And somewhere, in that broken little grin, was something terrifying:
Hope.
...
The night was long and sleepless.
Dong Yingming hadn't even blinked for what felt like hours.
He hadn't moved from the chair since he'd forced Wei Jiang out hours earlier. The seat was stiff and unforgiving, but he didn't care. He didn't so much as shift, afraid even the slightest disturbance might somehow worsen Yao Ziyang's condition.
Dong Yingming sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them, staring down at the boy who had become the one vulnerability he could neither kill nor ignore. The room was dim, lit only by the softest hue of pre-dawn seeping through the narrow slit of a window.
Yao Ziyang remained still, chest gently rising and falling beneath the blanket. The fever was truly gone now. His skin was cooler to the touch. His lips had regained a faint hint of color. Every so often he stirred in sleep, just barely—a twitch of the fingers, a subtle flick of the lashes—but never woke.
Dong Yingming hadn't moved from his side once. He'd stayed up all night in the battlefield before.
He'd endured tortures, interrogations, the bone-deep cold of the world's worst conditions. But nothing compared to this agony—the waiting, the not knowing, and most of all, his mind was loud with the echo that haunted his ears:
"Brother Way… don't go…"
The words had looped in his head like a blade drawn slowly over his pride.
He remembered when he was the one Yao Ziyang reached for. When, in a fever dream just days ago, Yao Ziyang had whispered his name—Brother Dong —with soft lips, trembling fingers stretched and searched for him.
But now?
Wei Jiang.
A subordinate. A tool. A man he had struck more than once without care and nearly discarded.
And Yao Ziyang had asked for him.
That moment—Yao Ziyang reaching out, desperate even in unconsciousness—had carved itself deep into Dong Yingming's memory like a brand.
Yao Ziyang, when helpless and fevered, had pleaded for someoneelse.
'Because I wasn't there. Because I disappeared when he needed me the most.'
He clenched his fists on his lap. Dong Yingming's fingers tightened until the bones in his knuckles ached. His eyes, sharp and rimmed with sleeplessness, never left his lover's face. The boy looked peaceful now, skin no longer flushed, the terrible crimson dried and cleaned away.
But the guilt didn't fade with it.
'This is your fault…'
The voice inside him whispered.
'You were gone. You made him feel abandoned. You let him think he couldn't call for you anymore.'
"I said I'd protect you…"
Dong Yingming murmured, voice low and hoarse.
"But I hid instead. I watched from a distance. I thought… if I got too close, you'd end up like the others. That I'd curse you too."
His eyes trailed over the soft curve of Yao Ziyang's cheek, the faint flutter of his lashes.
Dong Yingming slowly leaned back in the chair, his hands covering his face.
He had brought Yao Ziyang here for revenge. Had thought to use him. Manipulate his bloodline to take down the family that betrayed him.
And instead—he had fallen in love with him.
That love had turned possessive. Desperate. Ugly, even.
But real.
"I don't know how to love something without destroying it."
Now that he had seen the fragility of Yao Ziyang's body, heard his voice reach not for him but for another, it felt like punishment. A consequence of choosing vengeance over care.
Never again.
There was a long pause. The cell's walls stood quiet, still heavy with night.
He sat forward, took Yao Ziyang's hand carefully in his own, and whispered like a vow:
"I won't do that anymore…"
Dong Yingming whispered.
"I won't stay away. I won't vanish. From now on, when you open your eyes… I'll be here. Not just today. Not just because of guilt or shame. Because I want to be the one you rely on. The one you reach for. Even if I don't deserve it—I'll make myself deserve it."
He brushed his thumb along Yao Ziyang's knuckles, his gaze softening for the first time in hours.
"I'll do better. I swear it."
And then—
A pale light broke across the floor.
Outside, the faintest hint of dawn began to leak through the large, reinforced windows. The shadows lifted slowly from the stone walls, warm light bleeding across the cell like something sacred.
Dong Yingming looked up.
Morning.
It felt like the first sunrise after a war. A quiet, divine signal that not all was lost. That something could still be saved.
The first rays of dawn spilled through the window, gold and thin, tracing a line along the carpeted floor to the edge of the queen-sized bed, where it touched Yao Ziyang's still hand like a quiet anointment.
The light was soft. Humble. And yet something in it stirred a deep ache in his chest.
To Dong Yingming, it didn't feel like sunrise.
It felt like salvation.
He moved slowly, quietly. His joints ached from the stillness, but he made no sound. He adjusted Yao Ziyang's blanket, brushing one last strand of hair from his forehead, and then came a knock at the cell door—sharp and urgent.
It opened slightly and Chang Xiao stepped halfway in
Chang Xiao's eyes flicked over him—tired, unshaven, clearly worn—but he said nothing about it. Instead, he gave a single nod, his breath caught from running.
"He's here!"
Chang Xiao said.
"Master Miao just arrived."
