Bai Qi was already inside the villa. Armin trailed behind, navigating the near-empty corridors with a tightening unease. The servants blinked at the sight of their young master—never had he stumbled through these halls in such a state. Sloppy. His head hung low, hair falling across his eyes, every step unsteady.
Armin hissed through clenched teeth as he finally reached Bai Qi's room. With careful force, he tossed him onto the bed. The young man's body slumped like a rag, mind elsewhere, intoxicated and furious with memories he could not quell. Armin's voice cut through the haze.
"Get yourself cleaned. You look pathetic."
Bai Qi made no move. His face burned—not from shame, but from the lingering haze of liquor. His thoughts wandered, a single name repeating in endless loops: Qing Yue.
"Qing Yue," he muttered again, voice hoarse, barely audible.
Then, like a shadow twisting in the corner of his mind, her face vanished, replaced by one he loathed most: Shu Yao. Disappointed. Vulnerable. Silent accusation glimmering in eyes that were never meant to haunt him so.
Bai Qi's lips pressed together. "Get… get out of my head," he barked. "I—I hate you."
But Shu Yao's image refused to vanish.
Suddenly, a memory struck him—a fleeting, torturous moment of unknowing. The kiss. The one he thought was Qing Yue's lips, but instead, it had been Shu Yao. Heat flushed his chest with shame and irritation, and he clenched the sheets, nails biting deep into the fabric.
"Why… why is it always you?" he spat, voice ragged. "Always that face… always pathetic… always winning sympathy from my uncle!"
He closed his eyes tightly, body curling inward, and stayed like that until sleep claimed him, mind spinning with regret, desire, and guilt.
Across the city, Mr. George orchestrated a quiet rescue of another kind. The nurse entered Shu Yao's room, carefully balancing a tray. Boiled eggs. Tender chicken. Steamed fish. Nothing extravagant—just sustenance.
Shu Yao's eyes lifted, hesitant, almost shrinking under George's calm gaze.
"Shu Yao," George spoke softly, "you need strength. You will eat whatever that is."
Shu Yao lowered his eyes. "I… I cannot eat it."
"No," George corrected firmly, leaning closer, voice gentle but unwavering. "Since it's about your life, you should never starve yourself."
The nurse placed the tray, curt nod, cheeks tinged pink. "Food you requested, sir," she murmured before retreating, leaving Shu Yao and George alone.
Shu Yao hesitated.
George leaned in slightly, voice light, coaxing. "Shu Yao."
Still, no answer.
"I don't want to eat," he whispered finally, barely audible.
George's sigh carried a mixture of frustration and concern. "Don't you want to live… for Bai Qi?"
Shu Yao stilled. Eyes flickered toward George, hesitant, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely showed. "I… I am…" he faltered, words incomplete, unsteady.
"Then eat, Shu Yao." George's voice softened. "Let me help you."
Shu Yao's lips quivered, thoughts colliding in a storm of loyalty, fear, and lingering trauma. I wish I could eat with him, he thought bitterly. Bai Qi—despite everything—still he held a place in his heart. He cared. Didn't for himself, but only for him.
George picked up a spoon, warm and steady, offering it to Shu Yao.
Shu Yao's gaze lingered on it, heart stuttering. Memories flashed—Bai Qi forcing food into his mouth, sharp, almost cruel, Shame pressed on his chest, and he looked away.
"Shu Yao," George said softly. "If you don't eat, you won't have the strength to stand."
The words sank slowly. Shu Yao lifted his eyes, faint, fragile, pain etched across his face though the rawest ache had dulled.
"Mr. George," he murmured, hesitant, trembling, "if… if I eat…"
George blinked, caught off guard, then a small smile crept over his features. Relief. Hope. "Yes, Shu Yao. Anything. What do you want? Cake? Fruits, juice? Anything, I'll order it."
Shu Yao shook his head. "No… Mr. George. If I eat, after that, can I go back to my home."
George's chest tightened. Eyes widened. "No, Shu Yao—you can't. You must stay here until you've got better."
Shu Yao lifted his fragile gaze, glistening with tears yet shining with trust. "I don't like being here… it's awful."
