Nearly ten months had passed since the incident, and quite a while since his official resignation. Because of the harassment, he had changed his phone number, but he had used this number to contact the hospital during his resignation process. His medical license registration hadn’t been moved because he hadn’t found a new job, but he had put the matter aside recently. Since the hospital hadn’t contacted him, he figured they were calling about the license.
However, what the Personnel Chief said was unexpected.
“Dr. Ming, I noticed you haven’t moved your license yet. Have you not found a new job?”
“Not yet. Once I find one, I’ll come by to move it.”
“In that case, Dr. Ming, would you like to come back to work? Your resignation application hasn’t been fully processed by the Health Commission yet, so you aren’t technically ‘fully’ resigned,” the Chief explained. “The people in your department say they can’t carry out many tasks without you. Several research projects can’t move forward—the National Natural Science Foundation project you were leading, two provincial ones, several municipal ones… They don’t know what to do without you.”
Back when the online outrage and offline harassment were at their peak, the Personnel and Medical Affairs departments had taken turns lecturing him. Even the Vice President had stepped in, saying the hospital could keep him, but since he’d caused so much “trouble,” he would have to be moved away from clinical duties to the library or the supply room. If he refused, his only choice was to resign; they absolutely could not keep him in a clinical position.
The moment he wrote his resignation letter, they immediately posted an announcement on their social media saying he had “voluntarily resigned.” At the time, there had clearly been other options—sending him away for a fellowship until the storm passed, letting him take a long medical leave, or moving him to a purely research-based role.
He had fought for these options, but the hospital leadership refused every single one. Offering the library or the supply room to a PhD and Associate Chief Physician with ten years of experience was a calculated insult. It was a tactic designed to force him out by wounding his pride.
Ming Zhifei found it somewhat ironic. “Wouldn’t it be a lot of trouble for the hospital if I went back to work?” he asked. “People throwing eggs and causing a scene every day?”
“It’s not like that at all,” the Personnel Chief replied. “Lately, many people have been calling to apologize to you. They say they misunderstood you before, that you’re a great doctor. Some are even protesting, saying we shouldn’t have let you resign… Wait, Dr. Ming, don’t you know about the post?”
Ming Zhifei told the Chief he needed to think about it. About ten minutes later, he received another call—this time from the retired former Department Head. After some small talk, she cut to the chase: the department was struggling without him. When she retired, a position had opened up; once the original Associate Chief was promoted, Ming Zhifei was the top candidate for the vacancy, being the only one truly getting things done.
But after his “incident,” the hospital had parachuted in an outside Director. The original Associate remained an Associate. Over the last few months, this outsider proved so incompetent that the Associate led nearly all the gynecological oncology doctors in a collective protest to the President.
The outsider failed their probation and fled. Now, clinical work and research were in shambles. The Associate wanted the promotion but had no one like Ming Zhifei to do the actual heavy lifting—anyone else they assigned to research either dragged their feet or made a mess of it. Once the tides of public opinion turned, the Associate thought of Ming Zhifei and begged the retired Head to talk him into coming back as the “Number Two” to clean up the wreckage.
“Besides, your resignation isn’t even official yet; the Health Commission hasn’t approved it. You have a permanent post, right? Resigning from a permanent position is very complicated. You changed your number, so they couldn’t reach you.
They’ve already come to the hospital twice to investigate whether your resignation was truly voluntary. Dr. Ming, since that post came out, the public knows the fault wasn’t with the doctor, but with the patient’s family. You were right to hide for a while. Everyone was afraid to disturb you, but it’s all over now. Come back; the whole department feels they can’t function without you.”
Ming Zhifei didn’t give a direct answer, saying he needed more time to think. He felt the hospital’s change in attitude was staggering. Was it really because of this “post”?
Having been savaged on social media before, Ming Zhifei had uninstalled all those apps. Driven by curiosity, he redownloaded the one where the attacks had been most vicious.
Likely due to the algorithm, he quickly found the “Truth Revealed” series. An account had posted several threads, using images and text to expose exactly what the deceased woman had endured at the hands of her husband, and how that husband had used her death to blackmail the innocent hospital and doctor.
It detailed how the amniotic fluid embolism was unrelated to medical malpractice, explaining that surgery had been the only hope. It even included the first-instance court judgment proving the family’s lawsuit for extortion had failed, clearing Ming Zhifei’s name.
