief as soon as they see me.
"Boss, I'm glad to see you alive," Dai says, bowing his head respectfully.
"I've had enough greetings for today," I say, raising a hand. "Close the doors. Let's talk."
There's no time for sentiment. I sink into a chair, ignoring the stabs of pain in my abdomen. Zhang stands at my right as always, arms crossed. The others form a semi-circle, waiting.
"No need to think hard to figure out Liu Jian tried to kill me," I begin bluntly. The room tenses immediately. I look each of them in the eye. "He had a mole in our ranks, or someone tipped him off. He knew I was meeting with Wu Kang last night."
My memory flashes back: a warehouse by the river, supposedly neutral ground to negotiate with Kang, a middleman in smuggling. It turned out to be a trap. I never saw Liu Jian in person, but it was his order that marked me for death. I knew it the moment the shooter shouted: "Let the dog Shi Tong die! Glory to the Green Dragon!" The Green Dragon—that's what Liu Jian's gang calls themselves.
Pathetic.
"We'll find the rat," Sun spits, stepping forward with restrained fury. "If someone betrayed us, I'll hang them by their thumbs."
I raise an eyebrow at his bravado.
"We will. But first, I need to know what happened after I fled."
Zhang steps in.
"When we heard the gunfire, we ran to the warehouse from the perimeter, but you were already gone, boss. We found two of our own dead… and one of Liu's. We interrogated him on the spot."
"And?" I growl, impatient.
"He confessed Liu Jian planned everything. Wu Kang sold out the meeting. Zhang clenches his fists, clearly shaken by the security failure. "He said you were shot, that you escaped wounded into the city. He died before we could get more."
"Damn it..." I mutter, slamming a hand on the chair arm. "Wu Kang, that traitorous rat. Do we have him?"
Dai shakes his head.
"He's slippery."
"Coward," Gao mutters.
"I want him alive. In front of me. Soon," I order coldly. "Find anyone who helped Liu Jian. We'll make an example they'll never forget."
My men nod with fierce resolve. Loyalty is everything in our world; a betrayal like this demands blood. A jolt of pain pulses under my ribs, and I discreetly press a hand to the bandage. Zhang, always observant, places a steady hand on my shoulder.
"Boss, you should rest. We'll handle everything. I promise."
I glance at his hand, then at his face. I want to refuse, say I'm fine, but the truth is that the adrenaline is fading fast, leaving me with the raw truth of a body on the brink. I can't lead a manhunt if I pass out halfway through. I have to be smart.
"Fine," I mutter with visible annoyance. "Sun, check the wound. I think I popped a stitch. The rest of you, move. Gao, start tracking Liu Jian—find out where he could be hiding. Dai, rally the trusted men. Keep them sharp. Zhang, oversee the search for Wu Kang yourself. Keep it quiet. No cops."
"Understood," they reply almost in unison.
They spring into action like a well-oiled machine. Dai and Gao leave through the door, barking orders as they go. Only Zhang and Sun remain.
"I've got the kit," Sun murmurs, opening the bag. "With your permission, boss."
I nod and unbutton the shirt, revealing the bloodied bandage on my side. Sun works quickly, carefully peeling back the gauze and cleaning the wound. I exhale… If Yiran were here, I know she'd do it better. There's a pang—not of pain this time, but something else. I miss her touch. Her calm voice saying "It's done, you're going to be okay."
"Uh… boss, I'm going to inject a local anesthetic before I redo the stitches," Sun says.
"No need," I reply, face hardening. "Just do it fast."
Sun knows not to argue. He begins stitching where the movement tore a few of the threads. Despite my best efforts, I can't keep my muscles from tensing at the sting. Zhang remains beside me, arms crossed. After a while, he breaks the silence.
"That woman… the one who saved you." His tone is cautious. "Can we know who she is?"
"No," I reply sharply. It's none of his business—but his genuine curiosity softens me a little. After a moment, I add, "A good Samaritan. She happened to find me… and saved my life."
Zhang raises an eyebrow.
"Nothing more? These days, no one helps a bleeding stranger without expecting something in return."
"She did," I say, my voice warmer than I expected.
