"So… I really have to have surgery?" Qin Xueyan's expression shifted between worry and reluctant acceptance. She glanced from the films to Xun Yuming's face, and the more she looked, the more uncertain she became. He was tall and slim, his skin fair, his features clean and refined—so young that, standing beside her son, he almost looked like a student who had wandered into the ward by mistake. It wasn't that she doubted doctors as a group; it was simply that in her mind, the word "neurosurgeon" came attached to a head of gray hair, a solemn face, and an air of age-earned authority. After a few seconds of hesitation, she blurted out the question that had been sitting on her tongue: "You're so young… are you really sure you can do this kind of surgery?"
"I..." Xun Yuming opened his mouth, instinctively ready to reassure her, to explain technique and risk and prognosis the way he always did, but before he could complete a single sentence, Zhuang Yi spoke first. His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, almost as if he were reading from a biography he had memorized long ago. He told his mother that Xun Yuming had been his classmate, that they had graduated from Stanford, that he had just won an international award and was now one of the most talked-about neurosurgeons, that Dean Chen had tried for years to bring him back, inviting him repeatedly, practically begging him to come. The words sounded like praise, but there was also a subtle edge to it, an insistence, as if he were forcing himself to acknowledge facts he didn't particularly want to acknowledge.
Qin Xueyan's unease didn't vanish, but it shifted shape. She nodded cautiously, half-convinced by her son's certainty, half-convinced by the hospital director's enthusiasm. "Old Chen is trying to curry favor with him…" she muttered, as though translating the entire situation into a logic she trusted: if the dean was flattering someone, that person must be capable. Then she looked up at Xun Yuming again, her eyes suddenly earnest, even a little pleading. "Then I'll have to trouble you, Doctor. You must take good care of me. I'm terrified of dying!"
"Auntie, don't say that," Xun Yuming replied quickly, smoothing his expression into the gentle professional smile he wore around patients and families. He picked up the medical record from the table, keeping his voice steady and kind. "You'll be fine. Just relax and don't put too much pressure on yourself these days. The more you scare yourself, the more uncomfortable you'll feel. Rest well, eat properly, and leave the rest to us." He didn't linger after that. The longer he stayed, the more complicated the air in the room became, his patient's motherly warmth on one side, Zhuang Yi's silent presence on the other. He excused himself politely and walked out.
The moment the door closed behind him, he let out a long breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The corridor outside felt unusually wide, as if space itself had returned. He checked the time: nearly eight o'clock. Only then did the hunger crash into him like a delayed wave, he hadn't eaten dinner yesterday, hadn't eaten anything since the night before, and his stomach now twisted impatiently, demanding payment for the debt.
He remembered there were still two energy bars in the drawer of his office desk. With that thought alone as motivation, he headed toward the administration building, walking down the corridor with his hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders heavy. But just as he turned the corner near the stairwell, voices drifted out from inside, low, conversational, and sharp in that familiar way people speak when they believe no one important can hear them.
"…Tch. Winning an award isn't that impressive. You know how he got that award, don't you?"
"How?"
The next voice lowered further, delighted by its own gossip, as if sharing secret intelligence rather than hearsay. "The last Field award was supposed to go to a doctor at Johns Hopkins, but that guy died in a car accident before receiving it. You know how these awards work, they only give it to living people. Xun Yuming was second in the vote, so it fell to him. It should've belonged to the other person."
"Oh...right, right. I remember that. It was on the news. Everyone said he was lucky. What kind of luck is that? His award is basically stained with blood, and he still parades it around like he earned it fair and square. And he's been researching for ages, hasn't made progress, right?"
"Come on, who wouldn't want him? Even if it's annoying, it doesn't stop him from being a 'big expert' now. Look at him, so pretentious. The other day, a patient had a tattoo on his neck and he insisted on calling plastic surgery to do the stitches. Stayed in the operating room just to babysit scar appearance. He's crazy."
"Hahahaha. People spoil him. Old Chen even praised him for being humane. If it were us, Chen would've pulled a five-meter sword and chopped us down on the spot. And Xun hasn't been here long, three patients still haven't woken up. I saw their families making a scene today."
"What's there to be afraid of? He's good-looking. Makes a living off his face. The whole hospital is fawning over him like he's royalty. And Old Chen… if you didn't know better, you'd think he was trying to take advantage of him. Doesn't that make you sick?"
The voices tumbled over one another, each sentence sharper than the last, each word polished into something that could cut. Xun Yuming stood in the empty corridor, motionless, listening. He didn't step forward. He didn't retreat. For a moment he simply existed there, his fatigue pressed into the shape of silence. Then, without changing his expression, he turned and walked back toward the elevator quietly, as though he had never been there at all.
Outside, the morning had already brightened into a clear day. The sun was strong, but the wind carried a thin chill, late summer slipping into early autumn without asking permission. The street beyond the hospital bustled: vendors shouting softly, plastic stools arranged in neat rows, steam rising from aluminum pots, the smell of porridge and fried dough wrapping around the air like a blanket. This city woke up every morning through food, through noise, through life continuing no matter what anyone said behind closed doors.
Xun Yuming went to the stall he had been craving, wanting shrimp congee, only to be told it was sold out. He stood there for a second, disappointment flickering across his face, then saw the KFC across the road and decided he didn't have the energy to be picky. He walked in, ordered mushroom-and-chicken congee and two fried dough sticks, and found a seat by the window. The lobby was quiet at this hour, only a handful of people scattered around. He set his tray down, sat, and finally lifted his spoon.
He had barely taken a few bites when Zhuang Yi appeared.
