Hospital leadership arrived shortly after, and by then the middle-aged man had been dragged into the conference room for questioning.
Zhong Nian was guided by Liang Yifeng into his office. Her hand was swollen, and Liang Yifeng retrieved some medication from the cabinet to tend to it.
She sat on the temporary hospital bed.
It was late May, the evening sky ablaze with neon hues; the orange glow painted the world in warmth.
Inside Liang Yifeng’s office, Zhong Nian sat on the bed, inhaling the crisp, clean scent of disinfectant. She turned slightly, catching sight of the white curtains swaying with the breeze, their shadows stretching across the floor like a spontaneous watercolor.
The delicate clink of porcelain came from somewhere nearby, and Zhong Nian drew her focus inward, her eyes landing on Liang Yifeng.
He had donned his white coat again. Tall and broad-shouldered, his coat was immaculate, free of a single wrinkle, falling just ten centimeters above his knees.
Sunlight filtered through the window, casting over his upright back. She remembered the two solid blows to it just moments ago.
Zhong Nian glanced down at her own hands, noting how swollen they were—like plump pig’s trotters, red and tender. She touched it gently with her other hand, and a fire-like heat spread through her fingers.
She rose from the bed, standing still.
The sunlight was warm; fragments of gold danced across her hand as a gentle breeze tousled her hair.
Liang Yifeng continued to organize things, his back to her.
Zhong Nian lowered her gaze, then lifted her head and called softly, “Liang Yifeng.”
“Hm.” He closed the cabinet and turned to look at her.
His gold-rimmed glasses rested on his prominent nose, partially obscuring the intensity in his eyes. The lines of his jaw were tense, his lips pressed into a thin line, and he seemed in a sour mood.
Zhong Nian asked, “Your back—still hurting?”
“Not great,” he admitted after a pause.
“You should see a doctor,” she suggested.
“No need.”
He tossed a small bundle toward her. Instinctively, she caught it—it was a pack of medicated plasters.
“You plan to handle it like this?” she asked, surprised.
He nodded noncommittally, adding, “If you have time, you could apply some of the ointment as well.”
Something about that phrasing made her pause.
“Wait… you want me to apply it?” she asked, carefully.
His raised brow left no ambiguity.
She hesitated. “There are plenty of nurses outside…”
Her refusal was so quick, he hadn’t even had time to prepare himself for rejection.
It was as if the “can’t control” moment from ten minutes ago had been nothing but a dream—clear and tangible, down to every sunbeam falling on her face, every measured breath she took.
Liang Yifeng lifted the corner of his lips, expressionless. “Not willing?”
His coldness could take many forms. True coldness—keeping strangers at bay, leaving acquaintances untouched. Indifferent coldness, distant yet elegant. And then, a touchable cold—ice meeting the sea, where warmth floats and melts.
She explained, “I’m not delicate, but your injuries are best handled by a professional.”
Reasonable, yet irrelevant to him.
Liang Yifeng’s idea of reason and appropriateness always centered on her and himself.
What pleased him was reasonable; what ensured her smooth path was appropriate.
The world beyond their orbit—irrelevant.
His dark eyes fixed on hers. “Can you apply the ointment?”
Zhong Nian stared at him, part exasperated, part confused. Seconds passed, then she replied, “I can… but I’m not skilled. Is that alright?”
A flicker of delight passed through his eyes. Nothing is impossible. My life is yours.
He stepped deliberately to the bed, turned his back to her, and removed his coat.
Without it, he was no one but hers. Beneath, he wore a pristine white shirt, spotless, flawless.
His slender fingers lifted, tracing a graceful arc in the light. One by one, he unbuttoned his shirt, exuding the poise of a classical noble from an old film, every motion dignified and commanding.
Bare-chested now, he sat before her.
Zhong Nian stood, her gaze level with his shoulders.
Though lean, his body revealed underlying muscle tone. His skin, unusually pale under the sunlight, almost translucent. She parted his shirt to inspect his back—straight, strong, marred by the two bruises streaked with red.
She focused, “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.”
Her fingertips were cool against the bruised flesh.
If dying could earn even a fragment of her willing heart, he would.
She applied the ointment, clumsy yet intent. Her careful fumbling stood in stark contrast to her normally precise, meticulous nature.
As she worked, his eyes closed, the warm touch of her hand brushing over his back felt like a lover’s caress.
Light grew heavier—like a kiss falling on heated skin.
The room belonged only to them.
Every cell of his back, every pulse of blood, responded to her presence, as incessant as the summer cicadas’ song.
He opened his eyes to see their reflection on the floor.
Light and shadow intertwined; it appeared as if she leaned over him, lips brushing his skin with rose-tinted warmth.
“Done,” she said, breaking the silence.
Liang Yifeng regained himself. He saw her step back a few paces, maintaining a careful distance.
A hint of loss passed through his eyes; he curled his lips into a self-mocking smile.
“Let’s leave it for now,” Zhong Nian said. “I think we should hold off on the plasters.”
“Mm.”
A quiet moment passed.
She cleared her throat, “You should put your shirt back on.”
His lips pressed tight, “A little sore.”
“I can get a doctor for you,” she offered, moving.
He caught her hand. “No need.”
After a moment, he released her, standing slowly to don his shirt.
Once dressed, his phone rang. He answered, emotionless, then hung up.
“Did you call the police?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He considered for a moment, then said, “Let’s go—the police are here.”
Zhong Nian followed him down several corridors, noting the tension in his mood.
“You think calling the police was a bad idea?” she asked hesitantly.
“No,” he replied.
“But Doctor Liang didn’t want me to call,” she said, quietly.
He comforted her, “Everyone has their reasons.”
Hospitals, too.
In recent years, medical disputes had become frequent. A single incident could tarnish a hospital’s reputation. The world often watches, criticizes, and judges from a distance; real action is rare.
Zhong Nian, newly returned to China, understood little of the current societal norms. She could not reconcile herself with such a system.
Victims of assault are often blamed for their clothing—absurd, she thought. Abroad, such clothing is unremarkable, and assaults are still condemned.
She recalled her college trip to Athens. Even in the oppressive heat at the Acropolis, she had worn a sheer dress and removed her outer layer, leaving only a bra. Her British companion was unconcerned; locals did not react with shame.
Stop blaming the victim for what they wear, she reflected bitterly.
She halted, drawing Liang Yifeng’s gaze.
They were no more than ten meters from the conference room. Twilight had begun to fade into night, neon lights awakening in the cityscape.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What do you think?” she countered.
“What?”
“If you were me, would you call the police? Or let it go?”
He gave a thin, detached smile. “Everyone has their reasons.”
“And yours? Like Doctor Liang, letting it slide even though the victim is you?” she pressed, rare intensity in her voice, her sharpness like spines on a hedgehog.
Liang Yifeng said nothing; his eyes darkened, inscrutable.
After a long moment of silence, Zhong Nian chuckled softly, self-deprecatingly. “I was wrong. I’ll go tell the police now. I reported the wrong case.”
She strode past him, her posture cold, distant, resolute.
Abruptly, she was held, pressed against the wall.
For the second time that day, her back met a firm surface—but unlike before, this time a hand supported her, and no pain reached her.
A shadow loomed before her. Only the two of them remained in the corridor, silent.
His face drew near; warm breath brushed hers. His sharp eyes, tilting at the corners, were irresistibly compelling.
He sneered lightly. “What do you take me for?”
He paused, then continued, “I won’t call the police, Zhong Nian. I will deal with him myself.”
Not because he struck me—but because he harbored ill intentions toward you.
Zhong Nian, my life is worthless.
Only when acting for you does it hold even the smallest, humblest value.