Yao Ziyang blinked. Then his entire face lit up.
"Pudding!"
He exclaimed, beaming like a child receiving a gift. His smile bloomed across his delicate face, eyes curving like a pair of crescent moons, shimmering with delight.
Miao Ruiming froze, just slightly.
His heart skipped.
'God, he's beautiful. How is he this... radiant?'
"Is that for me?"
He asked, his eyes curving into delighted crescents. His smile came like spring breaking through winter, unfiltered and warm. His smile could rival the sun, and his crescent-shaped eyes curved like moons—mischievous, sweet, and achingly bright. For a split second, Miao Ruiming stumbled, almost like he'd forgotten how to walk. His ears flushed ever so slightly.
"…Mn."
He said finally, recovering his composure, and stepped forward to offer the pudding.
"Thank you so much, Dr. Miao!"
Yao Ziyang said sweetly, smiling like he'd been handed the moon in a teacup.
Miao Ruiming's steps slowed just slightly. That radiant smile stole his breath for a second. He felt his cheeks grow inexplicably warmer and immediately cleared his throat, shoving away his embarrassment.
"It's nothing."
He said, calmly walking forward to hand it to him.
But just before the pudding could reach Yao Ziyang's hands, a larger one intercepted it.
Dong Yingming's hand shot out.
From his seat by the bed, Dong Yingming reached across and took hold of the cup—not yanking it, just holding it. His expression was impassive, but his fingers were firm. He reached for the pudding wordlessly, his eyes locked on Miao Ruiming with the steely calm of a storm about to snap. It wasn't a threat—not yet—but the intention was clear.
Give it to me, not him.
Miao Ruiming stiffened.
Dong Yingming's palm gripped under the pudding, dark eyes cool and unreadable.
"I'll take it."
Miao Ruiming did not release it, his grip remained firm.
"I'd prefer to give it to my patient directly."
There was a beat of silence. Neither man blinked. Neither man looked away. There, between them, the pudding became a hostage. The tension thickened like pressure in a sealed room.
Yao Ziyang blinked, utterly bemused.
'Ah… so it begins.'
He tilted his head, letting his eyes flit between them. Miao Ruiming, despite his sharp cheekbones and elegant frame, had a natural assertiveness in his posture. Cool and professional, but undeniably Alpha-coded. It was subtle, unlike Dong Yingming who radiated dominance like a thundercloud. If Miao Ruiming was a polished scalpel, Dong Yingming was a broadsword: brutal, direct, and utterly unyielding.
And yet here they were. Fighting over pudding like it was a sacred offering.
'Dr. Miao…I wasn't imagining it. He smells like an Alpha…Clean and fresh, like an untouched forest.'
He thought, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the doctor stand firm.
'He's got the traits of an Alpha despite the polished Beta appearance. Calm. Strong. Rigid posture. Silent confidence. Refined. Civilized. A little clumsy in some ways. But that scent of dominance is there—just buried under layers of logic and white coats, still submissive to reason.'
His gaze shifted to Dong Yingming
'And this one—oh, this one… he's an all, full-blown Alpha. No hiding it. No shame, no retreat, no compromise. Pure dominance. A walking wall of possessiveness and raw instinct. If ever there was a textbook definition of the word Alpha, it'd be Dong Yingming.'
Yao Ziyang smiled faintly and leaned back.
'They don't know what they are. But I do. Looks like pheromones do exist here…could it be they just haven't developed the ability to smell them yet? Hmm, interesting.'
Yao Ziyang turned his eyes back to the two men still silently wrestling over his pudding.
He couldn't help the fond exhale that left his chest.
"Ahem…"
He gave a tiny cough. His soft cough was delicate—but potent.
Just a little one though.
Both men froze then snapped their gazes toward him like trained hounds.
The pudding was forgotten—lowered but not yet surrendered—Miao Ruiming taking half a forward, Dong Yingming turned to him with concern.
"Are you alright?"
Dong Yingming said at once, voice suddenly tender.
"Do you need water? A blanket? More pillows?"
"You're too warm again."
Miao Ruiming immediately said at the same time, moving to check his wrist, eyes scanning his expression.
"Yao Ziyang, do you feel faint? Dizzy? Has your fever returned? Should I check your pulse?"
Yao Ziyang blinked up at them with mild amusement, touched—and faintly smug.
