Yang Jianzhen allowed himself to be led submissively to the bed. As he lay back, he took a “pitiful” sip of the sugar water Ming Zhifei had mixed for him.
Seeing him look so fragile—the swelling gone but the bruises still a haunting purple against his pale skin—Ming Zhifei felt a surge of professional and personal pity. This man was so much younger than him, yet his life was a wreckage of tragedy. Ming Zhifei’s movements became even gentler.
The first impression of a smooth-talking, exhausting manipulator had faded. Ming Zhifei now rationalized the clinging and the hugging as a lack of security; the boy was likely terrified of being abandoned after Ming Zhifei had stayed out so late. He scolded himself for being oversensitive to the physical contact.
“The verdict was delivered today. It was better than expected—I was found not liable, and the plaintiff’s claim for compensation was dismissed,” Ming Zhifei explained, surprised by his own urge to justify his absence. “I was grateful to my lawyer, so I treated him to a meal. Then I went to buy a phone, which is why I’m late.”
Yang Jianzhen watched him with wide eyes, processing the fact that Ming Zhifei was explaining himself. In that moment, with Ming Zhifei’s downcast lashes and the way his eyes finally met his, Yang Jianzhen felt his heart lurch and gallop so violently he feared he was actually falling ill.
Ming Zhifei offered a small, rare smile. “I bought a phone for you. That way, if I’m out, you can call me.”
Yang Jianzhen stared blankly. Time seemed to stretch into infinity. He watched Ming Zhifei purse his lips, reach into a shopping bag, and hand him a box. He watched the slight upward curve of the man’s mouth, the flutter of his eyelids—and for a heartbeat, Yang Jianzhen forgot to breathe.
“For… for me?”
“Yes. I set up a SIM card under my name as well. The data should be enough. It’ll do for now.”
Ming Zhifei turned and left the room. Yang Jianzhen dropped the bag and pressed his hands to his burning cheeks. His mind was a dizzying blur. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t find the words to describe a feeling. It was a vast, terrifyingly new landscape. He pressed a hand to his chest; his heart was still racing.
It was like being lost in the wilderness, wandering without a path, only to crest a hill and find a sprawling valley of flowers, dew-kissed and glowing in the morning sun.
Yang Jianzhen sat up, grabbed his crutch, and limped back to the kitchen. Ming Zhifei had finished the tomato and eggs and was scooping them onto a plate. The tomatoes were still in chunky blocks—not the silky sauce Jianzhen preferred—and the eggs were overcooked and tough, forced into an awkward union on the plate. Normally, Yang Jianzhen wouldn’t have touched it. Now, he took the bowl Ming Zhifei handed him and silently ate every single bite.
It was too salty. The eggs were rubbery. The flavors hadn’t melded at all. He didn’t intend to say a word of it.
“Were you that hungry?” Ming Zhifei asked, notably more talkative than usual.
“Starving.” Despite being unable to lie and call it delicious, Yang Jianzhen smiled brightly. “Thank you for cooking for me, Fei-ge.”
Unused to gratitude, Ming Zhifei merely smiled and stayed silent.
“Fei-ge, did you win the lawsuit then?” Yang Jianzhen asked.
“Yes. Though I don’t know if the other side will appeal.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Ming Zhifei lowered his gaze. “It was a big story last year. You might have seen it on social media…”
As Ming Zhifei spoke, Yang Jianzhen began to piece it together.
Near the end of last year, a man had posted a viral video, weeping as he accused a doctor at the Third Affiliated Hospital of Lingnan Medical University. He claimed the doctor had terrified his wife into a C-section she didn’t want, then botched the surgery so badly she suffered a massive hemorrhage, requiring a hysterectomy to save her life.
Upon learning she could never bear more children, the wife had allegedly jumped from the 26th floor of the hospital, leaving behind a newborn, a three-year-old daughter, and a grieving husband. Yang Jianzhen remembered the public outcry: “Kill the quack,”
“Hospitals do anything for money,”
“They probably caused the bleeding on purpose to charge for the extra surgery.”
The doctor had been doxxed; people had threatened to hunt him down.
Yang Jianzhen hadn’t paid much attention at the time, only wondering briefly how such a prestigious hospital could employ a “quack.”
“I remember the news. I didn’t realize the doctor was you. But I don’t believe you’re the kind of doctor he described. What’s the real story?”
Ming Zhifei was silent for a long time. “The patient had a scarred uterus from her first C-section. For safety, the attending physician advised against a natural birth for the second.
The patient and her parents agreed and signed the consent forms. But during the procedure, she suffered an amniotic fluid embolism. To save her life, we had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. I was the senior on-call consultant that day. I didn’t perform the C-section, but I was the one called in to handle the crisis and perform the hysterectomy.