Dong Yingming stood slowly, careful not to wake Yao Ziyang even though he hadn't stirred in hours. He gave his lover's hand one final squeeze before releasing it gently onto the blanket.
Dong Yingming's gaze sharpened. The weight that had hung over him for days didn't vanish—but it shifted, drawn inward into the hardened calm of a man who knew his next move.
He straightened his jacket, the exhaustion in his bones no longer able to dull the steel in his resolve.
Help had come.
And no matter the price, no matter what came next—
It would be Dong Yingming who stayed. Who waited.
"Bring him."
He said.
"Now."
And as the morning light spilled further into the cell room they lived in, Dong Yingming stood taller.
If this was divine grace, then he would seize it.
If this was a second chance—he would never waste it again.
He would not let Yao Ziyang slip through his fingers again.
…
The gates of First Prison loomed like a wound in the earth.
Miao Ruiming stood before the iron gates of First Prison, hands folded neatly behind his back, white coat brushing lightly against his slacks in the breeze. The compound before him was a bleak sprawl of concrete and iron, tall guard towers casting long, skeletal shadows under the pale morning sun. Everything about the place reeked of containment—not just of bodies, but of souls. A place designed to swallow people and never let them return the same.
He had healed many—heads of noble houses, politicians, monks from mountaintop monasteries, ministers hiding behind layers of protocol and centuries of refined etiquette, even a member of the imperial medical board. But this… this was different.
This place… reeked of moral filth.
'Murderers. Arsonists. Serial Rapists. Gang lords. Corrupt animals in cages.'
He thought grimly as he adjusted the fine collar of his pressed mandarin coat he wore underneath. His white coat fluttered faintly behind him, pristine against the bleakness of the prison's stark corridors.
First Prison. A name that whispered across criminal registries and government records like a curse. Rumors abounded: men who killed without blinking, syndicates operating within the walls, whispered torture, and secret rulers with no badge or title.
Miao Ruiming had never thought his path would bring him here.
He pretended to dust off his white coat as the first set of gates opened with a heavy mechanical groan.
A pair of uniformed guards approached him, eyeing his slender frame and unfamiliar presence with suspicion—until one of them hesitated, eyes narrowing.
"You the doctor the boss requested?"
"I'm here at the request of my father, Miao Wenxun."
Miao Ruiming said calmly.
"I was summoned."
The guards exchanged a look—one of them reaching for his radio—the other guard reached out for his briefcase.
"Standard check—"
But before they could lay a hand on it, a voice called out behind them.
"Let him through."
The guards snapped to attention as Zhang Wei approached, wearing a white coat of his own—though rumpled and stained from long nights.
Miao Ruiming turned and blinked. A tall man in a white coat with a faint ink stain at the cuff approached from a side hallway. He had the lean look of someone who hadn't had a proper day off in years. Yet his eyes, sharp and assessing, softened instantly at the sight of Miao Ruiming.
"Master Miao!"
Zhang Wei greeted, the corners of his mouth lifting.
"It's been too long."
"Dr. Zhang."
Miao Ruiming said with a respectful bow. Despite the age difference, he greeted the older man with grace.
"I didn't expect you'd be here."
The older doctor smiled.
"I also didn't think they'd send you, of all people. But when I saw your name come through clearance, I rushed down myself."
Zhang Wei chuckled, motioning the guards aside.
"He's a guest of the boss. Full clearance."
The moment the words "guest of the boss" left Zhang Wei's mouth, the guards' expressions shifted. All tension evaporated like steam on iron. One of them immediately called through the radio.
"Special guest has arrived. Opening checkpoint. Proceed with override protocol."
The heavy doors clunked and hissed as locks disengaged. A path cleared ahead of them.
Miao Ruiming raised a brow.
"That simple?"
Zhang Wei chuckled again, walking beside him now.
"You're used to hospitals and ivory towers. This place runs on power, not protocol."
"I see."
Miao Ruiming's voice cooled.
"And the one who holds that power is the same man who blackmailed my father."
Zhang Wei looked at him sidelong but said nothing.
Miao Ruiming followed as Zhang Wei guided him through the side hall, bypassing the main security checks and slowly winding deeper into the heart of the prison. Their shoes clicked quietly on the cement floors.
"It's been a while…"
Miao Ruiming said.
"Not since that time abroad when we were studying theoretical eastern medicine together."
"That was what? Ten years?"
Zhang Wei nodded to himself in deep thought.
"You were already a prodigy back then. Now they say you've cured impossible diseases with just your fingers and tongue depressors."
"That's… exaggerated…"
Miao Ruiming replied humbly, though his eyes glimmered with quiet pride.
"I only do what I can."
Zhang Wei chuckled.
"And you do what no one else can."
Miao Ruiming grew more serious as they passed another checkpoint, where heavier security stood watch behind bulletproof glass.
"Was it you who had him contact my father?"
Zhang Wei's smile faded.
"Not me. Your name was specifically requested. By what means, I don't know but I can only guess."
