Rui couldn't sleep that night. He paced the length of his apartment, round and round, the deleted message ringing in his ears like a siren. His body was worn out with fatigue, but his mind was worse cacophonous, loud, yelling things he did not want to say. He had not helped the patient flee. Not explicitly. But he had turned his head. And now, Meilin had discovered his file. The one he'd kept hidden.
Morning dawned with gray clouds and not a glimpse of relief. Qingmei Medical Center hummed to life in the same way every morning — the halls filled with footsteps, nurses dashing by with charts, the pagers chirping like impatient birds. But beneath the surface, tension still lingered.
Meilin leaned against the reception counter, actually reading the patient board but her gaze involuntarily drifting to Rui as he walked by. Something was not right with him. She knew him long enough to recognize when he was affecting a calm.
He did not say hi to her. Not even a look. That in itself was suspicious.
"Why are you acting like we don't already know that something occurred?" she demanded, catching up to him in the diagnostic wing hallway.
Rui hesitated, his jaw clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Rui."
He took a deep breath, still avoiding her gaze. "Just let it go, Meilin. Please."
She wasn't used to seeing him like this. Defensive. Shaky. Small. He'd always been the rock — the one who laughed the loudest, stayed the calmest, knew when to joke and when to listen. But today, it was like someone had cracked that armor and let all the noise spill out.
"You know I can't do that," she said softly. "Especially not with you."
That's when he looked at her. And his eyes — they weren't angry. They were scared.
"Not now," he whispered. "I can't talk now."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away.
At lunch, the intern lounge was unusually quiet again. Jiahao sat with his sandwich untouched, eyes glued to his phone. Chen Yan was chewing gum aggressively, tapping her foot with zero patience.
"Okay, does anyone else feel like we're living in a suspense drama?" she finally said.
"Feels more like a ticking time bomb," Jiahao muttered.
Meilin walked in, dropped her tray on the table, and sat with a thud. She didn't even look up.
"You talked to Rui?" Jiahao asked.
She nodded.
"And?"
"And he's falling apart."
Chen Yan leaned forward. "You think he's involved?"
"No," Meilin said quickly. "But I think he's hiding something for someone."
Chen Yan leaned back. "God, this is messy."
Jiahao's eyes snapped to attention. "Wait. You remember the guy in the burn unit? The one who was always asking about supply access last week?"
Meilin raised an eyebrow. "You think he's involved?"
"I don't know. But it's strange, right? Why would a guy recovering from second-degree burns care so much about where oxygen tanks are stored?"
The three of them exchanged a glance. It wasn't absolute evidence. But it was a strand.
Later that day, Meilin was paged to the emergency wing. Code orange — patient is unresponsive, oxygen saturation declining rapidly. She sprinted without deliberation, heart racing, mind clear. It was only when she arrived at the ICU bed that she saw who it was.
Dr. Zhao Yichen.
He was lying on the floor, unconscious, lips white, a small oxygen tank overthrown next to him. The nurse was already giving him CPR.
"No idea," the nurse panted. "He just fell down. No warning."
Everything went fuzzy. Yichen was more than a senior. He was the one who always made her notice. Who kidded around when everything else was so serious. Who pushed her in a way others did not. Who always seemed invincible. But he was here now — helpless. Human.
"Get the toxicology kit!" she yelled.
The nurse struggled. Another physician came in — Dr. Wen Lian's — took over compressions.
And Meilin just stood there, numb, as she watched the strongest person she knew, fall.
Hours passed and Yichen stabilized but remained unconscious, being monitored. Dr. Wen Lian took over and closed the emergency wing to non-staff. Nobody was talking out loud, but everybody knew. This wasn't random. Somebody had attacked him.
Meilin sat outside the ICU, her head in her hands, mind reeling. Her fingers shook. Her chest constricted too tightly. It wasn't shock. Not exactly. It was something more to do with her. Something more to do with her heart.
Rui sat down beside her, not a word at first. Just sat there, motionless, as if if he moved too much, he'd shatter.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually.
She glared up at him, eyes pinched. "Why?"
-----
He didn't reply immediately.
Then he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "The one I erased yesterday? It was about Yichen. They were plotting something. I didn't think it'd be so soon."
-----
Meilin gazed at him, the pieces falling into place. "Who's 'they,' Rui?"
He delayed.
And then: "I can't say. Not yet."
She stood up, her face furious. "He might have died! You could've prevented this!"
"I know."
His voice broke.
"I know, Meilin. I'm sorry."
She didn't know what was more painful — what had become of Yichen, or that Rui had known and not done anything about it. She turned away, saying nothing more.
She spent the evening sitting by Yichen's bedside past visiting hours. The machines beeped softly, the room dark only for the faint light of the monitor. His face was still now, breathing regular, color restored to his lips.
"I hate the way you're so quiet," she whispered. "You never get a word in edgewise when I'm trying to think."
She leaned over and put her hand out, took his gently.
"I need you to wake up, okay? Because you're the only one who doesn't lie to me. And I'm so tired of being lied to."
Her voice cracked at the end. But she didn't cry.
Not yet.
She simply held his hand and waited.
Outside, Rui sat in the dark courtyard, phone in hand again. The same number flashed on his screen. A message remained unopened.
"You're in too deep now. Keep your mouth shut or he's next."
He had no idea who 'he' was. But he didn't care.
He erased the message, locked the phone, and got to his feet.
He was finished being afraid.