The hallway to Bai Qi's office was quiet enough to hear one's own pulse.
Shu Yao stood before the dark wooden door, one hand pressed against the cold surface, the other clutching the file to his chest as if it could steady the tremor in his heart.
He drew in a long breath. It quivered.
From beyond the door, Bai Qi's voice echoed — low, composed, commanding. Someone was already inside, discussing quarterly profits and contracts.
Shu Yao waited, his head bowed.
Minutes dragged like hours. The dull ache behind his temples deepened into a steady throb. His body swayed once, almost imperceptibly, but he caught himself, fingers digging into the folder's edge. He dared not interrupt.
At last, the other man rose, his chair scraping softly against the floor. Shu Yao lifted his eyes just enough to see him leave — the brief flicker of pity in that man's eyes before he quickly looked away, following the silent rule everyone now obeyed.
The door closed.
Bai Qi didn't look up.
His hand moved with practiced precision over the laptop keys. "What?" he asked flatly, as though the question itself were a nuisance.
Shu Yao stepped forward, every movement careful, his balance fragile as glass. "The file you asked for this morning, sir," he murmured. His voice was thin, but steady.
He placed the document on the desk. The surface of the mahogany table reflected his pale face — the hollow beneath his eyes, the sweat clinging to his brow.
Bai Qi reached for the file, flipped it open, glanced once, then closed it with a quiet snap. "Mm." His tone was dismissive. "You took your time."
He tossed the file aside. It landed against another stack of papers — useless, forgotten.
Shu Yao didn't answer. He simply lowered his head, fingers clasped tightly together.
Bai Qi leaned back, eyes unreadable, twin rings glinting coldly under the overhead light. "So, Shu Yao," he began, his voice smooth and venomous, "are you having fun being alone in such a vast company?"
Shu Yao froze. The words slid through him like ice.
Bai Qi's smile was thin, cruel. "Didn't you always want this kind of solitude? You have it now — silence, distance, the admiration of empty rooms."
Shu Yao's throat tightened. "Sir, I—"
"Enough," Bai Qi cut in. His gaze sharpened. "Don't pretend. You wanted to stand apart. You wanted to be untouchable. Now you are."
The air between them thickened. The only sound was the faint hum of the city beyond the glass wall.
Shu Yao's hand found his elbow, gripping it as if to hold himself together. His knees ached, still trembling from the climbing the stairs.
Bai Qi's voice dropped lower, almost soft — but it was the softness of a blade before the plunge.
"In my place," he murmured, "there won't be any warmth left for you, Shu Yao. Do you understand?"
Shu Yao lifted his eyes for a fleeting second — not in defiance, but in quiet heartbreak.
His lips quivered, but no words came. Only a small nod.
Shu Yao, blamed no one. Not Bai Qi. Not the workers who avoided his gaze. He Only blame himself — for every fault, every silence, every failure to be enough.
Bai Qi turned away, already done with the conversation. "Now, what the hell are you staring at?" His tone was a hiss, disdain wrapped in control. "Get out of my sight."
The words struck like physical blows. Shu Yao startled, bowing his head.
"Yes, sir."
He turned toward the door, every step fragile, slow. His hand found the silver knob, and for a moment, the world blurred at the edges. The room tilted — the exhaustion swelling until even breath hurt.
But fate, that cruel poet, had other plans.
The door opened before he could leave, pushed from the other side. Shu Yao stumbled back a step — and stopped.
George stood there.
Tall, poised, immaculate — the scent of rose cologne drifting through the air like the memory of warmth. His suit was the deep grey of dusk, his expression half-light, half-worry.
"Shu Yao?" His voice was gentle, surprised.
Shu Yao's fingers tightened around his elbow. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet that kind concern.
George's eyes flicked to Bai Qi behind the desk. The younger man hadn't even looked up — still typing, face unreadable.
The silence between them bristled with unspoken history.
George's jaw tensed. He turned back to Shu Yao. "Go," he said softly. "I'll follow you later."
