Night pressed down like a sheet of lead laid straight across the heart.

Outside the hospital, the street was unnervingly still.
Only the occasional, muffled wail of an ambulance drifted from afar,
stretching thin threads of sound through the heavy air.

Shen Yanxing stood at a distance, half-hidden beyond the reach of the streetlamp’s glow.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

The call had come thirty minutes ago.

A crew member he knew well from DEEP had spoken in a hesitant tone, as if unsure how much to say:

“Shen… I heard that your cop friend… might’ve been injured during an operation.”

“Where?”

His voice had been steady—controlled.

“Ren’an Hospital, over in the new district.”

After hanging up, he had no idea how many red lights he’d blown through—
he only knew he’d sped here like a man chased by fate.

No message.
No warning.
Not even a moment of hesitation.

And yet… he couldn’t walk inside.

He stood there, staring at the hospital entrance,
watching the automatic doors slide open and shut with every passing pair of footsteps.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, violent enough to hurt—
but his legs refused to move.

Until—

The ambulance parked in the distance yanked its doors open,
and a stretcher was rushed down.

A silhouette he knew too well lay atop it.

Scarlet seeped through the white sheet.

The man on the stretcher was as pale as a leaf drained of life,
sweat beading along his temples,
an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose.

Eyes closed, as if he were simply asleep—
too peacefully asleep.

…It was him.

Shen Yanxing’s fist clenched hard,
and for a moment,
his breath stopped cold in his throat.

Bright, snow-white light lined the hospital corridor,
each lamp cold enough to sting the eyes.

The sharp scent of disinfectant hung in the air—
sterile, clinical, suffocating.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall.

Shen Yanxing moved slowly,
each step measured,
like a prisoner awaiting judgment,
even his breathing held tight in his chest.

Outside the operating room, several officers spoke in low voices,
their faces drawn and tense.

He stayed in the shadow of the corner,
watching the glowing red light above the operating-room doors.

He shouldn’t be here.

Jiang Zhilin’s unit was still around.
This was police territory.
If they saw him, if anyone recognized him—

He could only hide in the darkness,
an outsider in every possible way.

Not far away, the officers were still contacting outside units.

Suddenly, the door to the operating room swung open.
The doctor stepped out in a rush, voice sharp with urgency:

“Blood reserves are running low—we need additional supply immediately!”

“Is any family or friend on-site? We need an emergency donor match—”

Before the words even finished, several officers exchanged anxious glances.

“I’ll try contacting his people again!”

“Check mine—maybe I’m a match!”

“You two hold things down here. I’m calling the external blood bank now!”

Phones rang, sleeves were rolled up, panic rippled through the hall.
The tension climbed like a drawn wire ready to snap.

In the shadows, Shen Yanxing’s gaze flickered.

A heartbeat later,
he turned away and walked off—
quiet, steady, leaving not a sound behind.

A few minutes later—inside the donation room.

He sat on the metal chair, sleeve rolled up, his arm bare under the chill of the air-conditioning.

“The blood type matches. We’ll transfuse one unit first to stabilize him.”

Gloved hands adjusted the needle; the medical staff spoke in hushed, steady tones.

When the needle pierced his vein,
his breath didn’t so much as ripple.

No sound, no flinch, not even a tightening of his brow.

He only lowered his gaze, watching that vivid red thread travel down the thin tube and fill the waiting bag.

“How are you holding up?”
the nurse asked softly.

“…Fine.”

The reply was hoarse—as if pushed out past something lodged in his throat.

His eyes stayed lowered, following the slow swell of the blood bag.
His palm felt cold,
yet the heat beneath his skin burned unbearably.

This was his blood.

—Days ago, it had pushed that man to collapse beneath him.
—And now, it was being taken to preserve the man’s right to keep breathing.

Something tightened in his throat; Shen Yanxing shut his eyes for a moment.

There was nothing he could say.
Nothing he could fix.

All he could offer
was his own life—
just to buy him a little more time.