He didn't buy breakfast. He didn't even glance at the counter. He walked directly toward Xun Yuming, placed a plastic lunchbox on the table, and sat down as if this meeting had been scheduled, as if the awkwardness between them was not real. "Let's talk about my mother's condition," he said. "Just a few words. Then I'll leave."
"Auntie's condition really isn't serious," Xun Yuming replied, stirring the steaming porridge with his spoon. His tone was controlled, professional, almost deliberately neutral. "Didn't I already explain it? If you're still worried, you can have someone else take a look, I don't mind. But if you..." He stopped himself before saying what he was thinking: if you don't want me involved, then change doctors. Don't keep hovering half-in, half-out. Don't bring me into your house, your mother's ward, your hospital politics, and then act like I'm the one crossing lines.
Zhuang Yi didn't answer his half-finished sentence. He simply opened the lunchbox and pushed it toward him.
Inside were six pan-fried buns, golden and glossy, topped with egg yolk and sprinkled with sesame. The smell rose immediately, meat, oil, heat.
Xun Yuming blinked, surprised despite himself. "…For me?"
Zhuang Yi nodded once, as if it wasn't worth explaining. "My mom thinks the meat soup is too greasy."
"Thank you," Xun Yuming said automatically, the words leaving his mouth before he could decide whether he should accept this small kindness. He picked up a bun, took a bite, and immediately regretted it, hot soup burst out and splattered onto his plate. He puffed his cheeks in silent pain, muttering under his breath, "So hot…"
Two napkins lay on the table, quickly stained with pale yellow oil. The spots spread into soft, messy shapes, like two flowers pressed too close together. Zhuang Yi looked away from the mess, reached into his suit pocket, and handed him a handkerchief, clean, folded, undeniably personal in a way paper napkins were not.
Xun Yuming paused before taking it, as if the fabric had weight. He used it to wipe his mouth, then asked cautiously, "I'm taking half a day off this afternoon. Why?"
"I'm fine," Zhuang Yi replied, leaning back slightly, one arm draped over the booth's backrest in an effortless posture that made him look as though he belonged anywhere. "It's your issue. You haven't completed your onboarding psychological evaluation. It's been two months."
"Psychological evaluation?" Xun Yuming swallowed his mouthful of porridge and tried to recall the onboarding booklet he had skimmed. There had indeed been a section about periodic psychological assessments for surgeons, something implemented after a previous medical dispute, where lawyers had argued that unstable mental state contributed to surgical error. It was mostly legal defense, a formality disguised as concern.
Zhuang Yi glanced at his watch. "I'm free from two to four-thirty." His index and middle fingers tapped the table twice, crisp and unhurried. "I'm leaving now."
He stood up as he spoke.
"I won't give up the funding," Xun Yuming said suddenly, lifting his head with a small, stubborn smile that looked almost boyish against his exhausted face. "I'm not going to let it go that easily."
Zhuang Yi smiled faintly, said nothing, and walked away. His figure faded beyond the glass doors, swallowed by morning light and passing people.
Xun Yuming finished the buns, stared at the traffic outside for a long time, then picked up the remaining two thick fried dough sticks and returned to the hospital.
Dean Chen had just emerged from the conference room. When he saw the fried dough stick in Xun Yuming's hand, he reached over without permission, took a bite, and nodded in approval. "Mm. Crispy."
Xun Yuming handed him the rest without even bothering to protest. "How did the talks go?"
"It's nothing," Old Chen said, chewing quickly. He pulled a carton of milk from his pocket like a magician, inserted the straw, and started drinking. "Those people are the children of that old lady you operated on. Her husband's been dead for years. She had surgery before, didn't improve, ended up paralyzed."
His tone was casual, but what he described was ugly in its simplicity. "They think taking care of her is exhausting, and they're eyeing the two houses their father left behind. If you operate and it goes well, they have less burden. If you operate and it goes badly, they're free of the burden and can split the inheritance. If they're lucky, they can even sue for compensation. But you refused to operate at all, so now they're panicking."
"It's not that I refused," Xun Yuming said, taking a breath and forcing himself to speak calmly. "Have you seen her scans? The spinal tumor is as thick as an arm. The chances of removing it are… almost zero. And she's old. Even anesthesia..."
"Alright, I know." Old Chen waved it off, finishing his milk and shaking the empty carton. "I handled it. If it can't be opened, it can't be opened. Don't pressure yourself. Do what you need to do."
Xun Yuming grunted, relieved but still weighed down. He took two steps, then turned back, as if remembering something important he had been trying not to think about.
"Dean," he asked quietly, "about Zhuang Yi… he told me to do a psychological evaluation. Did you know?"
"I know," Old Chen replied, tossing the carton into the bin. "We've had incidents before. Surgeons are busy, stressed. Talking doesn't hurt."
Xun Yuming's doubt showed plainly on his face. "But is he really a doctor here? The counseling clinic hasn't even opened yet. Hospitals don't usually provide counseling services like that."
Old Chen pressed the elevator button and explained as they waited. "Most hospitals here don't have proper counseling. They have psychiatry, prescribe meds, manage severe cases. Counseling usually happens in outside agencies. Our hospital used to cooperate with Xiao Zhuang. Not subordinate, just partnered."
He continued, as if outlining a strategy rather than gossip. "He wanted to open a studio. We discussed it internally. We plan to affiliate his studio with our hospital and establish a joint outpatient clinic. Then we'll have the best psychological counseling room in the region. Winning the civility award will be easy."
Xun Yuming listened, expression unreadable.
Somewhere between "award" and "clinic," he could feel the invisible threads tightening again, funding, reputation, Zhuang Yi, his own life being rearranged without his consent.
And he couldn't tell which was more exhausting: surgery, or everything outside it.