The meeting should have been about profit margins and future ventures, but George found himself distracted — not by numbers, but by beauty.
Through the wide glass window, the city stretched beneath a morning light, the skyline glowing like a living painting. The horizon was awash in gold, and somewhere in that glow, he thought of him.
Shu Yao.
The thought slipped in uninvited, like a whisper. George's lips curved faintly before he could stop himself. He's exactly like this view, he mused. Delicate. Beautiful. Untouchable.
His gaze softened. "Someday," he murmured under his breath, "I should take him somewhere like this. Maybe then he'll finally breathe."
The image bloomed in his mind — Shu Yao standing beside him on this very balcony, wind brushing through his autumn hair, eyes reflecting city lights. His cheeks warmed at the thought. "What am I even saying…" He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed at his own tenderness. "Wouldn't that be a date?"
He chuckled softly, but it didn't fade easily. The thought of Shu Yao lingered — fragile and alive. He sighed. "He wouldn't be doing well after everything. That poor thing's still blaming himself for nothing."
Without thinking further, he pulled out his phone and dialed Shu Yao's number.
---
Rothenberg Industries
The corridor was too long.
Every step echoed against the marble floor as Shu Yao walked, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. His fingers trembled, slick with cold sweat.
Workers stole glances from their desks — quick, fearful looks — but none dared move.
Everyone knew what Bai Qi had said this morning: No one helps him. No one speaks to him. Not even a glance, unless you wish to lose your job.
And so silence stretched, cruel and heavy, as Shu Yao dragged himself past them.
He didn't ask for help anyway. He didn't want it.
He reached the end of the hall and closed his office door behind him.
He staggered to his chair, barely catching himself before collapsing into it. His chest heaved with shallow breaths.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small packet of pills — headache medicine. He shook three into his palm, hands trembling.
When he lifted the glass of water to his lips, the rim clinked against his teeth. He forced the pills down with uneven gulps.
Then, exhausted, he lowered his head onto the desk.
The air felt too thick. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Focus," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Focus, Shu Yao."
But the words felt foreign — as though someone else was saying them through him.
His eyes fluttered half-shut. The office spun gently, the shadows bending into shapes.
And yet, even through the fever's haze, it wasn't the pain that hurt the most — it was Bai Qi's words, still echoing.
You didn't deserve it.
He bit his lip until it bled, the taste of iron grounding him for a fleeting second.
---
The Boardroom
Elsewhere in the same building, Bai Qi sat in the boardroom, his expression carved from marble.
He wasn't thinking about Shu Yao or his trembling hands. His mind was miles away — in a graveyard of memories, in the name of Qing Yue.
Revenge sat in his veins like fire.
His thumb brushed over the twin bands on his hand — their cold metal against skin — a ritual of grief disguised as control.
He didn't notice Armin's silence beside him.
Armin, who had seen the way Shu Yao looked that morning.
Armin, who wanted — for the first time in years — to get up and check if someone was still breathing.
But he didn't move. He never did.
He shook the thought away, eyes back on the meaningless documents in front of him.
---
The phone rang.
The sudden sound sliced through the haze like a blade. Shu Yao blinked, startled, and fumbled for the receiver.
He pressed it to his ear, his voice thin and hoarse. "H-hello?"
George's tone was soft on the other end. "Shu Yao, it's me."
Shu Yao tried to straighten up, but his body resisted. "Y-yes, Mr. George. How may I help you?"
"Don't work too much," George said gently. "It's getting cold these days."
"Everything's fine, Mr. George," Shu Yao managed, his lips barely moving.
George frowned. He could hear something wrong in that voice — that fragile, broken rhythm. "Shu Yao," he said, tone firm now, "don't lie to me. about yourself."
Shu Yao went silent. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to hide this kind of exhaustion through words.
George sighed quietly. "The meeting's about to end. I'll be at Rothenberg soon."
Shu Yao's eyes flew open. "Wait—" he startled, but his voice caught.
The pain hit him sharply, pulsing against his skull. He pressed a hand to his temple, biting down a gasp.
"Mr. George, you don't need to—"
But George had already ended the call.
The line went dead.
---
Shu Yao lowered the receiver slowly, his breath uneven. "What should I do…" he murmured, his tone barely audible.
"If he sees me like this… he'll think I've betrayed him."
He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. The white lights buzzed softly overhead — too bright, too cruel.
He wanted to close his eyes and vanish into sleep, but he couldn't.
His mind wandered back to Bai Qi's glare, to every word that had sliced through him like a blade.
The tears gathered in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall.
"This is nothing," he whispered to himself. "Nothing compared to what he said."
He exhaled, trembling. "Just a little longer. The medicine will dull it soon."
But his hand on the desk was cold.
And when his head lowered again, his breathing came slower, softer — the sound of someone slipping too far into exhaustion.
The world outside Shu Yao's window had softened into noon before he even realized it.
The office was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt like glass, fragile and cold.
He lay half-draped over his desk, breath shallow, the faint hum of the computer filling the silence. The pain in his head had dulled at last — not vanished, only softened into something manageable. He lifted his hand to his temple, pressing lightly, as if to keep his thoughts from spilling out.
