On the outskirts of the capital, at the PLA General Hospital, in the neurosurgical intensive care unit.
It was deep into the night. The corridor held only the rhythmic beeping of machines and the soft footsteps of nurses. In Ward No. 9, various life-support devices emitted steady, low hums, and the fluctuating lines on the monitors proved that the person on the bed was still alive.
Zhou Chaochao had been lying there for a full three months.
The bullet had entered through her left temple, grazing the cerebral cortex before lodging inside her skull. During the joint operation codenamed “Falcon” along the Myanmar border, she had served as the sniper spotter for the Chinese special operations team, providing crucial intelligence. But during the retreat, while covering her teammates, she had been shot in the head.
The surgery had lasted eight hours.
The bullet had been removed, her life saved—but she had never opened her eyes again.
Every day during rounds, the attending doctor, Xiao Mingyuan, would stand by her bed. Looking at the once valiant female officer now lying there without vitality, he could not help but feel a deep, unspoken regret.
“Director Xiao, Bed 9’s EEG showed some abnormal fluctuations today,” the night-duty nurse reported softly. “They’re still very faint, but more active than in the past few days.”
Xiao Mingyuan looked at the subtle, irregular waves on the EEG monitor, his brows slightly furrowed. Over the past three months, Zhou Chaochao’s brain activity had remained at a low level—a typical sign of prolonged coma. Today’s fluctuation was indeed unusual.
“Continue monitoring. Notify me immediately of any changes.”
“Yes.”
Zhou Chaochao was dreaming.
A long, chaotic, painful dream.
In the dream, she saw Mumu—her twin sister, the one whose eyes curved like crescent moons when she smiled, who had followed behind her since childhood calling, “Sister, wait for me.”
But in the dream, Mumu was not smiling.
She stood on a brightly lit stage, surrounded by glamorous people. Yet only Mumu stood in the corner, untouched by the light. Zhou Chaochao tried to walk toward her, but she could not move her legs.
Then the scene shifted.
Mumu was crying.
She sat in a small room, the glow of her phone illuminating her face as tears fell one by one. Zhou Chaochao wanted to call out to her, to hold her, but her voice was stuck in her throat.
Then came a flood of words.
They surged forward like a black tide, swallowing Mumu whole.
“Sleeping her way up,” “attention-seeker,” “green tea,” “go die”…
Zhou Chaochao saw Mumu struggling within those vicious words, like someone drowning, reaching out for something—yet grasping nothing.
“That’s not true!” Zhou Chaochao shouted in the dream. “My sister is not that kind of person!”
No one heard her.
The scene changed again.
Mumu walked along a dark street, headlights glaring. She moved slowly, her eyes empty, as if her soul had been lost.
Then—the screech of brakes.
Her body flew.
Blood.
Plaster casts.
The harsh white lights of a hospital.
On the hospital bed, Mumu lay covered in thick casts, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. A woman in a business suit cried beside her, holding her hand and saying, “Mumu, don’t be like this.”
Zhou Chaochao recognized her—it was Mumu’s manager, Sister Yang.
She wanted to go closer, to touch Mumu’s face, to tell her, “Sister is here.”
But in the next instant, she saw herself lying on another hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses in white coats, machines beeping steadily.
Two hospital rooms.
Two sisters.
Both unconscious.
“No…” Zhou Chaochao struggled in the dream. “Mumu… Mumu!”
A sharp pain twisted in her chest, as if a hand were gripping her heart tightly.
She had to wake up.
She had to wake up.
Mumu was waiting for her.
“Director Xiao! Bed 9’s vital signs are fluctuating drastically!”
At three in the morning, the call bell at the nurse’s station rang sharply. The on-duty doctors and nurses rushed into Ward No. 9, and Xiao Mingyuan hurried over from the duty room.
On the monitor, her heart rate spiked from a steady 70 beats per minute to 130. Her blood pressure rose, and her oxygen saturation dipped briefly. On the EEG, the previously faint waves surged into pronounced fluctuations—clear signs of impending awakening.
“Prepare sedatives—” Xiao Mingyuan began, then suddenly stopped.
On the bed, Zhou Chaochao’s eyelashes trembled.
Very faint—but unmistakably moving.
Everyone held their breath.
Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
The eyes that had been closed for three months slowly opened a slit.
At first, they were unfocused and dazed. Then her pupils gradually contracted, adjusting to the dim light of the ward.
Zhou Chaochao’s eyes were dark and bright. Even after three months, they still carried the sharpness and alertness of a soldier. She first looked at the ceiling, then slowly moved her gaze, scanning her surroundings—the equipment, the room, the medical staff gathered around her.
