Wei Jiang.
A cooling patch covered his cheek, but the bruising beneath was still fresh—Dong Yingming's doing, from when he'd struck him for his previous failure. He paused and stood there, arms crossed, calm but sharp-eyed. Wei Jiang's expression was unreadable, but the sharpness in his gaze cut clear through the tension in the air.
He walked slowly toward them, slipping his hands in his coat pockets, dark chocolate eyes scanning the aftermath in the corridor—the tension, the look on Dong Yingming's face, the sullen bruises around Chen Bo's neck.
He stopped, assessing everything in a blink.
Then:
"Let me guess…"
Wei Jiang said, voice dry.
"He's sick again."
Dong Yingming didn't answer.
Wei Jiang tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. He gave a small, humorless chuckle.
"Started feeling better, smiling again, then you came knocking. You started hovering again… And now he's in Dr. Zhang's hands again. Is that blood?"
Dong Yingming's expression didn't shift at first, but his breath hitched—just slightly. A flicker of something twisted in his eyes.
Guilt.
Wei Jiang narrows his eyes in scrutiny. He wanted to mock the hypocrisy he saw in Dong Yingming's subtle movements. He dared to feel guilt when he's the cause of Yao Ziyang's suffering?
'Tch. Made him bleed and still want to feel sorry for himself?'
The corridor went dead silent.
Dong Yingming's fists clenched again, the guilt cracking into anger beneath the surface. But he didn't turn.
Not yet.
The words landed like stones in a still pond. Dong Yingming froze in place.
"You ever wonder…"
Wei Jiang continued, voice casual but venomous.
"If maybe he's like this because of you? Every time you come close, he falls apart. You ever consider the possibility that maybe you're the reason he keeps collapsing?"
That did it.
Dong Yingming lunged—only for Chang Xiao to intercept with one arm, sliding between them like a shield.
Dong Yingming turned his head slowly, eyes darkening.
"Careful."
Chang Xiao said, the warning low and ice-cold.
But Wei Jiang wasn't done.
"I'd be sick too…"
He added with a faint smile.
"If I had you pacing like a dog around me day and night. No peace. Just pressure and obsession. Maybe you should stop visiting. Seems like you're the common factor every time he ends up on death's door."
The words struck deeper than Dong Yingming expected.
He turned away, fingers twitching, his jaw clenched so tightly he looked like he might shatter a tooth. The idea that his presence—his feelings—could have triggered Yao Ziyang's collapse gnawed at the foundations of his control.
And worst of all?
He believed it.
Because beneath the anger, beneath the contempt—he could feel it: the guilt.
What if it was him?
What if Yao Ziyang's mysterious illness, his collapses, his fevered episodes… were somehow a reaction to Dong Yingming himself? To his presence? His touch? His gaze?
A terrible thought took root.
Wei Jiang stepped aside slowly, giving him space to pass. His mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Just a thought, Boss Dong, sir."
Dong Yingming said nothing as he walked past—but his jaw was locked, his eyes narrowed, and his entire frame radiated something dangerous. It wasn't just fury at the insult.
It was fear.
Because in that small, needling comment… Wei Jiang had voiced something Dong Yingming had tried not to admit.
That maybe—just maybe—Yao Ziyang wouldn't be so sick if he'd never gotten involved with him at all.
And that thought would haunt him far worse than any enemy's bullet.
Behind him, eyes narrowed. Wei Jiang watched him go, expression dimming slightly. His cheek ached.
But the knot in his chest? That ached more.
Inside the luxurious cell, Yao Ziyang still hadn't woken.
The air still held tension, but the heavy presence of Dong Yingming was gone. His footsteps had long faded down the corridor, taking his stormclouds with him. In his wake, silence returned—only the faint hiss of leaky pipes filled the space.
Wei Jiang stood still for a long moment, staring in the direction the boss and his right hand man had gone, his jaw tight. Then he sighed through his nose, turned and crouched beside Chen Bo, who was still sitting against the wall, dazed and bruised.
"You alright?"
Wei Jiang asked.