Bai Qi said nothing. He didn't even glance up.
George exhaled slowly, the air trembling faintly between his teeth. He shut the door behind him with deliberate care, as if closing something heavier than wood.
When he turned, Shu Yao was already walking toward the elevator.
"Shu Yao!" George called gently, striding forward. His voice carried that familiar warmth — the kind that always made people stop without knowing why.
Shu Yao paused, uncertain.
George reached him in a few long strides, bending slightly so their eyes met. "Look at me," he murmured.
Shu Yao flinched, eyes widening — the fever glinting faintly beneath his lashes.
George's tone softened further. "You're sick."
Shu Yao shook his head weakly. "I'm fine, Mr. George. I can still be useful."
The words sliced through him. George's heart sank.
"Useful?" he repeated quietly. "Shu Yao, what are you talking about?"
He placed a hand carefully on Shu Yao's shoulder — the contact gentle, reverent, as though afraid he might break him. The heat that met his palm startled him.
"Your health matters more than this damn company," he said, his voice breaking through its calm veneer.
But Shu Yao stopped him — not with force, but with fragility. His fingers brushed over George's wrist, trembling. "Then why," he whispered, "does my existence hurting him?"
George froze.
The words, small as they were, carried too much pain.
Before he could answer, Shu Yao's knees gave way. His vision blurred, head tilting forward. George caught him instinctively — one arm circling his waist, the other behind his head.
"Shu Yao!"
The world went still.
Shu Yao's lashes fluttered once, his breath warm against George's chest — then softer, fading.
George lowered him slowly to the marble floor, but Shu Yao's body sagged in his arms, unconscious.
For a moment, George simply stared — at the delicate curve of his neck, the fever-bright skin, the way exhaustion had hollowed his beauty into something unbearably fragile.
His throat tightened.
He brushed a stray strand of hair from Shu Yao's temple, his thumb lingering a second too long. The heat beneath his skin was alarming.
"Shu Yao," he whispered again, as if the name itself might wake him again.
No response.
George's composure cracked. He leaned closer, voice trembling. "You don't need to do this. for him. Nor for anyone."
Still nothing.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips — a half-formed laugh that never reached his eyes. "You really are stubborn," he murmured, his voice breaking on the edge of affection and despair.
He lifted Shu Yao slightly, holding him close — the faint scent of rose clinging between them. "Has anyone ever told you," he whispered, almost tenderly, "how stupid you are when you're in love?"
The hallway outside Bai Qi's office was silent again.
Only the low hum of the city below, and the heartbeat that George swore he could still feel — faint, trembling, but there.
He rose, carrying Shu Yao in his arms as if cradling something sacred, his gaze hardening just slightly as it flicked toward Bai Qi's closed door.
he murmured. "why are you keep letting him breaking you."
Then he turned, and the two of them disappeared down the corridor — one unconscious, the other burning quietly with the kind of love that ruins men.
Down below, the lobby was a different world — busy, indifferent, full of motion that tried to bury guilt under the clatter of shoes and murmured conversations.
But when George appeared, silence dropped like a curtain.
He walked straight through them, the crowd parting instinctively. In his arms, Shu Yao looked ghostly — pale lips, lashes trembling against the faint shadow of exhaustion. His shirt clung damp with cold sweat, and one hand dangling.
No one dared speak. But their guilt was loud.
One woman lowered her gaze. Another turned to shuffle papers that no longer needed sorting. It was the only way they knew how to wash their conscience — by pretending they hadn't seen what neglect had done.
George didn't look at any of them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed forward.
When he reached the entrance, the revolving door hissed open to the sharp scent of rain. His driver, startled by the sight, rushed to him.
"Sir?"
"Open the door."
The tone left no room for hesitation.
The driver obeyed, swinging open the back door in one swift movement.
George leaned down carefully, lowering Shu Yao onto the seat with a tenderness that felt too personal for business. Shu Yao's head tilted, his breathing shallow but rhythmic.