"I'm okay…"
He said sweetly, eyes dancing.
"But you two looked like you were about to break the pudding in half. I just wanted to eat my pudding before it gets warm."
Miao Ruiming's fingers curled for just a second longer before he sighed, relinquishing the pudding into Dong Yingming's hand. The man accepted it with slow, deliberate movements—almost like a silent declaration of victory.
Their eyes met. Steely gray against ocean blue.
Dong Yingming quickly opened it, and offered to Yao Ziyang a spoonful.
Miao Ruiming looked away first, cleared his throat and stepped back.
"Thank you, Doctor!"
Yao Ziyang said brightly, oblivious—or pretending to be—as he leaned toward the spoonful offered by Dong Yingming. His lips curled around the pudding like it was heaven itself.
He ate the first spoonful with a hum of contentment, letting his gaze linger just long enough on both men before fluttering his lashes and licking the spoon.
'Ah…'
Yao Ziyang thought serenely, his red tongue wrapped around the spoon sensually.
'Just like mother taught me.'
He was starting to enjoy the attention he was getting. He took delicate bites, savoring it—mostly for dramatic effect.
And as he looked up, he saw both men watching him again.
"Mmm—this really is my favorite."
Dong Yingming's expression softened instantly. He wiped a smudge from Yao Ziyang's lower lip with the pad of his thumb, gaze lingering with a quiet, indulgent intensity.
From the other side of the bed, Miao Ruiming watched silently, still holding the lab report. Something twisted faintly in his chest—unfamiliar, unwelcome. He shifted on his feet, glancing down at the pages to refocus.
"All the lab work came back…"
He paused, scanning the data again.
"…normal. More than normal, actually. No inflammation, no infection, no lingering signs of anemia or fever."
His brows furrowed.
"If anything, his body is in exceptionally good condition now."
Dong Yingming looked up.
"So he can be discharged?"
"Well…"
Miao Ruiming hesitated, pushing the report down slightly.
"Yes. Technically. But I would really prefer he stay for a few more days. Just to observe him more closely—run some deeper tests. There's still too much I can't explain yet. The transformation in appearance, the fever reaction, the black sweat—it's all beyond standard medical understanding."
Dong Yingming didn't speak at first. He finished spooning the last bite of pudding into Yao Ziyang's mouth, watching him hum in satisfaction, then gently dabbed at his lips with a tissue.
Then he stood up.
Miao Ruiming's eyes rose to meet him—up. Dong Yingming was taller. Broader. And there was something oppressive in the stillness of his stance.
"…Are you saying he's healthy enough to leave…"
Dong Yingming asked flatly,
"Or not?"
The tension spiked.
Miao Ruiming instinctively straightened but took half a step back.
"He is. But I recommend—"
"That's all I needed."
Dong Yingming cut him off coldly.
He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly.
"You can give the paperwork to Chang Xiao. He'll handle it…"
He said as he pressed send.
"We're going back to First Prison."
Yao Ziyang blinked, tilting his head with a spoon still in his mouth. Having taken it to lick any last remnants of the pudding left.
"Oh?"
"I've texted Chang Xiao to bring a wheelchair."
Dong Yingming added with finality, brushing his thumb gently over the back of Yao Ziyang's hand.
"You'll rest on the way. No arguments."
Yao Ziyang smiled and leaned slightly into the touch, still savoring the last of his pudding. He didn't care where he went, honestly.
The hospital room was clean and comfortable, but it lacked a Dong Yingming beside him in bed.
If going back to prison meant more alone time with him—and possibly sexy time—then he was all in favor of an early discharge.
Inwardly, he hummed.
'Maybe I'll get to test whether that bite I'm feeling behind my teeth can leave a mark.'
Meanwhile, Miao Ruiming stood with the file clutched a little too tightly in his hands, his mouth set in a thin line.
"I just…"
He tried again.
"I feel like we're missing something. If I had even two more days—"
Dong Yingming turned his head slowly toward him.
"You've done your job. You saved him."
He said, voice soft but glacial.
"You've been paid. You've been thanked."
There was a pause.
"I allowed you near him because of that."
Miao Ruiming said nothing. His mind echoed back to the earlier moment—the scent, the warmth at the nape of the neck, the urge to lean in closer. The jealousy when Yao Ziyang smiled at another man.