The patient was unconscious. Her husband was nowhere to be found. Her parents, desperate to save her, signed the papers. After the surgery and a transfusion of nearly 10,000 milliliters of blood, we saved her. But because both her children were girls, her husband showed up on the third day and started a riot, screaming that we cut out her uterus without his permission.
The patient likely had postpartum depression. Seeing her husband’s irrationality and his abuse of her parents… she jumped that night.”
“Was the embolism caused by the surgery?”
“No. It’s a random, catastrophic event. Like a lottery from God. Even now, the mortality rate is fifty percent,” Ming Zhifei said with a self-deprecating air. “At the time, we were relieved to have saved her. Without the hysterectomy, she would have died on the table. But in the end… we still didn’t save her.”
“The husband… he was using the media to frame you, wasn’t he?” Yang Jianzhen recognized the pattern—it was the same tactic used against him.
“I don’t know. But people started booking appointments just to come to the clinic and curse at me. Some spat at me or threw eggs. My phone and the hospital’s lines were flooded with abuse. Eventually… I couldn’t work anymore.”
“I bet he didn’t want justice. He wanted a payout,” Yang Jianzhen remarked.
Ming Zhifei didn’t mention the physical harm he’d suffered later from the family. He only said, “Perhaps. But I believe I did nothing wrong. I refused to settle, so he sued me and the hospital.”
Yang Jianzhen noticed Ming Zhifei’s hand, resting at his side, was clenched into a trembling fist. He reached out and covered it with his own.
“Fei-ge, it’s okay. You won. You weren’t wrong.” Yang Jianzhen hadn’t thought it through before speaking, but now, listening to the man, he realized Ming Zhifei’s greatest regret wasn’t the lawsuit or the ruined career—it was the loss of the patient’s life. He spoke of his own suffering as if he were a bystander.
Is that why he ran into my house to save me when he heard a struggle, without knowing if it was safe? Is that why he takes care of me over and over?
Yang Jianzhen thought of the bag of charcoal. This man had an obsession with saving others’ lives while being completely indifferent to his own.
I need to throw that charcoal away as soon as possible.
“Yes. I know,” Ming Zhifei said with a faint smile. He gently withdrew his hand and began clearing the table.
“Fei-ge, I think the balcony looks a bit empty with just succulents. Shall we go pick out some roses tomorrow?” Yang Jianzhen followed him into the kitchen on his crutch.
“You like roses?” Ming Zhifei turned on the tap, rinsing the dishes. He began to soap them—despite being unskilled at most chores, he was surprisingly proficient at washing dishes.
“I do. Roses are beautiful.” Yang Jianzhen stood right behind him. He watched the curve of Ming Zhifei’s neck—pale, slender, and vulnerable. The hair at the neck was buzzed short, exposing a neat hairline. To Yang Jianzhen, even that hairline was beautiful.
He must be losing his mind.
Ming Zhifei listened to his response, pondered for a moment, and then asked, “Do you like beautiful things?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t?” Yang Jianzhen stared at Ming Zhifei’s profile.
Ming Zhifei’s chin lifted slightly as he finished tidying the rag, hanging it up, and switching off the range hood light. In the sudden transition from light to shadow, his features seemed to soften.
“But a thing isn’t just its beauty. When flowers wither and leaves dry up, they aren’t beautiful anymore.” Ming Zhifei lowered his head, a shadow of a smile flickering and vanishing instantly. “Watching something go from beautiful to… not, wouldn’t that make you sad?”
“That’s just the law of nature. What’s there to be sad about? At least it was beautiful once.”
“Then let’s buy them. I’ll go; you can’t leave the house yet.”
“Then remember to video call me when you get to the florist. I want to pick them out.”
“Okay. What color roses do you want?”
“White. I like white ones.” Yang Jianzhen stared at Ming Zhifei’s long, slender fingers, which seemed to glow with a faint translucence. Beads of water clung to his skin as he stacked the bowls and chopsticks into the cupboard.
“I thought you liked more vibrant colors.” Ming Zhifei was a bit surprised. He hadn’t seen Yang Jianzhen wear anything white; though he had some monochrome pieces, most of his wardrobe could only be described as a riot of color.
“Vibrant colors are for showing off pale skin. But white… white can complement every other color.” Yang Jianzhen was certain he was ill; otherwise, why would his hand reach out, almost of its own accord, to touch Ming Zhifei’s?
Because they were both holding the same bowl, Ming Zhifei looked up at him. “Do you need this bowl?”
With their hands side-by-side, the difference in skin tone was obvious—even though Jianzhen considered himself quite fair.
“No. I just thought it looked a bit crooked.”