"To the hospital immediately," George said quietly as he sat beside him.
The driver nodded once, quick, before starting the engine.
But George wasn't done. He reached over, fastening the seatbelt around Shu Yao's frail body. His hand lingered a moment — thumb brushing against the boy's temple, shu Yao body was burning, then, George moving aside a strand of damp hair. Then, almost instinctively, he shifted Shu Yao's head to rest against his shoulder.
Behind one such pane — high, immaculate, cold — Bai Qi stood. His eyes, sharp as frost, were fixed on the sight unfolding below.
George.
And Shu Yao.
The name itself burned through his silence.
That sight — George, of all people, holding Shu Yao like that — ignited something he couldn't name. Not jealousy, not rage, but something far older and more dangerous.
"So now you're having help from my uncle, hmm?" Bai Qi murmured under his breath, voice low, venom seeping through each word. "Just you wait, Shu Yao. Let's see what you face tomorrow."
He stepped away from the window, slow and deliberate, and reached for the bottle on the nearby table. A crystal decanter caught the light — amber liquid shimmering like fire trapped in glass.
"So you can charm others too, hm?" Bai Qi whispered with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Pathetic."
He poured himself a glass, the wine sloshing softly, then downed it in a single swallow.
The burn felt good. It was punishment and pleasure at once.
Bai Qi lifted his fingers, his thumb tracing the engraving as though it might vanish if he pressed too hard.
"Qing Yue," he said, barely above a whisper.
The name tasted like sin on his tongue.
The sound came first — a sharp, crystalline scream — and then silence.
Bai Qi's wine glass shattered against the marble, its fragments scattering like fallen stars across the floor. The amber molten wine bled between the cracks, slow and sinuous, as if even the floor was learning how to bruise beneath his fury.
For a moment he only stared. Then, with a breath that trembled at its edges, he pressed a hand to his face, fingers dragging upward through his hair until the black strands stood askew. His pulse thudded in his temples; his chest rose and fell with restrained violence.
When he lowered his hand, his eyes gleamed — obsidian catching light, dangerous and fathomless.
"I'll ruin you, Shu Yao," he murmured. "Just wait."
Outside, the rain thickened, smearing the city lights into liquid amber. The world below went on, unaware that something inside Bai Qi had just begun to fracture.
George had already reached the hospital. The corridor lights glowed sterile and pale, humming faintly like the pulse of an anxious heart.
On the stretcher, Shu Yao lay still — a tangle of tubes threaded into his delicate hands, an oxygen mask veiling half his face. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only proof that he hadn't slipped away. His long brown lashes rested against skin, too pale for comfort.
George stood beside him, silent.
He didn't know what to think — or perhaps he thought too much. The weight in his chest was unfamiliar, a strange ache that felt both protective and guilty. He wanted to scold him, to ask why he pushed himself so far. But all he could do was look.
The door opened. A doctor entered, chart in hand, voice brisk and composed.
"Nothing serious," he said after a quick check. "Just severe exhaustion. He hasn't been eating properly, nor resting. The fever's lasted nearly two days, but it'll subsiding now."
George's gaze flickered to Shu Yao again. The boy looked fragile even in sleep, the kind of fragile that dared you to call it weakness.
"No one told him that strength doesn't always mean endurance," George thought. "He keeps breaking himself just to prove he can still stand."
He shook his head once — a small, helpless motion.
The doctor scribbled notes, tore the prescription sheet, and handed it over. "He'll need rest. Proper meals."
George took the paper silently. Behind the doctor, the nurses lingered, whispering in low tones. Their cheeks flushed pink at the sight of him — tall, composed, that rare sort of elegance that seemed sculpted rather than born. But George noticed none of it. His mind was fixed on the boy asleep before him, on the slow rhythm of breath that made everything else seem trivial.
He rose to fetch the medicine, footsteps echoing down the polished corridor.
Around him, admiration followed like perfume — hushed and harmless — but George walked through it blind, carrying only the heaviness of someone else's pain.