Chen Bo looked up, startled at first, then nodded stiffly.
"Yeah. I've taken worse."
Wei Jiang didn't doubt that. He reached out to help Chen Bo to his feet with a firm grip on his arm, his gaze steady.
"Take the next few days off. I'll cover things here."
Chen Bo blinked as he leaned against the cold wall for support.
"Wait, really? But—"
"I'll look after him..."
Wei Jiang cut in, too quickly.
"You've been working too much, and with everything going on... it's better this way."
"You mean… you're gonna stay with him?"
There was a pause.
Wei Jiang didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked toward the cell door, brow creased faintly in worry.
Chen Bo followed his line of sight and gave a weak, dry chuckle.
"Right. You just want to 'help out'."
Wei Jiang's mouth twitched at the corner, not quite denying it.
"Is that a problem?"
"…Just don't get caught by the boss."
"I won't…"
Wei Jiang said, already turning toward the steel door.
"And even if I do… it's worth it."
Chen Bo studied him for a long moment, his tired eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn't stupid. He could see the possessiveness in Wei Jiang's voice, the way he said him—like Yao Ziyang was something fragile and precious, and Wei Jiang wanted him close. Wanted to be needed.
But Chen Bo didn't point it out.
Instead, Chen Bo shook his head and pushed himself off the wall with a quiet grunt.
"Be my guest. But if he starts bleeding again, I'm not taking the blame, alright? Thanks!"
Chen Bo gave him a lingering look—tired, knowing—but didn't press. He brushed dust off his pants and limped away without another word.
Wei Jiang stayed by the door, arms crossed, the tension coiled beneath his skin. Time dragged. Inside, he could hear the murmurs of Dr. Zhang's voice and the occasional clink of instruments.
Then, finally, the door opened, the handle turned with a soft click, and Dr. Zhang stepped out, pulling off a pair of bloodstained gloves with a practiced flick and rubbing at his tired eyes.
"He's stabilized…"
The doctor said without preamble.
"No major damage. The nosebleed looked worse than it was."
Wei Jiang let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He straightened.
"So… not life-threatening? What was it?"
"Not this time…"
Dr. Zhang said, tone firm.
"His blood pressure dropped too fast, likely from standing too quickly while anemic. The nosebleed and fainting were a reaction to low iron levels and stress—not from a fever alone. That said…"
Dr. Zhang explained, his tone tight with lingering irritation.
"That body of his—there's something I still don't understand. The fever shot up too fast… then started dropping again almost as suddenly. It's not viral. It's like his body is responding to something… cyclic."
He frowned, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"His body temperature did spike for a moment, but strangely enough… it's already begun to fall. Almost too fast. It's really the oddest thing"
Wei Jiang frowned, his brows furrowed.
"You're saying it corrected itself?"
Dr. Zhang nodded slowly, then cast a glance down the hallway where Dong Yingming had gone.
"Maybe he just needed peace."
Then, under his breath:
"Or something else entirely."
Wei Jiang caught the tone but didn't ask.
"I'm heading back to my lab…"
Dr. Zhang continued.
"I've been researching my master's old herbal formula—the one I gave him a few days ago. It helped before, but then ran out and when I tried replicating it recently, the effects weren't the same."
"You think it would help him?"
Wei Jiang asked.
"If I get the ratios right—yes…"
Dr. Zhang said, already distracted again by the gears turning in his mind.
"I'm going to spend the night reviewing Master Miao's old journals. Maybe I missed something."
"I'll stay here."
Wei Jiang said simply.
Dr. Zhang grunted.
"Fine. Don't wake him."
The door clicked again, this time shutting with finality behind Dr. Zhang.
Wei Jiang turned, alone again. He reached for the handle, hesitated a beat, then quietly stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of copper and old camphor. A basin of water sat by the bed, still tinted pink. Yao Ziyang lay curled under a blanket, cheeks still faintly flushed from fever, lashes resting on pale skin but peaceful, a damp cloth resting lightly on his forehead. His breathing had evened out. There was no trace of blood on his face anymore—but there was plenty elsewhere.
