The next seventy-two hours were a blur between light and darkness — a strange rhythm of nothingness and faint echoes.
When light finally crept into my world again, it didn't come softly. It burned.
At first, I didn't understand where I was. My lashes fluttered against the dim ceiling lights above me. The unmistakable scent of antiseptic hit me, sharp and sterile — a smell that could make even angels feel like sinners.
Hospitals. I hate hospitals.
I squirmed my eyes open fully, blinking through the haze, scanning the whitewashed walls and silver instruments that surrounded me.
To my blurred thinking, it looked like a VIP room — no, not quite. A ward that had been cleared out entirely, stripped bare of other patients. Someone had paid for this space, no doubt. Paid for silence, privacy, boundaries — and perhaps pity.
The sheets were too clean, too crisp. My body felt heavy, like I had been stitched together by invisible threads. My throat burned like sandpaper.
For a few long seconds, I just lay there, piecing together fragments.
How did I end up here?
At first, I thought — the pasta. Maybe I'd eaten too much. But even I knew that would've only earned me a night locked in the bathroom, not a week trapped between life and death.
And then, before I could even finish thinking, a familiar voice sliced through the silence.
"You really have some thick skin, don't you?"
That tone — dry, teasing, edged with exhaustion.
"Thick skin?" I echoed weakly, my voice hoarse. That meant… I'd survived. Somehow.
I shifted, trying to sit up, though my body protested with every move. "No beating around the bush," I managed, my voice trembling but firm. "What happened? How on earth did I—"
My words died as my gaze caught the small item in her hand.
A juice box.
Not just any juice box.
Soursop.
My stomach turned violently. My throat tightened.
"Damn you!" I snapped, my voice cracking as panic clawed through me. "What the fuck are you trying to do? Kill me?!" I yanked at the sheets, pushing myself back instinctively as if the mere smell could burn my skin off.
She raised a brow. "I should ask you that," Dai Fei said flatly. "When I found you, you'd taken the whole thing."
Her words sank like stones in my chest.
I blinked, confused, dazed — and yet there was something absurd about it. My face felt swollen, my eyes dry but stinging. I probably looked like I'd been hit by a truck and then told to pose for a magazine cover.
But… why? Why the hell would I drink something I knew could kill me?
"I—what happened?" I whispered, my throat dry.
Her voice softened, though her expression stayed firm. "You were almost ashen. Your lips… you stopped breathing twice. If I hadn't brought you in when I did, you wouldn't be here. Wu An, you almost died."
I let the words hang there.
Almost died.
Not "sick." Not "weak." Died.
My heart clenched painfully.
"I couldn't take alcohol," I murmured, staring blankly at the ceiling. "I promised myself I wouldn't. And it's your fault my fridge was empty."
It was a weak attempt at humor, a shield of sarcasm to mask the trembling in my voice.
She gave me that look — the one that was half fury, half relief. Her eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness. Her lips pressed together as if holding back a scream and a sob at once.
I exhaled shakily, my voice lowering to a whisper. "I'm… sorry."
The words barely made it past my throat, but they were real.
For once, I wasn't apologizing for the mess, or the sarcasm, or my temper. I was apologizing for existing at the edge — for making someone else pay the price for my carelessness.
I lowered my head, fingers curling against the sheet. "I get it now," I said quietly. "Even when I think my life doesn't matter… someone's world will always shatter if I throw it away. Some will cry, some will laugh, but still — it matters."
There was a long silence. Only the faint hum of machines filled the air.
Dai Fei sighed, moving closer. "It's my fault too," she said softly. "I should've restocked your fridge. I know how you get when you're restless." Her lips curved into a weary half-smile. "You'll never have to command me on that again."
The light filtering through the blinds fell gently over her face, and for the first time in a long while, I saw how much she'd aged — not in years, but in worry.
I turned away, blinking fast. "Thank you," I muttered.
It wasn't just for saving me. It was for staying, even when I kept pushing her away.
Outside, rain began to fall — soft, rhythmic, cleansing. The kind of rain that carries away dust and old ghosts.
Four years later:
It has been four years since the New Hope Project was brought to life—by me.
