The hospital reeked of antiseptic and thunder. The fluorescent lights flickered like the pulse of a dying star. Nurses whispered in corners, their voices trembling around words they could no longer say aloud.
Bai Qi stood in the middle of it all—his hands fisted, his breath uneven. His shirt was half-buttoned, his hair wild disheveled.
He looked less like a man and more like something barely holding itself together.
"The bullet… she lose too much blood," the doctor stammered, flipping through a chart that suddenly felt useless. "She was already gone before they bring her—"
Gone.
That single word detonated.
Bai Qi seized the doctor by the collar. His eyes were red, raw, desperate.
"What do you mean gone?" His voice cracked through the sterile air. "You're supposed to save her! You're doctors—you fix things! Why can't you fix everything!"
The man struggled against Bai Qi's grip, pale with fear. "Mr. Bai, please—let go! There's nothing—she's already—"
"Say it again," Bai Qi hissed, trembling. "Say word again, and I swear—"
Shu Yao flinched from where he stood in the corner.
He had not moved since they arrived. His fingers were clenched around the edge of the chair as though letting go would send him falling through the floor.
His lips were colorless. His eyes—hollow.
The doctor finally tore free, his voice shaking. "He's lost control. Someone restrain him!"
And then he fled, leaving the smell of fear and disinfectant behind.
In the hallway, Qing Yue's mother sat on the waiting bench, her face buried in a handkerchief. Her sobs were small, constant, unbearable.
When she finally rose, she did not look at Shu Yao.
She walked past him as though he were nothing but air—because to her, he was the reason Qing yue is gone.
The door to the viewing room shut behind her with a hollow click.
Now only two remained.
Bai Qi.
And Shu Yao.
The silence was suffocating.
Bai Qi's head was lowered, his shoulders shaking.
When he finally turned, strands of his black hair fell into his eyes, shadowing the grief beneath.
His gaze found Shu Yao like a blade sliding into soft flesh.
Shu Yao's breath hitched. He wanted to speak, to reach out, to say I tried, but the words turned to ash on his tongue.
Bai Qi took a step forward.
"Shu Yao."
His voice was calm at first—but not the kind of calm that offered peace. It was the brittle calm of something moments away from shattering.
Shu Yao looked up, slowly, as though bracing for the impact. "Bai Qi, I—"
"How did this happen?" Bai Qi interrupted, his tone sharp, trembling. "Tell me how this happened."
Shu Yao's lips parted, but no sound came. The weight of everything—blood, thunder, memory—pressed down on his chest until all he could do was shake his head.
Bai Qi's voice rose. "I asked you a damn! a question!"
Shu Yao winced at the volume, shrinking instinctively.
He whispered, "I tried to stop—"
"Tried?" Bai Qi's laugh was short and cruel, soaked in disbelief. "You tried? What were you doing when she—"
He cut himself off, breath quivering, rage twisting with grief until they were indistinguishable.
He stepped closer, and Shu Yao felt his pulse stumble.
"Was that your dirty secret?" Bai Qi spat. "Were you involved with those Bastards? The ones who killed her?"
Shu Yao shook his head desperately, eyes wide. "No—no, I wasn't—I—"
"Then answer me!" Bai Qi roared. "Why did you let him? Why did you let her die? Why did you let any of this happen!"
Each word hit like a physical blow. Shu Yao could hardly breathe. His body trembled under the sound of Bai Qi's fury, the air vibrating with it.
His voice broke, small and cracked. "I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean?" Bai Qi's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "She's Gone, Shu Yao. Do you even understand what that means?"
Shu Yao's knees weakened. "Please—"
"Coward!" The word exploded out of Bai Qi's chest, thick with tears and venom. "You stood there and did nothing!"
Shu Yao's vision blurred; he swallowed the sob that rose in his throat. He had promised himself not to cry in front of Bai Qi again. But his heart was tearing itself apart from the inside.
Bai Qi pressed a trembling hand over his face, looking up as though trying to keep himself from collapsing.
"I can't believe you, Shu Yao. I can't believe you were this—cowardly."
The word echoed in the sterile corridor, louder than the hum of machines, sharper than the cold outside.
Shu Yao covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.