Wei Jiang's eyes swept the room.
The bloodstained towel lay bunched on the floor beside the bed, the soaked pillowcase, the stained shirt folded hastily on a nearby chair. A streak of red stained the thin sheet where Yao Ziyang had collapsed. Nearby, his nightclothes were crumpled—soft cotton now stiff with dried blood.
A pang, sharp and silent, struck Wei Jiang's chest as he took it in. That someone so delicate had suffered this much in silence… and no one had seen it coming.
'He went through this alone…'
Wei Jiang thought bitterly.
'And I wasn't here.'
He crossed the room in silence, picking up the bloody towel with a gentleness that seemed out of place for someone who had broken noses and ribs in that very hallway. He dropped it into the nearby basin, rinsed out the towel, gathered the ruined clothes, wiped the blood from the frame of the bed then began changing out the linens with slow, deliberate hands.
He moved with slow care, reverent in his silence, like tending to an altar.
He worked carefully, trying not to jostle Yao Ziyang as he peeled back the blankets and replaced the soiled ones. As he tucked the boy in again, he allowed his fingers to graze lightly along Yao Ziyang's forearm—so thin. So warm.
It made something tighten inside him.
Only after the space had been made neat again did he pause and glance toward the bathroom.
Something tugged at his instincts.
Wei Jiang noticed a faint scent in the air—soft, barely-there. Something like warm linen, crushed petals, and—
Him.
Wei Jiang turned toward the bathroom, following the scent like a tether. The door was ajar.
He stepped inside—and stopped.
There, tucked inside the large tiled bathroom, was a…nest?
Nothing elaborate. Just a soft, instinctively built space made from a makeshift arrangement of towels, folded robes, pillows, layered blankets, and even one of Dong Yingming's jackets, faint with cologne, along with other clothes. Everything was arranged with strange precision, a ring of comfort and warmth. It looked private. Hidden.
It was primitive. Intimate. And completely inexplicable.
Wei Jiang's breath caught.
No one had told Yao Ziyang to do this. No one had helped him build it. He'd done it himself.
Wei Jiang stepped closer, heart thudding. He knelt beside it and touched one of the towels. It was still warm.
He didn't understand what he was looking at—not logically—but something deep in him felt it. It didn't make sense. No one else in this prison—hell, this world—would think to do something like this. But for Yao Ziyang, it was instinct.
The nest radiated something raw and personal. A craving for safety. A need to belong. It was warm here, despite the cold tiles. Soft, despite the harsh world outside.
And strangely… it smelled like home.
And suddenly, Wei Jiang understood something with startling clarity.
He was different. Truly different.
Not just frail. Not just delicate. Something other.
Something precious.
A warmth bloomed in his chest, slow and disarming—yet soft and aching. His anger, his jealousy, the bitterness that had poisoned his thoughts earlier—all of it faded into quiet awe.
Yao Ziyang had made this.
This strange little pocket of tenderness in a prison cell.
Wei Jiang sat there for a long time beside the nest, letting his fingers brush the outer edge of the nest, careful not to disturb it. The scent was calming. All at once, he wanted to be closer. To protect. To guard.
To stay.
His gaze drifted back to the bed where Yao Ziyang slept, unaware.
Wei Jiang exhaled slowly. The ache in his heart was no longer bitter. And for the first time in a long while, he didn't think about ranks, or duty, or even Dong Yingming.
He just thought of Yao Ziyang—and how deeply he was falling in love with him.
It was love. And it was getting deeper by the hour.
Before he could think twice, Wei Jiang stripped off his guard uniform jacket and shirt and pulled his undershirt over his head—clean, worn-in, carrying his scent—and gently folded it into the nest. He placed it between the other items like it belonged there.
Then he knelt before the nest, just staring at it.
The warmth he felt wasn't just affection. It was deeper. Like gravity.
He reached up and touched the side of his face, fingers brushing the bruise Dong Yingming had given him a day ago.
He didn't care about that anymore.
Only Yao Ziyang mattered.
Only this.