And Dong Yingming had noticed all of it.
He nodded once, slowly.
"Understood."
The door opened just then and Chang Xiao stepped in, pushing a wheelchair with one hand and sipping soy milk in the other. He looked between the three of them and, sensing the tension, raised a brow but said nothing.
"Let's go."
Dong Yingming said, gently sliding an arm behind Yao Ziyang's back and under his legs, lifting him up.
Yao Ziyang leaned against him with a pleased little sigh, setting the spoon down next to his empty pudding cup on the table. He turned to Miao Ruiming just before they left.
"Thank you again, Dr. Miao. You really helped me."
Miao Ruiming froze for half a breath.
Then nodded, more quietly than usual.
"Of course."
As the group filed out—Dong Yingming pushing the wheelchair with a proprietary grip, Chang Xiao texting the warden for security clearance—Miao Ruiming stood alone in the room.
He stared at the used spoon, the discarded pudding cup, and the faint imprint of a head on the pillow.
Something tugged at his chest.
"…Yao Ziyang…"
He murmured.
'You're not normal. And I need to know why.'
Miao Ruiming turned and left the room with the sweet scent still lingering in the air but quickly fading.
He strode down the halls until he reached his private lab. The only place he felt more at home, where he can calm his nerves and think more clearly.
Tucked away on the highest floor of a modern medical wing, behind a biometric-locked steel-reinforced door, Miao Ruiming's private laboratory existed in a world of its own—part hospital, part sanctuary, and part self-imposed exile.
It was quiet—eerily so. No nurses chattered, no pages rang out. Only the soft hum of machines and the delicate clink of porcelain echoed now and then.
The air inside was crisp and chilled, filtered constantly by a state-of-the-art air purification system that carried the faint scent of alcohol and cedarwood. Soft lighting—neither sterile-white nor warm-yellow, but something in-between—illuminated the space in a calm, even glow, designed to keep fatigue at bay even during the longest nights.
At first glance, the lab was sleek and clinical: white marble floors polished to a soft sheen, polished steel counters gleaming under muted daylight-toned panels embedded in the ceiling. State-of-the-art medical equipment—centrifuges, spectrometers, DNA analyzers—lined one side of the room like soldiers at attention. Refrigerated drawers glowed softly behind glass, revealing neatly labeled samples and rare herbs, some labeled in English, many in elegant simplified Chinese calligraphy penned by Miao Ruiming's own brush.
On a dedicated bench sat a sealed sterile hood for culturing cells, and beside it, a vertical freezer stacked with cryo-preserved samples, its door marked with neat handwriting: Y.Z. Series, Case A.
Tucked into the far corner was a custom-made microscope station, enhanced for both histology and genetic analysis. The work table beside it was cluttered with files, notes, and scribbled hypotheses—most written in a compact, flowing script only Miao Ruiming, himself, could decipher. The air there always carried a whisper of ink and old paper.
But beyond the gleaming sterility of science, signs of human presence whispered at the edges.
On the back wall, a set of sliding panel doors opened into what looked like a storage closet—but within was a small living space, compact but purposeful. A low platform bed was made up with precise corners, its navy-blue sheets tucked tightly beneath a woolen grey blanket. Above the bed hung a hand-painted scroll: a landscape inked with craggy peaks and drifting clouds, brushed in careful strokes by Miao Ruiming's late grandfather. The scroll's inscription read, "There is no end to research, but the heart finds peace in pursuit."
Flanking the bed was a simple elmwood wardrobe, housing a careful rotation of black scrubs, pressed white coats, and a small collection of traditional tangzhuang jackets that Miao Ruiming wore when he worked with herbal decoctions or met with elders in the TCM circles. One drawer held an old jade pendant wrapped in red silk—never worn, but always nearby.
A small kitchenette occupied the adjoining wall. Bamboo shelves held handmade Yixing teapots, boxes of loose pu-erh and chrysanthemum, and a jar of ginseng slices soaking in rice wine. A rice cooker, portable induction burner, and ceramic soup pot completed the space. There was always a kettle boiling. When he brewed tea, the lab no longer smelled of alcohol and bleach, but of earth, steam, and medicine.