Four long years, and yet I can still recall the weight of that day—the way every pair of eyes turned toward me when I threw that wine glass during the presentation. The sound of shattering glass still rings in my mind, sharp and satisfying. Some called it dramatic. Others whispered that I'd lost control. But truth be told, that glass had to break, or I would have.
They called New Hope a charity. Maybe they were right. But I called it something more than charity—I called it Hope. Not the vague, poetic kind people dream of when the night is long and empty, but the tangible kind. The kind that gives those who've been forgotten the means to reach the dreams they thought were never meant for them.
New Hope wasn't just a project. It was a statement. A bridge between the privileged and the overlooked. And though I built that bridge with my own hands, I didn't do it alone.
Mr. El-Vado—my so-called business bestie—was the first to believe in it.
It was funny, really. Despite our years of friendship in business circles, New Hope was the first official collaboration between us. And knowing his standards, I wasn't surprised by his terms. To him, business was like an app—you get engagement, reviews, results, and you're contracted. Slack off, wait for manna from heaven, and you remain unchosen.
He had a strange way of teaching. One might even call him a philosopher hidden in a suit. Sometimes he'd say things that sounded like riddles, leaving me confused for hours before I finally caught the meaning.
"The waves are close, yet faraway," he once told me, sipping wine with an unreadable smile, "but they dance to the beat of your favourite tone."
It made no sense to me at the time. It was during the day I lost a million-dollar contract at a mahjong house—a place I should never have been in the first place. I wasn't a fan of games, and certainly not one for luck. But the man I'd been eager to win over, a potential investor, was obsessed with mahjong and Go.
The rule had been simple—win, and the deal is yours. Lose, and you walk away empty-handed.
That day, I lost.
No second chances. No explanations.
I remember sitting there, staring blankly at the mahjong tiles, the air thick with cigarette smoke and laughter that wasn't mine. My chest felt hollow. I had just started the business, trading everything I owned to build a foundation from nothing. And now, all I could think of was the sound of doors closing.
That was when he came in.
Mr. El-Vado.
I had seen his name everywhere but never met him in person until that moment. Seeing him face to face, I felt small, almost pathetic—but pride wouldn't let me bow. I stood up, forcing a smile.
"Mr. El-Vado…" I'd said softly.
He didn't answer at first. He just glanced at the mahjong table, clicked his tongue, and then murmured those strange words about waves.
At first, I thought he was being eccentric—maybe even a little insane. But later, I understood. He wasn't talking about the ocean. He was talking about zeal—ambition. About how dreams, though seemingly close, can still be unreachable unless you make them dance to your rhythm.
That was the first advice I ever received from him. The first spark that reminded me not to drown just because I'd lost once.
Four years later, that same man—Mr. El-Vado—was now praising me for New Hope. And though he'd approved the investment, he hadn't done it without reprimanding me for being too emotionally attached to the project. "Business," he'd said, "must be like a tide—unmoved by emotion, but moved by purpose."
Still, the project thrived. Four years, and it was finally on track. The media called it revolutionary. I called it redemption.
And this month, we were recruiting new interns—over a hundred of them. My team was buzzing with excitement. The files came in by the dozen, stacked high on my desk. Each résumé told a story—some of resilience, others of pure desperation.
But one file stood out.
A young man—his résumé printed on clean, neatly folded paper. His background wasn't what we usually looked for. He wasn't from the streets, nor from the world of the forgotten. His education was top-tier, his hobbies diverse and impressive. By every metric, he didn't need New Hope.
And yet… he applied.
His name—Li Chenrui.
Something about him caught my attention. Maybe it was the way he described his purpose in the short essay section of the form. "I want to learn how hope feels when it's shared," he'd written. Simple, yet profound.
I could've called him in immediately. I could've broken the rules for once. But as the boss, I had to abide by the same system I built. New Hope was for the less privileged, for those who had nothing to fall back on. Li Chenrui didn't fit that image, no matter how intriguing his words were.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't a random applicant. There was something behind his file—something I couldn't quite name.
And so, I decided to wait.
If he was meant to cross my path again, he would.
After all, in this world, fate always finds its rhythm.