George swallowed hard, jaw clenched. How could he let him go? Back to his home, when tomorrow he again will show up to work, back to Bai Qi—where pain and cruelty waited? He took a deep breath. "Okay… once you eat, we'll go home."
Something fragile sparked in Shu Yao's heart—trust, faint but alive. He picked up the spoon, trembling, hesitant, but determined.
He lifted a half-boiled egg. Tiny bite. Slowly. Methodically. George watched, silent, admiration threading through every heartbeat. He had never seen Shu Yao eat so deliberately, so beautifully, yet awkwardly—so exposed in his vulnerability.
Shu Yao forced down another bite, cheeks flushed, eyes avoiding George's gaze. Embarrassment prickled at his skin, but he pushed on, swallowing hard, determined not to let his discomfort stop him.
"I'm full," Shu Yao replied quietly, barely audible.
George's eyebrows rose. "Full? After Only one egg?"
Shu Yao lowered his gaze, trembling. "I just… I want to go home."
George exhaled slowly, resigned but resolute. "Alright, Shu Yao. We'll leave after you finish just a little more."
Shu Yao's eyes flickered to the spoon. His lips trembled. "I… I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. Weakness clung to him like a second skin, every muscle reluctant to obey.
"You can," George said softly, but firmly, his hand hovering near the tray. "Just one more bite. That's all."
Shu Yao pressed his lips together, chest rising and falling with effort. "I… I don't want to…" His voice cracked, tiny and fragile.
George leaned closer, voice gentle. "Shu Yao… if you want to go home, you need strength. Just a little more. For that."
For a moment, Shu Yao froze, eyes lowering. The desire to escape the hospital, to feel the safety of home, battled against the exhaustion that weighed every fiber of his body. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he picked up the spoon again.
Each motion was deliberate, trembling, a fragile declaration of will. He brought it to his lips, hesitated, and then swallowed. His eyes widened slightly at the taste, the simple warmth of sustenance, but he forced himself to chew, to finish, because the promise of going home burned brighter than the ache in his chest.
George watched quietly, a soft warmth threading through his chest—a mixture of relief, protectiveness, and quiet admiration. The boy's bravery was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet undeniable. Even in weakness, he chose to fight—not for glory, not for praise, but simply for the chance to take a step back into his own world.
When Shu Yao finally set the spoon down, a faint flush on his cheeks, he murmured, "I… I'm done."
George nodded, expression hardening. "Alright, Shu Yao. Let's go home."
Shu Yao exhaled, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, fragile and trembling, but somehow lighter. He could leave now. He could leave the sterile smell, the weight of the hospital, the fear clinging to every corner.
The nurse returned quietly, tray in hand, and approached Shu Yao's bedside. She knelt gently, her gloved hands, had began peeling the IV tubes from his wrist. Shu Yao didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the sterile floor, fragile and unreadable.
George's chest tightened. "Careful," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Fear pricked at him.
The nurse worked methodically, removing the tubes with deliberate care. Once free, she pressed a bandage over the puncture site.
"It won't be affected," she said softly, her voice smooth and practiced, comforting.
"Does it hurt?" George asked, concern threading every word.
Shu Yao mechanically shook his head. Not that he could tell him the truth. Not that he could admit how every motion still throbbed faintly, a lingering reminder of weakness.
George exhaled and held the edge of the bed. "Then let's go, Shu Yao."
Shu Yao tried to stand. His legs trembled violently, numb from hours of immobility, but he managed to balance. George could feel the strain radiating through him.
He wanted to say something—to caution, to support—but in front of Shu Yao, words seemed fragile, meaningless. Shu Yao's heart belonged entirely to another. To Bai Qi.
Outside, the air bit cold, crisp against Shu Yao's exposed skin. His expression was sorrowful, drawn, the lingering sadness of someone who had not seen the person he cared for since after morning. George's eyes followed him, sharp and wary, yet tender.
The car awaited. The driver opened the door for George first, then turned to Shu Yao. He hesitated, gaze flicking to George.
"Sit," George prompted softly.
Shu Yao obeyed, fragile as porcelain, sinking into the seat. George followed, settling beside him. The engine hummed to life, and the city passed in muted greys, distant and indifferent.