For some reason, these posts had gone viral. The top comments were filled with heartfelt gratitude from people Ming Zhifei had saved in the past. The logic was clear, the evidence was ironclad—not an emotional rant, but a professional exposé, including recorded phone interviews with the woman’s parents. They confirmed the abuse by the ex-son-in-law and called him the real killer, revealing that they were the ones caring for the two young granddaughters while the father had vanished.
The sequence of the posts and the timing of the “leaks” were masterful, looking exactly like the work of someone with deep experience in public relations.
Who could have done this? The hospital’s logic was always to minimize trouble; they would gladly sacrifice him to stop the fire from spreading to the leadership. Back then, any mention of “President” or “Procurement” in the comments resulted in his voice being silenced. His reputation had suffered largely because the leadership banned him from speaking, wanting only to settle and force him out. The hospital would never have guided public opinion to restore his name.
Was it the parents? No, they were honest, simple people who had been too terrified of their son-in-law to speak up, likely hoping for a payout themselves. Ming Zhifei had begged them for help early on, but they had shut him out.
His lawyer? No, the lawyer worked for a fee and consulted him on everything; they hadn’t spoken since the first verdict.
Just then, Ming Zhifei heard movement in the bedroom. He checked the time: 9:30 AM. It was time for Yang Jianzhen to wake up. A flash of intuition struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Yang Jianzhen emerged from the room in his pajamas, stretching. Being so tall, he lowered his arms to clear the doorway and smiled warmly. “Morning, Zhifei.”
“Morning.” He was getting used to saying “Jianzhen” now, though he rarely addressed him so pointedly. “Jianzhen, did you post those threads to clear my name?”
Yang Jianzhen blinked, then laughed, sitting down beside him. “Did they work?”
“The hospital called to ask me back.” Ming Zhifei stared at him.
“Are you going back?” Yang Jianzhen reached out, touching Ming Zhifei’s hair, which had grown out a bit.
“I don’t know,” Ming Zhifei said, looking into his eyes. “Thank you, Jianzhen. Truly, thank you.”
“I took the liberty of using the grocery money you gave me as a PR budget. What are you going to do about it?” Yang Jianzhen smiled, sliding his fingers deep into Ming Zhifei’s hair.
Ming Zhifei didn’t pull away from the intimate gesture. Sometimes Yang Jianzhen would play with his hair while taking off his glasses, looking at his face as if admiring a piece of art. Though Ming Zhifei didn’t know why he did it, he had stopped resisting.
In two weeks, the leg would be healed, and Yang Jianzhen would leave. No matter what Yang Jianzhen did to him now, or for what reason, Ming Zhifei felt these were moments that would never happen again. Every day, every minute, every second—once they passed, they were gone forever.
“I’ll transfer more money to you,” was the only answer Ming Zhifei could come up with.
Yang Jianzhen laughed, withdrawing his hand from his hair to pinch Ming Zhifei’s cheek. “Zhifei, you really aren’t afraid of me scamming you. If it were anyone else, you’d be broke and sleeping under a bridge by now.”
“I’m a good judge of character,” Ming Zhifei told him. “You won’t lie to me. I trust you.”
“A good judge of character? Then how did you end up in that marriage?” Yang Jianzhen didn’t believe a word of it. He felt it was a miracle Ming Zhifei hadn’t been sold off to some scam center in Southeast Asia yet.
“That wasn’t poor judgment; it was because my imagination of the future was too narrow and rigid,” Ming Zhifei said after a moment’s thought. “My ex-wife… she’s actually a decent person.”
“Decent?” Yang Jianzhen made a scoffing sound through his nose.
“Yes, she’s fine in every respect. She’s kind-hearted.”
“So kind-hearted that she dumped you the moment you hit rock bottom?”
Ming Zhifei looked up. Yang Jianzhen looked irritable, running a hand through his own hair—three months in, it had grown longer too, and with every inch, Ming Zhifei felt his appearance shifting. He remembered the first time he saw him on the floor, hair shoulder-length; even injured, he had looked incredibly beautiful.
“Are you taking my side?” Ming Zhifei smiled and patted Yang Jianzhen’s head. At this length, the hair was no longer prickly. “Thank you.”
Seeing Ming Zhifei’s smile, Yang Jianzhen looked helpless. “I really… I don’t know what to do with you.”
Ming Zhifei laughed more openly. Yang Jianzhen stared blankly at the smile—because Ming Zhifei rarely showed much expression, his laugh was as rare as a total solar eclipse, like melting ice or spring flowers.