Still alive, he told himself, voice soundless in the room.
He straightened slowly, his body protesting every movement. His reflection in the darkened screen stared back at him — pale, unfocused eyes, bitten lips trembling faintly. He ignored it and began to type.
The clatter of the keyboard was the only rhythm left to him.
Emails, reports, more emails — his fingers moved automatically, precise, obedient. He replied to every message, every question, every demand, like a machine trained to mimic grace.
He hadn't eaten since morning.
He didn't notice the clock striking afternoon. Or one. Or three.
When the sky turned violet, he finally sent his last email. The blue light of the monitor flickered faintly across his face, making him look almost spectral.
A soft sigh escaped him. Work, it seemed, was the only thing keeping him upright.
He turned to the stack of paperwork on the side of his desk. Half of it was already done. The rest waited patiently, like silent witnesses. He gathered them carefully into neat files, aligning the edges with trembling precision.
Then, without thinking, he stood.
The sudden motion made his legs buckle. His hand shot to the edge of the desk to steady himself. The room swayed, but he swallowed it down, forced his posture straight.
He had to give these files to Bai Qi. That was his duty — his small, pitiful way to prove that he still existed.
He walked out of his office, every step measured, every breath thin. His gaze stayed on the floor; he didn't dare meet anyone's eyes.
The hallway felt longer than usual. The lift at the end glowed softly, its metal doors reflecting his pale figure. He pressed the button, the cold steel biting his finger.
When the doors slid open, he froze.
Someone else stepped in — an employee, clutching a file, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him.
Shu Yao turned his head immediately, instinctively.
The air felt tense. The employee bowed quickly, unsure, trapped in the cruel rule Bai Qi had declared: No one helps him. No one speaks to him.
If Bai Qi found out this man had insisted on sharing the lift, he would be dismissed before morning.
Shu Yao took a quiet step back, voice barely a breath. "It's fine."
He turned away.
Instead of waiting for the next lift, he headed for the stairs.
The staircase spiraled upward like a tower of glass and silence.
He gripped the golden banister, his knuckles white. Each step burned through his legs. His breath grew shallow, but he didn't stop.
If he let go, he might fall.
But even then, he would rather fall alone than let anyone else suffer for him.
And so he climbed — slow, steady, breaking silently beneath the weight of his own devotion.
The stairwell was colder than the rest of the building — a hollow spine of marble and echo.
Shu Yao's breath came uneven, each step a quiet act of defiance against his own failing body.
Sweat clung to his brow, glimmering faintly under the weak overhead light.
How strange, he thought, to feel so feverish when t.
Halfway up, he stopped.
The files trembled in his hand. His legs, too fragile to carry him further, gave a small, traitorous shake. He leaned against the wall, sliding down until the cool marble met his back. His vision rippled at the edges — the world spinning, soft, and merciless.
He closed his eyes for a breath. Just a moment, he told himself. Then I'll move again.
But before he could rise, the sound of footsteps came from above — slow, deliberate, unhurried.
Someone was coming down.
Shu Yao didn't lift his gaze. He couldn't. He'd promised himself not to look anyone in the eye — because his existence had become a forbidden sight.
The footsteps stopped in front of him.
A shadow fell across the landing.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The voice was sharp — cold enough to cut through his haze.
Shu Yao's jerked up, startled. The sudden movement made the world tilt violently. His balance wavered, and the files in his hands slid dangerously close to falling.
Before he could collapse, a hand caught his wrist — firm, unthinking, instinctive.
Armin.
For a heartbeat, both men froze.
Armin's fingers tightened unconsciously around Shu Yao's slender wrist, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. The heat beneath his skin was scorching — unnatural. Fever.
He hissed under his breath, the sound half-anger, half-something like concern that he doesn't want to admit.
Shu Yao, startled by the sudden touch, tried to free himself. "I—I'm fine," he whispered, his voice fragile, breath hitching as he struggled to stand upright.
But Armin didn't release him immediately. His gaze lingered, despite himself.
The boy looked half-ghost — pale, glass-eyed, trembling, clutching the work files as if they were the only things keeping him alive. The veins in his hand were faintly visible under his skin; the tremor in his fingers betrayed his strength's slow decay.
"You're sick," Armin said, the words coming out more like an accusation than concern.
Shu Yao swallowed hard. "I need to deliver these," he murmured, avoiding his eyes.
"Why all this fussing?" Armin muttered, though the edge in his tone faltered. It wasn't mockery — not really. It was the echo of something else. Something he didn't want to name.
His grip eased.
For an instant, a strange silence swelled between them — the kind that remembers things that he didn't wants to recall.
Armin's gaze drifted lower, toward the files pressed against Shu Yao's chest, then back up to that fragile, fever-bright face. Why does he look like him, he thought — the one I failed to save once before?
He tore his hand away as if burned.
"Get lost," he said flatly, turning aside.
Shu Yao bowed his head, clutching the files tighter. "sir."
He steadied himself on the railing, his steps unsteady but resolute.
Armin stood where he was, listening to those fading footsteps — to that quiet, desperate determination that somehow lingered long after Shu Yao was gone.
And for the first time in years, he couldn't decide whether he was angry… or afraid.