Sun makes a small sound of surprise, and I realize I've clenched my fists. I consciously relax them. Zhang tries to hide a smirk. We've known each other for years—he can read between the lines better than anyone.
"You owe her big, then, boss."
"You could say that," I murmur.
I let my mind drift for a second to the image of Yiran leaning over me, focused on saving me. She could've walked away, could've called the police. But she didn't. She took me into her home, risking everything. Why? I still don't know. "Because it was the right thing to do," she said. That kind of integrity… it shines in her in a way I've never seen up close.
"I'd like to repay her," I say out loud, without really planning to.
Zhang looks at me with interest.
"What do you have in mind?"
Good question. I'd like to see her again, but I can't drag her further into my world. Not after she just barely escaped a close call. Maybe… protecting her from a distance. I need to make sure Liu Jian—or anyone else—doesn't lay a hand on her.
"Have someone keep watch on her apartment. Discreetly," I order. "Just to make sure no… trouble gets to her."
Zhang nods without question.
"I'll send Gao. He's subtle."
"Good."
"Should we let her know who we are, or keep her out of it?" he asks.
"Out of it."
I don't want her feeling watched. Even though a part of me wants to see her again, I won't make her feel cornered. Once Sun finishes dressing the wound, he steps back.
"All done, boss. That should hold."
I rise carefully. The world spins a little, but I steady myself quickly.
"Thanks."
He nods, seemingly pleased by the rare, sincere gratitude. After packing his things, he leaves quietly to give me space. Zhang stays. It's almost amusing how he avoids meeting my eyes, as if he's debating whether to say something more personal.
"Spit it out, Zhang," I say, leaning back in the chair.
"I just wanted to say…" he starts cautiously, "that woman must be someone special… if you trusted her like that."
I frown.
"Don't get it twisted. I barely know her."
"Uh-huh," he mutters, unconvinced. "But you trusted her with your life."
"I didn't have a choice," I reply defensively.
Zhang raises his hands in surrender.
"As you say. Either way, I'll be ready if you need anything concerning her."
"Just focus on what's important," I remind him, signaling the end of the discussion. Though deep down, I know he's right—she is special.
Zhang heads off to take care of what I asked. Finally alone, I let my head fall back against the chair and close my eyes for a moment. The room smells of damp concrete and old cigarette smoke—nothing like the clean, sweet scent of Yiran's apartment.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I see her angry, refusing my money. That noble stubbornness in her gaze. A small laugh escapes me. Wan Yiran… what have you done? I wonder how she is now. Is she sleeping? Restless? I left her living room a mess and had no choice but to disappear. I hope she's not in trouble because of me.
I wish I could call her, hear her voice telling me she's fine. But she didn't say whether we'd be in touch. I could take her number from Zhang's phone under the excuse of checking in about my wound… but no. Best not to put her on anyone's radar.
Damn it, this is frustrating. I'm the kind of man who takes what he wants without hesitation, and now… I hold back.
Because it's her.
I inhale deeply and stand. I need to clear my mind with work. I'm not good at sitting still and brooding. I head out to the back hallway of the building, which opens onto a small enclosed courtyard. Gao and two others are already waiting there, ready for the assignment I gave.
"Gao," I call. "I assume you've been briefed."
He nods firmly.
"Yes, boss."
"If you see anything suspicious around that woman," I add, with emphasis, "report it to me immediately."
"I will."
"No one else is to know about this. And don't let her see you."
"Absolute discretion, boss."
I dismiss him with a nod. Gao slips out the side door, silent as a shadow. With that done, I feel a little more at ease. If Liu Jian—or any rat—tries to snoop around her, I'll know.
As I mentally run through a thousand ways to take revenge, a deeper pang cuts through me: two of my men died last night. Two families now live with a void. I'll have to take care of them too—offer compensation, support… and vengeance. That part is for them as well.
*****
Night has fallen. I'm leaning against the sill of a boarded-up window, smoking a cigarette to dull the persistent pain. Sun scolded me before he left—told me not to smoke because of the wound—but I need something to steady my nerves.
Zhang returns from his errands with news: Liu Jian apparently fled the city after hearing I survived. Coward. Just like Wu Kang. But he still has underlings crawling around. This won't be over anytime soon.