She did not speak immediately. She simply observed, as if assessing the situation, confirming safety.
Suppressing his excitement, Xiao Mingyuan stepped forward and spoke in a steady, gentle tone, “Comrade Zhou Chaochao, you’re awake. This is the PLA General Hospital. You’re safe now. I’m your attending doctor, Xiao Mingyuan.”
Her gaze settled on his face for a few seconds before she gave a slight nod.
She could hear. She could understand.
“How do you feel? Any discomfort?” he asked.
Her lips moved, producing a dry, hoarse sound. “Water…”
A nurse immediately moistened her lips with a cotton swab dipped in warm water. Zhou Chaochao swallowed, then spoke again, her voice clearer this time:
“My sister… Zhou Mumu… where is she?”
Xiao Mingyuan was taken aback. He had not expected that to be her first question.
“Your sister?” He glanced at the nurse, who shook her head in confusion. Zhou Chaochao’s admission record listed her as an active-duty soldier, with her unit’s political commissar as her emergency contact—there was no family information.
“I want… to see my sister.” Her voice was weak but carried undeniable resolve.
“You’ve just woken up. Your body is still very weak. You need rest and examinations,” Xiao Mingyuan tried to reassure her. “Once your condition stabilizes, we’ll help you contact your family, alright?”
She said nothing, only stared at him.
There was something in her eyes that made his heart tighten—not the confusion of a newly awakened patient, but an intense clarity, an urgent anxiety.
“Now,” she said. “I want a phone. Or… a call.”
Xiao Mingyuan exchanged a glance with the nurse before finally relenting. “Alright. I’ll request approval from your unit. But before that, you need to undergo examinations to ensure there are no abnormalities from the sudden awakening.”
Zhou Chaochao closed her eyes in silent agreement.
Over the next two hours, the hospital conducted a series of urgent examinations—CT scans, MRI, EEG, and neurological assessments.
The results were astonishing.
Aside from scar tissue in the surgical area of her left temple, the rest of her brain showed no significant damage. Her neural reflexes, cognitive abilities, and language functions were all normal.
“This is practically a medical miracle,” Xiao Mingyuan said, staring at the report in disbelief. “Three months in a coma, and she wakes up with almost no aftereffects… her physical condition and mental resilience are extraordinary.”
By the time Political Commissar Zhao Jianguo arrived, dawn was breaking.
The veteran officer in his fifties looked at Zhou Chaochao sitting on the hospital bed—thin, but clear-eyed—and his own eyes grew moist.
“It’s good that you’ve woken up. Good that you’ve woken up,” he said twice, stepping forward. “How do you feel?”
“Political Commissar.” Zhou Chaochao tried to stand and salute but was gently pressed back down by Zhao Jianguo.
“Stay still. Director Xiao told me—you’re recovering well, but you still need rest.” He sat by her bed and took out a sealed bag from his briefcase. “Your personal belongings. The unit has kept them safe for you.”
Inside were her phone, her military ID, and a few personal items. The phone had no battery.
“Political Commissar,” Zhou Chaochao gripped the phone tightly, her voice tense, “my sister… Zhou Mumu. Do you know how she is? I’ve been unconscious for three months—she must have been worried sick.”
Zhao Jianguo’s expression stiffened slightly.
That subtle change did not escape Zhou Chaochao. Her heart sank.
“Political Commissar?”
He took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze. “Chaochao, there’s something… we had planned to tell you after you stabilized. But since you asked…”
He took out another document—a medical notice.
“A day ago, after assessment, the hospital and the unit agreed that your prolonged coma required notifying your family. We contacted your sister Zhou Mumu’s workplace, but…” He paused. “Her manager answered. She said Mumu recently encountered some… trouble. Her mental state isn’t very good. We asked her to inform Mumu to come to the hospital, but she never came.”
Trouble? Poor mental state?
Zhou Chaochao clenched the bedsheet.
Fragments from the dream resurfaced—Mumu crying, being cursed, lying in a hospital bed…
“What trouble?” she asked, her voice tight.
“We don’t know the details. The manager spoke vaguely, only saying she needed to handle her own matters first.” Zhao Jianguo looked at her pale face, unable to bear it. “Don’t worry. I’ll have someone try contacting them again—”
“No need.” Zhou Chaochao interrupted, her fingers turning white from the force of her grip. “I’ll contact her myself.”
She asked the nurse for a charger and plugged in her phone. The few minutes it took to power on felt like centuries.
Finally, the screen lit up.
Hundreds of missed calls. Hundreds of unread messages.
Most were from “Baby Mumu.”
Starting three months ago—at first: “Sister, when will you come back?” “Sister, I miss you.” Then: “Sister, why aren’t you answering?” “Sister, I’m a little scared.” And in the past week—
“Sister, they’re all scolding me.”
