The atmosphere within the penthouse had turned into a suffocating shroud of silk and static.
Inside the master suite, Shu Yao was no longer a person; he was a battlefield. He lay atop the red velvet, his body racked by violent, rhythmic tremors that made the bed vibrate.
His breath came in shallow, jagged hitches, each one cut short by a sharp, guttural whimper that vibrated in the back of his throat.
The tremors tore through Shu Yao without rhythm or mercy.
They began deep in his core, a savage clenching of muscle that rippled outward, snapping through his shoulders, down his spine, into his limbs.
His jaw locked hard enough that his teeth clicked and ground against each other, the sound sharp and frantic in the suffocating quiet of the room.
Every few seconds his body jerked violently, as if an unseen hand were yanking invisible strings beneath his skin.
His arms twitched uncontrollably, fingers curling and uncurling in useless spasms, nails scraping weakly against the velvet beneath him.
His legs drew in and kicked out again, heels striking the bed in dull, panicked thuds.
The fabric beneath him quivered with each convulsion, unable to absorb the force of a body fighting itself.
Each breath only worsened it.
His chest hitched, stuttering as the tremors seized his ribcage, cutting his inhale short, forcing the air out in broken gasps.
A sound crawled up his throat—half a whimper, half a choked groan—torn loose every time his muscles clenched too hard, too suddenly.
It wasn't pain alone driving it; it was the terror of not being able to stop, of being trapped inside a body that no longer obeyed.
Bai Qi was crouching beside the bed, his shadow looming large and jagged against the wall. His fingers were curled into fists, his knuckles white as bone. He watched the boy—his eyes rolling back, showing only the terrified whites as his nervous system buckled under the agony of the "thaw."
"I just... I just want fix," Bai Qi whispered, though the words felt like ash. He was looking at the way Shu Yao's hand clutched at his own chest, right where Bai Qi's heavy-handed mercy had landed.
The door burst open. George hurried in, his emerald eyes blown wide with a frantic, pulsing dread. Behind him, the private physician, Dr. Chen, trailed with a heavy medical case, his face set in a mask of professional gravity.
"Did he gain consciousness?" George demanded, dropping to a crouch on the other side of the bed. He reached out to rub Shu Yao's hand, but the boy's skin was still so unnervingly cold it felt like touching a tombstone. "Shu Yao? Calm down, everything will be alright. I'm here."
Bai Qi didn't look at his uncle. He couldn't. He watched the way Shu Yao's teeth chattered—a sound like porcelain shattering in a storm.
Despite the terror, a small, ugly part of Bai Qi's mind still clung to his pride. It was his fault, he told himself. I never told him to fetch the wine. He was cocky. He was trying to be a brave.
But as Shu Yao's eyes rolled upward, the pupils dilated and unfocused, the weight of the silence became too much.
"I... I accidentally broke his rib, I guess," Bai Qi stated, his voice devoid of its usual booming authority. It was a hollow, hesitant confession that made the air in the room freeze.
George's hand stilled. He looked up, his emerald eyes locking onto Bai Qi with a look of such profound horror that it was as if he were seeing a stranger.
"You... you did what?" George's voice was a low, lethal tremor.
"You heard me," Bai Qi snapped, his head turning away in a sharp, defensive motion. He couldn't bear the accusation in his uncle's gaze. "His breath wasn't enough. I had to—"
George didn't let him finish. He surged upward, his hand clamping onto Bai Qi's silk collar, bunching the expensive fabric. He leaned in, his face inches from his nephew's. "When will you stop hurting him? Is there no end to your brutality?.
Look at him, Bai Qi! Look at what you've done!"
Bai Qi's own temper, fueled by guilt and exhaustion, flared like a dying star. He wrenched George's hands away with a violent snarl.
"I just wanted to help him! It was his own fault for being so damn stubborn! Why are you always between us, Uncle? Why do you act as if you own his soul?"
"Because you act as if you have the right to destroy it!" George barked. "I respect you because you are my blood, but if you keep acting like this—like a beast in a suit—you will make me forget who you are to me."
"He is my secretary!" Bai Qi roared back, the jealousy he had been nursing for weeks finally spilling over. "I know everything about him! Who are you to lecture me?"
George took a step back, his jaw clenching so hard it looked as if it might shatter. "You know nothing," he whispered. "It is futile."
The argument was silenced by the sharp, metallic snap of Dr. Chen's medical bag.
"Gentlemen, please," the doctor interjected, his voice a cold splash of reality. "Who is the patient?"
Bai Qi pointed a shaking finger at the shivering form of Shu Yao. Dr. Chen moved with practiced efficiency, crouching by the bed. "You can wait outside, Sir," he said, looking at George.
Bai Qi offered his uncle a dark, triumphant look—a petty victory in a room full of loss. George's emerald eyes blazed with a silent, burning fury, but he turned on his heel and exited the room.
Bai Qi didn't leave. He crouched on the floor next to the doctor, his eyes fixed on Shu Yao's face. "Doctor... see his bones. I believe... I believe I broke his rib during the CPR."
Dr. Chen paused, his eyes widening as he looked from the boy's bruised chest to the towering man beside him.
"What are you staring for?" Bai Qi barked, his voice cracking. "I didn't do it on purpose. Just fix it!"
The doctor's expression shifted from professional to deeply worried as he moved his stethoscope across Shu Yao's chest.
"Oh lords..."
"What happened?" Bai Qi demanded.