He wanted to scream, I wish it had been me.
But his voice was gone.
Bai Qi looked down at him, eyes red and
feral.
"I wish you'd died instead of her."
The silence after that was unbearable.
Something inside Shu Yao fractured.
He closed his eyes, a broken whisper escaping him.
"I wish it was a nightmare again… just once more… where she's alive. Where you're smiling."
But the world was mercilessly real.
Bai Qi stepped closer again, voice low, unsteady. "From now on… there's nothing between you and me."
Shu Yao's head snapped up, the words hitting like another gunshot.
"W–what do you mean?"
"You and I," Bai Qi said, his tone cold, hollow, final, "are no longer friends."
Shu Yao took a step forward, trembling. His hand lifted, hovering near Bai Qi's sleeve.
"Bai Qi, please… I'm sorry, I didn't—"
Bai Qi slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch me."
The rejection cut deeper than any blade.
Shu Yao froze, his lips trembling, his eyes rimmed red. His hair was still wet from the rain, plastered to his face, his clothes clinging to his shivering frame.
He whispered, barely audible,
"Please… don't say that…"
But Bai Qi didn't stop. He couldn't. His voice cracked with pain he refused to name.
"You're not worthy of friendship."
The words hit the ground like shattered glass.
Shu Yao's tears fell silently now, sliding down his cheeks in trembling streaks.
He didn't even try to wipe them away.
Bai Qi's expression was a ruin of anguish and fury. His eyes glistened, not from pity—but from the same grief that was destroying him from within.
He took a step past Shu Yao, voice breaking.
"You'll pay for what you did."
"Bai Qi…" Shu Yao whispered, but Bai Qi didn't stop.
He kept walking, shoulders rigid, until he disappeared through the door of the room where Qing Yue now lay—still, and cold, and forever beyond reach.
The door closed softly behind him.
Shu Yao stood there, hollow, motionless. The hallway was silent again except for the rain that had begun to slow outside. Drops tapped against the window like fading heartbeats.
He moved at last, his legs weak, and sank into the nearest waiting-room chair.
The cushions were stiff, the air freezing, yet he felt nothing.
He buried his face in his hands.
The sobs came quietly, trembling, refusing to stop.
He was alone.
Truly alone.
The kind sister who once held his hand was—gone.
The friend whose laughter once filled his heart was—gone.
The world, drained of color and sound, folded in on itself until all that remained was his breathing and the ache that refused to fade.
The clock ticked somewhere down the hall, each second a cruel reminder that time kept moving even when he could not.
Shu Yao wept—silently, endlessly—until the tears no longer felt like his own.
And in that sterile, too-bright corridor, he realized what it meant to lose everything.
The storm outside had gone, but inside the hospital, grief still thundered in every corner.
Shu Yao sat where Bai Qi had left him—frozen, hollowed, hands limp in his lap. His tears had stopped, but only because there were none left to give. His eyes were red, his lips trembling, and his chest heaved soundlessly like someone trying to breathe through shattered glass.
He didn't move when a soft voice spoke beside him.
"Kid… let me treat your wounds," the nurse said gently, kneeling before him. She could see the bruises, the shallow cut on redness on his cheek, the blood on his sleeve that wasn't all Qing Yue's.
Shu Yao blinked at her, dazed, his mind somewhere far from here. Then—suddenly—he shook his head. A small, frightened motion.
"No…" he rasped, voice hoarse, almost foreign to his own ears.
The nurse hesitated, her brows knitting. But the boy's expression—the silent plea in it—stopped her from saying anything else. She rose slowly, offering one last look of pity before leaving him alone.
He sat in silence again.
The clock ticked.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
And his world—his once carefully built world—was breaking piece by piece inside his chest.
The wounds outside will heal, he thought numbly. But the one inside… the one here— he pressed a hand over his heart —that won't.
When he finally tried to stand, his legs trembled under him. The corridor swayed for a moment, the floor almost breathing beneath his feet. He steadied himself against the wall, but when he took a step forward—
He stumbled.
His shoulder collided with something firm—someone. His forehead struck a man's chest before he could catch himself. A startled gasp came from above him, and a pair of steady hands caught his elbow.