A few hours later, the light above the operating room finally went out.

Dctor stepped out, exhaustion written across his face, though his tone remained steady.

“The operation was successful. He’s out of immediate danger for now.
But the wound is deep—he’ll need several days of rest and observation.”

The officers exhaled in collective relief.

From the shadows, Shen Yanxing watched silently as the door slid open.

Jiang Zhilin lay on the gurney, pale and unconscious as they wheeled him out of the OR.

After the nurses transferred him to a room, several team members took turns standing guard outside.

As night deepened, the emergency wing grew quieter—
only the occasional rumble of a stretcher or the soft footsteps of night–shift staff broke the silence.

Sometime after four in the morning, the officers who had kept vigil finally rose to their feet, fatigue etched across their faces after a sleepless night.

“Let us know the moment he wakes.”

“If anything changes, contact us immediately. We’ll stay on standby.”

They nodded to the medical staff, offered a few final instructions,
and quietly left the ward.

Shen Yanxing sat slumped on the bench outside the hospital room, head lowered, as if he had melted into the darkness itself.

It wasn’t until the first faint light of dawn crept across the sky, and a stir of movement sounded from inside the room, that he jolted upright.

On the bed, the man’s brows tightened—
a sign of waking.

He pressed the call button immediately.
Minutes later, a doctor hurried in.

“He’s waking?”

The doctor stepped up to the bedside, flipping open the chart, his motions brisk and practiced as he checked each reading.

He glanced at the monitors, then lifted a corner of the hospital gown to inspect the gauze-wrapped wound.
His fingers paused briefly during the examination.

“Good thing the blade missed the liver and major vessels.”

“Despite the heavy blood loss, the wound itself looks stable.
You’re lucky he survived.”

“Let him rest. If he feels any discomfort, press the call bell.”

With that, the doctor left, and the room settled back into silence.

The hospital room was so quiet that only the soft beeping of the monitors and the faint rhythm of a heartbeat remained.

Jiang Zhilin forced his eyes open.
Everything was white at first—
his consciousness sluggish, his body heavy as if something had run him over.

He frowned, his gaze slowly sharpening as he fixed on the man in front of him.

“…Fuck… what’s with that face?”

“Why do you… look like shit?”

His voice was so hoarse it startled even him.

“I’m fine.”

Shen Yanxing sat with his hands clasped, tone steady, his smile faint to the point of emptiness.

“You’re the one who just crawled back from the gates of hell.
And you still have the energy to worry about me?”

“…”

Jiang Zhilin turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching—
as if he wanted to throw something back at him,
but gave up due to lack of strength.

His gaze drifted, landing on the flower placed in a glass bottle beside the bed—

It looked familiar.

He paused, narrowed his eyes, studying it for several seconds before speaking in a low voice.

“…You put that there?”

Shen Yanxing followed his gaze, paused for a moment, then shook his head.

“It wasn’t me.”

“…Right. Of course not…”

A faint murmur slipped from Jiang Zhilin’s lips—
barely a whisper, as if speaking only to himself.

“…How would you even know…”

The words trailed off without strength, scattered and unfocused,
and he let his eyes fall shut once more.

Shen Yanxing didn’t answer.
He only stared at that single flower for a long, silent moment.

Jiang Zhilin’s gaze shifted toward him, a faint sense of wrongness prickling beneath his skin.

“…I’m not dying, right?”

“The doctor said you’ll be fine. Just rest.”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

“…Nothing.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You talk too much. Shut up and sleep.”

“……”

Something felt off—
he could feel it in the pauses, in the hollow edges of Shen Yanxing’s voice—
but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

In the end, he only let out a soft snort and closed his eyes.

Shen stayed seated at the bedside, eyes lowered, quietly watching him breathe.

Only when he was sure Jiang Zhilin had truly fallen asleep did he speak—barely above a whisper:

“…Don’t do that again.”

A voice so soft it nearly vanished into the room,
yet powerless to stop the fate already unraveling beneath their feet.