George's phone buzzed. He glanced down, lips tightening. Shu Yao lowered his gaze to his palms, silent, still. George hissed, annoyed, and answered.
"What is it this time, Armin?" His voice was clipped, professional, hiding the knot of unease tightening in his chest.
"Uncle… where are you?" Armin's voice was sharp, urgent. The sound carried more worry than respect.
George glanced at Shu Yao, then hesitated. "I'm in the middle of work," he said finally, tone measured.
Armin's mouth twitched, irritation and concern wrestling visibly in his voice. "What kind of business are you attending at this hour?"
Shu Yao's gaze flickered up, wary, curious, concerned. George met it with a practiced calm, though inside, a storm churned.
"Well…" George said, carefully measured, "it's none of your business."
Armin's fury sharpened. "I don't care to indulge my nose in your so-called business either, uncle."
George heard it as nonsense, static against the worry curling in his chest. "Can you get to the point? What is it you called for?"
Armin pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "It's Bai Qi. He drank too much wine at the office. I took him home. What should I do?"
George froze, phone pressed to his ear, words lodged somewhere between instinct and disbelief. Shu Yao's eyes, wide now, fixed on him. He had already heard.
"Should I informed our parents about it?" Armin continued, voice taut.
"No," George said quickly, voice low, measured. "Bai Qi is twenty-two. Not five anymore."
Armin exhaled sharply, calm now, satisfied with the guidance.
George hung up, silence settling over the car. He exhaled deeply, jaw tight, glancing at Shu Yao.
Shu Yao's fragile voice broke the quiet. "What… what happened, Mr. George?" His expression was etched with worry—lines of fear for the one who always tormented him yet still held his heart.
George hesitated. He weighed the truth against the fragile thread of Shu Yao's trust. But the boy's look, sorrowful and open, twisted his chest.
"Bai Qi… drank too much wine," he admitted finally.
George reached over, pressing a steadying hand to Shu Yao's shoulder. But he's already home. It's none of anyone else's concern. He'll be fine."
Shu Yao's eyes widened, hands clutching his own. "It's… because of me again…"
George's eyes sharpened. "No, Shu Yao. It wasn't your fault."
Shu Yao shook his head, lips trembling violently. "No… it's because of me. He… he thinks I betrayed him. Now he's hurting himself… all because of me."
George's hand pressed to Shu Yao's shoulder, firm and grounding. "No, Shu Yao. Don't blame yourself."
Tears pricked Shu Yao's lashes despite his effort to contain them. His body shivered, the weight of guilt and care pressing like iron. George's own chest tightened. He had tried—tried endlessly—to shield him from every hurt, every misstep, every shadow left by Bai Qi, yet the boy still broke, silently, invisibly.
On the other side in villa, Bai Qi slept fitfully, the warmth of his bed doing nothing to soothe the storm thrashing in his mind.
In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, he saw her. A girl—stunning, delicate, impossibly beautiful. Qing Yue. Her laughter, light and lilting, danced in the edges of his dream. He smiled, relief blooming in his chest. Finally, happiness. Finally… something soft.
But then the air shifted. The light around her dulled. Her smile faltered.
The real Qing Yue appeared. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, pierced through him. Disappointment—not sorrow, not anger, but a judgment that cut deeper than any blade. She did not look at him as someone she loved; she looked at him as one who had betrayed her gege, who had twisted loyalty into ruin.
Bai Qi's chest tightened. His heart throbbed in panic. "If Qing Yue… is here right Infront of me, then who is—"
The girl in his arms, the one who had seemed so perfect, shifted. Her smile widened, cruel and knowing. She leaned close, whispering words he could not catch, her presence a weight pressing against his chest. Every syllable twisted something inside him, something raw and unclaimed.
Bai Qi tried to pull back, but his body was frozen, limbs trembling as if betrayal itself held him captive. The girl's laughter echoed, filling the dream, filling the corners of his mind with dread.
Bai Qi's chest heaved. He wanted to fight, to push back, to wake from this nightmare. But his body refused.
And then—
A whisper, low and cutting, threaded through the shadows:
"Everything you think you control… you've already lost."