The harsh smell of antiseptic lingered in the sterile, quiet corridor of Saint Vincent Hospital in Chicago. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, pale glow on the whitewashed walls. Outside the emergency ward, Mei Xiaotong sat with her face buried in her hands, Lu Jingyan's blood still dried in tiny streaks on her gown. Her fingers trembled as she clasped her phone, occasionally glancing at the ICU door like it might magically open and bring her good news.
The doctors had rushed Lu Jingyan into emergency surgery hours ago. A fractured rib, dislocated shoulder, and a gash on her head needing stitches. Internal bruising. Mild concussion. The fall had done real damage.
Then came the sound—quick, sharp footsteps pounding against the tiled floor.
Bang.
The doors to the ward slammed open, startling the few staff members still around. Leng Xuanmo stormed in, his coat barely clinging to his shoulders, his eyes wild.
"Where is she?" His voice was low, but it cut like a blade through the hallway.
Mei Xiaotong stood up, startled. "How did you—?"
"Where is she?" he repeated, walking toward her, not stopping.
"She's in surgery," she managed to say, placing a hand on his chest to stop him from pushing through the doors. "You can't go in there. The doctors—"
"What happened to her?" His eyes were blazing now, scanning Mei's face like she had the answers he needed. "Who did this?"
Mei Xiaotong's jaw clenched, emotion swelling in her chest. "Some socialite girls. In the bathroom. They… they pushed her. One of them hit her. She slipped—her head—" Her voice broke.
Leng Xuanmo turned on his heel. "Names. Give me their names."
"Xuanmo—wait!" Mei called after him, grabbing his arm. "This isn't the time. She needs you here. Don't leave."
He paused, chest heaving. He looked utterly unhinged—his tie loose, shirt wrinkled, and eyes red like he hadn't blinked in hours. "She should've never been there. I invited her."
"She was already being watched the moment she stepped in," Mei said quietly. "And she still came. For you."
Those words struck deeper than any accusation.
He looked toward the ICU door again.
"How bad is it?" he asked, voice finally softening.
"Bad," Mei whispered. "She was unconscious for a long time. They said she might have trouble moving her arm for a while."
Leng Xuanmo's throat bobbed. Guilt twisted inside him like a vice.
"I should have—"
"No," Mei interrupted, stepping closer. "You should stay. She doesn't need you blaming yourself. She needs to know someone's here when she wakes up."
Leng Xuanmo slowly sat down beside Mei, elbows on his knees, hands clenched. He stared at the floor in silence, the weight of reality settling like lead on his shoulders.
Moments passed in painful quiet.
Then—
The light above the ICU door switched from red to green.
A nurse stepped out.
"She's stable," she said gently. "She's being moved to recovery. One visitor at a time."
Leng Xuanmo stood instantly. Mei didn't argue.
As he followed the nurse down the hall, his usually confident steps felt hesitant. Vulnerable. The great Leng Xuanmo—the man feared in boardrooms and worshipped by headlines—looked like a man afraid of losing the only person that mattered.
He stepped into the dim recovery room.
Lu Jingyan lay pale against the white sheets, an IV in her arm, her face bandaged delicately. Her chest rose and fell with soft, steady breaths.
He walked slowly to her side, kneeling.
"Jingyan…" he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She didn't stir.
His voice cracked as he whispered, "I'm sorry."
And for once, he didn't try to fix things with power, threats, or control. He just stayed—watching over her. Waiting.