The far end of the lab was lined with notebooks and files—years of handwritten clinical observations, some sealed with red thread, others stacked in towering piles. Beside them were books: medical journals in English and Chinese, tomes on rare diseases, and a surprising number of volumes on Daoist alchemy, acupuncture theory, and Shen-energy imbalance.
Above the research desk he stationed himself at was a pinboard covered in pinned leaves, x-rays, hand-drawn anatomical diagrams, and recently—Yao Ziyang's chart, marked with careful red circles and symbols. The newest addition? A hand-drawn temperature chart with annotations like: "Anomalous sweat—scent not in records. No fever?" and "Neck—heat source? Responsive to pressure?"
This was Miao Ruiming's world—part ascetic retreat, part battlefield of modern and ancient medicine, and part quiet confession of his growing obsession. He had everything he needed here.
Except answers.
This lab—this world—was a place where he would disappear for days, weeks, sometimes even months, chasing the secrets of the human body, of medicine, of the soul. His phone rarely rang. Few dared disturb him when he sealed the outer door. There was no calendar here, only the steady rhythm of drip counters, boiling beakers, and heartbeats—real or theoretical.
Sometimes, he forgot time entirely.
And sometimes, like now—sitting still before the edge of his newest, strangest case—he wondered whether he had found a mystery not to solve, but to follow.
The fluorescent lights of the lab buzzed faintly above, casting sterile light across polished steel surfaces and stacks of patient reports. Miao Ruiming sat in silence, one hand braced on the desk, the other gripping the printed results of Yao Ziyang's bloodwork.
All normal. Every reading. Every test. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Except that it wasn't.
Yao Ziyang, a man with no signs of chronic disease or genetic disorder, had gone through a fever that nearly killed him, excreted an entire body's worth of thick, dark sweat like some ancient purge, and emerged not just recovered—but reborn.
He exhaled slowly, setting the paper down and pushing up the sleeves of his white coat. His thoughts were far from quiet. The image of Yao Ziyang's nape, warm to the touch and emitting a scent so subtly sweet it felt unnatural, haunted his mind like the echo of a dream he couldn't explain.
'That scent…'
Miao Ruiming thought, recalling the warmth behind the neck. The way his body had responded—instinctively, irrationally—made no logical sense.
His fingers clenched the edge of the report.
"This isn't normal."
He whispered to himself.
That wasn't just health—it was transformation.
And then there was Dong Yingming, the Underworld boss who was known for cruelty and dominance, behaving like a devoted, fussing husband. Protective. Jealous. Possessive in a way that went beyond love—it felt instinctual.
Miao Ruiming rubbed his temple.
"Something's wrong…"
He murmured aloud.
"Or something's… different."
Just then, the door creaked open. It seemed in his rush to get to his lab, Miao Ruiming had forgotten to lock the door. A careless mistake he never thought he'd make.
Miao Ruiming glanced up to see Zhang Wei poke his head in, looking sheepish. The older man stepped fully inside, walking straight to the far corner to retrieve his satchel bag. He smiled apologetically as he grabbed his forgotten satchel.
"Sorry, sorry. Forgot my bag. Again. Old age's catching up with me. Almost left this behind."
He said with a chuckle. He slung it over his shoulder, pausing as he glanced at Miao Ruiming, who hadn't moved from his deep-thinking posture.
"You're still working on the boy's file?"
"He's not just a 'boy'..."
Miao Ruiming said without thinking. Then, a moment later, more calmly.
"Yes. I am. Something's not adding up."
Zhang Wei exhaled and shook his head.
"Good luck…"
He said with a rueful smile.
"It'll be harder now that he's back in First Prison. You know how that place is."
"I'll be checking in regularly."
Zhang Wei laughed.
"You and me both. Apparently I'm now the exclusive caretaker of a Underworld Boss and his mysterious lover. The boss is… well, let's say he's passionate. And with whatever strange condition Yao Ziyang's got—if it's even a condition—being assigned to look after him is going to be a handful. One's a territorial warlord with anger issues, and the other is… whatever he is. I'm going to need both nerves of steel and the ability to survive constant death glares. Aiya."
He sighed before giving a self-deprecating chuckle to himself. Then he waved a hand lightly, turning toward the door and walked out.
"I'll pray for myself."
The door clicked shut behind him, but Miao Ruiming froze.
Zhang Wei's comment clicked into place like a key in a lock.
He whispered.
"No. I need to be the one to monitor him."