"His core temperature is still in the danger zone, and the trauma to the thoracic wall is causing his breathing to be dangerously shallow," Dr. Chen stated, his hands flying over his instruments.
"We need to get him to the hospital immediately. His condition is worse than I feared. He needs IV fluids, internal warming, and a proper scan of that lung."
Bai Qi suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the doctor's lapels. "What do you mean? You're a doctor! Why can't you fix it here?"
"Calm down, Sir!" Dr. Chen gasped, startled by the raw violence in Bai Qi's movements. "I am a physician, not a miracle worker. He is in rewarming shock. He needs a level of care I cannot provide in a bedroom!"
Bai Qi let go, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He looked down at Shu Yao, who was now sobbing—tiny, weak sounds that seemed to come from a place of utter brokenness.
"Dammit," Bai Qi hissed.
He didn't wait for a gurney. He didn't wait for the ambulance. He reached down and scooped Shu Yao's trembling, cocooned body into his arms. As he lifted him, Shu Yao let out a long, agonizing groan, his head lolling against Bai Qi's chest.
"Calm down," Bai Qi whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft, a rare moment of genuine tenderness breaking through the ice. "I am going to fix everything. Just hold on."
He walked out of the room, his steps heavy and purposeful. In the hallway, George was waiting.
"Where are you taking him?" George asked, his voice thick with a mix of fear and a rising, bitter jealousy.
"The doctor says he can't fix it here," Bai Qi stated, not stopping. "I'm taking him to the hospital. Now."
George reached out, his hand hovering in the air as if he wanted to take the boy himself, to be the one to offer the comfort, to be the shield. But Bai Qi moved past him with the speed of a man possessed, his grip on Shu Yao possessive and fierce. George lowered his hand, his fingers curling into a tight, frustrated fist.
In the living area, Ming Su stood up from the chaise longue as Bai Qi approached. Her face was a masterpiece of manufactured grief, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Ah Qi? Will he be alright? He looks so... so terrible," she whimpered, her voice a soft, melodic trill.
Bai Qi paused, looking at her. Even now, through the fog of his panic, he felt a flicker of the old devotion. "I am sorry, Ming Su. We have caused you so much trouble tonight. Forgive me. I will compensate you for this mess."
Ming Su shook her head, a single, perfect tear falling. "It's okay, Ah Qi. Just take care of him. Take him to the hospital."
Bai Qi nodded and strode toward the elevator, the doors closing on the image of him holding his shattered secretary against his heart.
George stood in the hallway, watching the elevator numbers count down. He turned his gaze toward Ming Su. She stood there, looking so small, so innocent, so fragile. But George saw the way her eyes tracked the elevator—a cold, calculating glitter that had nothing to do with worry.
The rage George had been holding back finally boiled over. He stepped toward her, his emerald eyes blazing with a light that made the air in the room feel heavy.
"If I find that this was one of your tricks," George began, his voice a low, lethal rasp that made Naina flinch in the corner. "If I find out you had a single hand in hurting that boy... I will not care about your family name,
I will burn down everything you have,
Ming Su.
Ming Su opened her mouth to speak, her face shifting into a mask of wounded innocence, her lips parting to offer some charming, honeyed defense.
But before she could utter a single word, George turned his head away in disgust. He walked toward the exit, his silhouette tall and unyielding, leaving the two women in the silence of their own rotting secrets.
Naina watched him go, her body trembling so violently she had to lean against the wall. Beneath the sweet talk and the silk, she felt the first true tremors of the storm they had invited into the house. And as Ming Su turned on her heels, her jaw clenched in a silent, jagged fury, the golden penthouse felt less like a home and more like a cage.
The heavy, gilded doors finally clicked shut, leaving the penthouse in a state of hollow, echoing silence. The storm had moved to the hospital, but the air in the room remained thick with the static of a failed execution.
Ming Su lowered herself onto the velvet chaise, her movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator returning to its perch. She watched with cold, hooded eyes as the doctor—shaken by Bai Qi's earlier outburst—bowed deeply to her before being ushered out by Naina.
As the sound of the elevator faded, Ming Su leaned back, her head tilting against the headrest. She closed her eyes, but she wasn't resting. She was recalculating.
"You got away today because of that tall beast," she whispered to the empty room, her voice a low, melodic venom. The image of George—his emerald eyes blazing with a protective, ancient fury—burned in her mind.
"But not forever," she continued, her lips curving into a jagged, microscopic smirk. "He won't always be by your side, Shu Yao. I will make everyone regret it if they dare to step into the path of my plans. No one thwarts me and keeps their peace."
Naina returned a moment later, her footsteps soft and hesitant. She looked like a ghost haunting the corridors of her own mistakes. She stopped several paces away and bowed her head so low it seemed she might break.
"I... I am sorry, Ma'am," Naina stammered, her voice thin and brittle. "I failed you."
Ming Su didn't open her eyes. Instead, she raised a manicured hand, pressing it against her forehead as if nursing a sudden, exhausting migraine. The performance of the "tired victim" was a garment she could don at a moment's notice.
"Stop blaming yourself, Naina," Ming Su sighed, the sound dripping with a weary, artificial grace. "Everything was perfect. The timing, the sedative, the cellar... it was a masterpiece of necessity."
She opened her eyes then, and for a split second, the beautiful brown depths were replaced by a light that was dark and predatory.
"Everything was perfect," she repeated, her jaw tightening, "until that tall beast interfered.