"Boss, should we move you somewhere safer?" Zhang asks, referring to me. "If Liu Jian knows you're alive, he might try again."
"Let him try," I mutter, flicking the cigarette to the floor and crushing it under my foot. "We're fine here for now."
Zhang looks like he wants to argue, but just then his phone rings. He answers quickly, listens, then looks at me.
"It's Gao," he says, handing me the phone.
I bring it to my ear immediately.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Boss," Gao whispers, "all's quiet for now. The woman went out to a pharmacy, then came back."
I close my eyes, relieved to hear everything's fine. But Gao continues, hesitating.
"A few minutes ago… a man showed up at her apartment."
My eyes snap open. I suddenly remember I'm still wearing the shirt she gave me.
"Who? What did he look like?"
"Mid to late twenties, tall, carrying a backpack. Rang the intercom and she let him in. Looked worried. Stayed inside about fifteen minutes. Then he left."
My jaw tightens. A man? A friend? At this hour? A bitter heat spreads in my chest. He must be someone close for her to let him in at night. A boyfriend, maybe? The thought stabs like a pin. Strangely, I never considered that possibility until now. Of course—Wan Yiran is young, beautiful, smart… why wouldn't she have someone in her life? Damn it, why does that make me angry?
"See anything else?" I ask, trying to sound neutral.
"On his way out, he looked more relaxed. She came out to the balcony and waved him off… kindly. Then she went back inside and turned off all the lights."
"Good. Stay sharp," I manage to say, keeping my tone flat. "Any changes, call me."
I hang up and hand the phone back to Zhang without a word. He glances at me sideways, probably noticing my tension.
"Everything okay, I take it?" he asks carefully.
"Yes," I lie, turning so he won't see my face.
"She's safe?" he presses.
"She's safe."
Thankfully, he doesn't ask more and steps away to make a call.
I'm left alone, trying to chase away the image of Yiran with another man inside her home. It shouldn't bother me. I have no right… And yet, the thought of someone else touching her, worrying about her, worms its way into my head like poison. A guttural sound escapes my throat before I manage to stifle it.
Calm down, I order myself. This isn't the time for emotional distractions. I have a war to fight. There's no room in my life for jealousy, for longing.
And yet here I am, burning to know who the hell that man was and what he means to Yiran.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. Maybe it doesn't matter. Even if he is her partner, maybe that's a good thing. It means she's grounded in her normal life, not in danger, not thinking of me.
Yes… that's better.
Her safe, living her life—far away from the darkness.
And me, handling my bloody business.
I bite the inside of my cheek, rage pulsing just beneath the surface. Of course, none of that changes one thing: if that man ever harms her in any way, I'll tear him apart.
You hear me, Yiran? I think bitterly, knowing she can't. Even if I'm never part of your life… I'll always be watching your shadow.
CHAPTER 4
I'm in the ER, at the hospital, and the usual hustle and bustle has been my best ally to keep my mind in check. Since I arrived early this morning, I haven't had a single moment to think about anything other than my patients. I feel in my element here—taking control, saving lives or at least easing pain, following protocols. Nothing like the improvised madness of fifteen nights ago.
Fifteen nights... it feels like much more. As if years have passed since that encounter with Shi Tong. Maybe because every time my mind drifts back to him, the intensity steals my breath for a second.
"Miss Wan," a nurse, Xiao Li, calls out, pulling me from my thoughts. "The patient in bed five is asking for you."
"I'm on my way," I reply, pulling off my gloves and tossing them into the plastic bin.
I walk between stretchers, attending to requests. My shift is almost over; night has already fallen over Beijing and my body feels heavy, but nothing compared to the emotional fatigue. I'm glad to be back in my routine. Liang hasn't asked anything since that day. I suppose he accepted that I just got sick.
The patient in bed five is an elderly woman with a mild case of pneumonia, whom I treated at the start of my shift. I guess she's bored—her family hasn't arrived yet. As soon as I walk in, she greets me with a wide smile. That's it. She just needs a little company.
I sit beside her, and she begins showing me photos of her grandchildren. Twelve. A whole life devoted to love, because her eyes light up when she talks about them, and a nervous smile tugs at her lips.