"Whoa—easy, easy there," said the man's deep voice.
Shu Yao blinked up in confusion. The world refocused through his tears—sharp jawline, warm Emerald eyes, familiar gentleness.
"Mr. George…" Shu Yao whispered.
George's brows furrowed in worry.
"You didn't look fine," he murmured, bending slightly to see the boy's face more clearly.
Under the harsh hospital lights, Shu Yao looked almost ghostlike. His damp hair clung to his temples, his lips were pale, and there was no color left in his delicate cheeks. The trembling in his hands betrayed the stillness in his expression.
"I'm fine," Shu Yao tried to insist. The words fell apart halfway.
George exhaled slowly, eyes filled with something between sorrow and anger at fate itself. "You're not fine," he said softly. "I heard… what happened."
His voice broke just enough for the weight of it to sink in.
He didn't finish the sentence—I know Bai qi fiancee is gone—but he didn't need to. Shu Yao's silence answered everything.
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint rustle of rain outside the window and the low hum of the lights above them.
Finally, George straightened. "Let me take you home," he said.
Shu Yao shook his head weakly. "I can manage."
"You can't go home like this," George said quietly, but firmly.
The words struck something inside Shu Yao. Home.
There was no home anymore. Not without her laughter echoing in the halls.
Still, he didn't argue. His voice had grown too tired for denial.
George stepped closer, placing a careful hand on the boy's back. His touch was gentle—afraid to hurt what was already broken. "Come," he murmured.
Shu Yao moved like a shadow beside him, small, silent, and lost.
The night air hit them as they stepped outside—the storm had left behind the scent of wet pavement and wilted flowers. The world looked washed out, colorless, as if mourning with him.
"It's cold," George said. He shrugged off his own coat and draped it around Shu Yao's narrow shoulders.
"I'm not cold," Shu Yao whispered.
"I know," George said. "But wear it anyway."
The wind gusted, sharp and sudden. Shu Yao flinched, his breath catching in his throat. George noticed the tiny movement and clenched his fists in quiet helplessness.
He led him toward the car slowly, as though afraid Shu Yao might collapse again at any moment.
Every few steps, George's eyes flicked toward him—at the way Shu Yao's shoulders curled inward, at the emptiness in his gaze, at the faint trembling that wouldn't stop.
There was a moment where George wanted to say You're safe now, You still have me, but the words felt useless. Safety meant nothing when the heart itself had been destroyed.
When they reached the car, George opened the door for him. "Careful," he said.
Shu Yao hesitated before stepping in, looking up briefly at the night sky. The clouds had begun to part, revealing thin, tired stars. Qing Yue would have loved this sight.
His throat tightened painfully.
He sat down quietly, clutching the coat closer to himself. It smelled faintly of George's cologne—oak, and rain, and something warm. But even that couldn't thaw the cold in his bones.
George closed the door softly and circled to the driver's side.
As the engine started, the silence filled the space between them. Streetlights flashed across Shu Yao's pale face—brief flickers of gold over a sculpture carved in grief.
George's hands tightened on the wheel. He didn't look at him, didn't dare to, afraid that if he saw more of that sorrow, he might break himself.
He wanted to tell Shu Yao he'd protect him, that he'd take him far away from this nightmare. But he knew it wouldn't matter. Some wounds were too deep to be reached by kindness.
The car rolled forward through the glistening streets, the world blurring outside the windows.
Shu Yao sat silently, staring at nothing.
When the light turned red, George glanced at him through the dim reflection. The boy's head was bowed, his lashes heavy with tears that hadn't yet fallen.
"Shu Yao…" George said softly.
No answer.
Shu Yao's fingers were clenched around the edge of the coat, knuckles white. His lips trembled as though he were whispering to someone who wasn't there.
It should've been me, Not her.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, quiet and slow. He didn't bother to wipe it away.
And as the rain began to fall again—soft this time, almost tender—Shu Yao closed his eyes.
He didn't cry loudly. He didn't speak. He just sat there, small and silent, as the car disappeared into the sleepless city—carrying the last remaining pieces of a boy who once believed in Hope.
And for the first time, Shu Yao realized what true loneliness felt like.
The kind that doesn't scream.
The kind that just stays.