They stepped through a narrow hallway lined with sealed doors. Miao Ruiming noticed that none of them had nameplates—just numbers.
They continued in silence for a few steps before Zhang Wei handed over a clipboard.
"No name."
He said.
"The boss has made it clear to keep it confidential. But I've compiled what I could. I've only treated him when he's got to the point of collapsing. The rest of the time, he's been under constant care by… someone else. But I've mentioned to him before that you're the only one who might be able to understand what this is."
Miao Ruiming raised an eyebrow.
"'Him'?"
Zhang Wei exhaled.
"You'll see."
Miao Ruiming took the clipboard and began reading as they walked.
Sparse vitals. Anemia. Sudden fevers with no traceable pathogen. A debilitating collapse after a nosebleed. Symptoms that hinted at something deeper, stranger—but lacked pattern or precedent.
Miao Ruiming's brow furrowed.
"This doesn't read like any known disease."
"I said the same thing…"
Zhang Wei admitted.
"There's nothing organic or infectious. But whatever it is, it nearly killed him twice now."
Miao Ruiming flipped to the second page.
"Who is this patient?"
"Still don't know."
Zhang Wei sighed.
"He wasn't my charge for long. The boss took over his care almost immediately after he was first brought to me with a high fever and cold like symptoms."
Miao Ruiming glanced up from the papers, expression unreadable.
"And his crime?"
Zhang Wei shrugged lightly.
"Nothing major, far as I can tell. He wasn't sentenced here by a judge. Just… transferred."
"Transferred?"
Miao Ruiming echoed, his steps slowing slightly.
"From Third Prison…"
Zhang Wei said vaguely.
"That's all I was told."
Miao glanced sideways at him.
"You don't know the patient's crime?"
Zhang Wei's expression grew distant.
"No. Not officially. He wasn't supposed to be here in the first place—he's not registered among the violent offenders—so I wouldn't have access to his records nor did I ask. Overcrowding brought him here, I heard. Someone with too many enemies in high places. There's something… unusual about him, though."
"In what sense?"
Zhang Wei simply looked at him.
"You'll understand when you see him."
Miao Ruiming said nothing more, but his grip on the clipboard tightened slightly.
Something wasn't right.
Zhang Wei led him through several secure hallways, yet not once did they stop for clearance. Every door opened before them, every guard stepped aside, their eyes respectfully downcast.
"I take it your patient is a man of great importance."
Miao Ruiming murmured.
Zhang Wei gave a dry smile.
"Not the patient. The man watching over him."
Miao Ruiming raised a skeptical brow.
"The 'boss'."
"The one and only."
The obvious avoidance of an answer hung heavy between them.
Miao Ruiming's mouth flattened into a thin line. His opinion of the man remained bitter. Anyone who resorted to dredging up thirty-year-old secrets, forcing compliance through threats and shame, wasn't worthy of the title doctor'skin.
And yet, he had come.
Whether for duty, guilt, or curiosity—Miao Ruiming had crossed the threshold into this place. A place that spat in the face of the oath he swore.
They ascended a narrow stairwell, the air growing noticeably warmer as they reached the top floor—an entire wing separated from the rest of the prison, where the floors were smooth tile and the walls were clean and tastefully painted in shades of warm cream and slate blue, far removed from the howling, fetid cells below.
The atmosphere changed.
Clean tile. Air purifiers. Surveillance cameras discreetly tucked into corners. The hallway they stepped into was silent and strangely sterile, almost like a private estate in a single floor.
Luxury. Quiet. Privilege.
At the end of the corridor was a thick steel door. No numbers. No keypads.
They stopped before a reinforced door unlike the others.
A luxury cell.
"We're here. The boss's private quarters…"
Zhang Wei said as he stepped aside.
"He's inside. He's kept your patient here. Watched him day and night."
Miao Ruiming stared at the door. He turned to him one last time.
"And who is the man who pulled these strings?"
Zhang Wei hesitated but finally, let's out a heavy sigh before turning around and speaking.
"…The man who stays in that cell with him…is Dong Yingming."
Miao Ruiming paused, lips parting slightly. The name was familiar. A name buried in security files and whispered across political scandals—an infamous ghost who ruled the Underworld and now the prison from the inside out.
His thoughts were many. About Dong Yingming. About this mysterious illness. About the strange obsession it must take to force a man like his father to expose decades-old guilt just to summon a healer.
And he was inside… with the patient?
Zhang Wei gave him a look.
"You'll understand everything soon."
He inhaled once, steady and deep.
'Mm. I'll just examine him.'
Miao Ruiming nodded and adjusted his coat. His heart, usually calm before surgeries and political patients, beat just a little faster.
Whatever awaited him behind that door—it wasn't ordinary.
And neither, it seemed, was the patient.
Zhang Wei nodded, then knocked on the door.
As it clicked open, Miao Ruiming prepared himself—unaware that behind that door lay not just a patient, but something that would shake his understanding of his world view.