"They'll be here soon," I tell her, knowing how much it worries her that they might not come. Despite all she's done for everyone, she still wonders if she's important enough to disrupt their busy lives.
"Thank you for the talk, and for those kind hands of yours," she says when I get up.
I gently squeeze one of her hands.
"Get some rest before they arrive."
As I walk away, her words echo in my mind. Kind hands. I think about all the times these hands of mine have held someone's life. The blood they've wiped away, the heartbeats they've counted—and how they trembled when they held his.
A shiver runs down my spine. No matter how much I bury myself in work, Shi Tong is still there, lingering in a corner of my mind, surfacing at the most unexpected moments. When I tend to a wounded patient, I remember his stifled groan as I stitched him up; when I press gauze to a wound, I recall the feel of his warm blood flowing between my fingers.
I sigh and stop at the nurses' station. Only thirty more minutes to go. I can handle this. Then home, a shower, and sleep. Tomorrow, I start the afternoon shift—maybe I'll finally get a full night of rest… or so I hope.
"Yiran, are you okay?" Xiao Li's voice cut into my thoughts again. The young nurse watches me with concern. "You've been really distracted lately."
I give her a lopsided smile.
"I'm fine, just a little tired."
"You sure?" she lowers her voice conspiratorially. "It's not a broken heart, is it?"
I roll my eyes with a soft laugh.
"Nothing like that, believe me."
I wish I knew what the truth really was.
I finish reviewing a few forms, and finally it's 11:00 p.m. My replacement, Dr. Huang, arrives right on time. I say my goodbyes and switch out of my lab coat into my regular jacket.
*****
The temperature has dropped tonight, so I pull up the collar of my coat and cross my arms over my chest as I exit through the hospital's back door. I prefer this way out—it puts me just two blocks from my apartment and saves me the detour through the main entrance.
The back alley is poorly lit, but I know it well. At this hour, there are usually a few employees out here smoking, but tonight it seems deserted. I quicken my pace, the soles of my sneakers tapping against the cracked pavement.
A metallic sound to my right makes me turn my head in alarm. It's just a cat rummaging through a toppled trash bin. "Calm down," I tell myself, but I still walk faster. Some of that paranoia from that night still lingers.
I round the corner onto my street and relax a little when I see the familiar sign of the 24-hour store at the far end of the block. The glow of lights and faint presence of people, even if scarce, is comforting.
"Hey, beautiful, why are you walking alone?"
A male voice calls out suddenly behind me.
I turn quickly. A disheveled man, reeking of alcohol, flashes me a sleazy grin. He must've stepped out from some dark corner—I didn't see him until he was nearly on top of me.
"Don't bother me," I say sharply and resume walking, heart pounding.
He follows, keeping pace.
"Come on, don't walk away so fast… I just want to talk. You work at the hospital? Maybe you can give me a little private checkup..."
His guttural laugh makes my stomach churn.
I pick up speed, but suddenly he grabs my arm.
"Let go of me," I snap, panic crawling up my spine.
"Don't be so uptight, sweetheart," he slurs, tightening his grip. I can smell the stale sweat on his clothes, the stench of cheap booze. I try to pull free, but his hold hurts.
I glance around, desperate. The convenience store is just a few meters away, but no one's outside now. Why didn't I ask Liang to walk me home tonight? I curse myself silently.
The man begins dragging me toward the shadows.
"Let's have a little fun…"
Terror floods me. No. I'm not going to be a victim, I think, a sudden fury rising. As he shifts his grip slightly, I seize the moment—slam my knee into his groin with all my strength.
"Agh!"
He howls and loosens his hold. I yank free, pulse pounding in my ears.
"You bitch…!" he growls, recovering far too quickly.
Before I can flee, his hand whips across my face in a stinging slap. I stumble, nearly falling. The world tilts and the taste of blood fills my mouth. He lunges at me, gripping my jaw with brutal force.
"You're gonna pay for that, whore…"
Ice-cold panic seizes me. I struggle, whimpering as tears burn my eyes.
And then—
The pressure vanishes.
He's ripped away from me with startling force.