“Sister, I can’t explain it anymore.”
“Sister, where are you…”
The last message, sent at 8:17 p.m. last night:
“Sister, I can’t hold on anymore.”
Her heart felt as if it had been stabbed.
Her trembling fingers opened social media and searched “Zhou Mumu.”
In the next instant, a flood of scandals and insults filled her vision.
#Zhou Mumu Sleeping Her Way Up Confirmed#
#Zhou Mumu Get Out of the Entertainment Industry#
#Zhou Mumu Hypocrite#
Those filthy insults, twisted accusations, maliciously edited videos and screenshots… Zhou Chaochao read through them one by one, her face growing paler, her breathing heavier.
Her sister.
The sister she had protected since childhood.
The one who was pure, kind, and had worked hard for her dream for seven years.
Being trampled like this.
“Chaochao?” Zhao Jianguo noticed something was wrong. “Are you alright? Doctor—”
“I’m being discharged.” Zhou Chaochao suddenly looked up, her eyes bloodshot.
“That’s not possible! You’ve just woken up—you still need observation—”
“My sister is in trouble!” Her voice was hoarse. “She’s waiting for me! I have to go find her!”
“Calm down!” Zhao Jianguo pressed her shoulders. “How can you go in your condition? And we don’t even fully know what happened—”
“I know enough.” Zhou Chaochao pushed his hand away and threw off the blanket, getting out of bed. Her movements were unsteady—after three months, her muscles had atrophied—but gripping the bed rail, she forced herself to stand.
“Political Commissar, I request extended leave.” She looked at him, her gaze terrifyingly resolute. “My sister needs me now. I must go to her.”
Zhao Jianguo looked into her eyes—so similar to the Mumu in her dream, yet now burning with fire—and knew he could not stop her.
After a few seconds of silence, he nodded. “I can approve your leave. But you must promise me two things. First, report your status to the unit every three days.
“Second, if you need any help, contact the unit immediately. You are one of us—if you’re wronged, the army will not ignore it. Submit your leave application in the next couple of days.”
Zhou Chaochao’s eyes reddened. She nodded firmly. “Thank you, Political Commissar.”
A nurse brought her a set of civilian clothes. After changing, she pulled out the IV needle from her hand, ignored the doctor’s attempts to stop her, and walked straight toward the elevator.
“Director Xiao, are we really letting her go?” the nurse asked worriedly.
Xiao Mingyuan watched her straight-backed figure and sighed. “Let her go. Some things are more important than life itself.”
Zhou Chaochao hailed a ride at the hospital entrance.
After getting in, she sent a message to her sister’s manager:
“Sister Yang, this is Chaochao. I’ve just woken up and saw the messages. Where is Mumu now? I’m coming immediately.”
Almost instantly, Yang Li called.
“Chaochao? Is that really you? You… you woke up?” Yang Li’s voice trembled with disbelief and tears.
“It’s me. Where’s Mumu?”
There was a brief silence, then suppressed sobbing.
“Chaochao… something happened to Mumu. She… she was hit by a car. She’s at the Second People’s Hospital, covered in fractures, emotionally shattered… I couldn’t reach you, I… I didn’t know what to do…”
Zhou Chaochao closed her eyes, her nails digging deep into her palm.
Everything from the dream was real.
“Send me the room number. I’ll be there immediately,” she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. “Sister Yang, stay with her until I arrive. Don’t let her do anything foolish.”
“I know… I’ve been staying with her… but Chaochao, Mumu… she won’t eat or drink, she won’t talk… she just stares at the ceiling… I’m afraid she…”
“She’ll be fine,” Zhou Chaochao cut her off, enunciating each word. “Because I’m here.”
After hanging up, she looked out the window at the rapidly receding streets.
The city was just waking up. Morning traffic was beginning to build, sunlight filtering through the gaps between buildings, illuminating dust in the air.
Zhou Chaochao gripped her phone tightly. On the screen was still her sister’s final message:
“I can’t hold on anymore.”
She took a deep breath and silently said in her heart:
Baby Mumu, don’t be afraid.
Sister is here.
Those who bullied you, those who smeared you, those who pushed you to the brink—
Not one of them will get away.
The ride merged into traffic, speeding toward the Second People’s Hospital.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Ji Huaizhou had just finished breakfast with Director Chen and got into his car.
“Mr. Ji, are we heading back to the company?” Old Chen asked.
Ji Huaizhou looked out the window, but in his mind appeared the girl covered in casts from the hospital last night, along with the report Qin Zhou had sent that morning about the internal conflicts within Xingyao Entertainment.