Then he closed the door behind him. As the door shut behind him, Yao Ziyang stared at the empty chair one more time and whispered into the silence, more to himself than to anyone else:
"I wanted you here."
Reluctantly, Yao Ziyang had over exerted himself and eventually passed out. His mind never stopped thinking about the man who felt like home.
…
The knock came just after dawn. Sharp, but not rushed. The kind of knock that meant business, not crisis.
Dong Yingming sat in a worn leather chair inside the converted office that had become his self-imposed exile. Papers lay untouched on the desk. An untouched plate of food, long gone cold, sat beside an empty glass. He hadn't left the room since choosing to move into it.
"Come in."
He said hoarsely, not looking up.
The door creaked open. Wei Jiang stepped inside, uniform crisp though worn loose with his collar slightly opened and sleeves rolled up. As always, expression unreadable.
Dong Yingming finally glanced up, slow and heavy-lidded from exhaustion.
"How is he?"
"Better. Awake."
Wei Jiang replied simply.
"The fever's still dropping. Dr. Zhang should be visiting him soon. I've come to give an update before getting his breakfast."
A tight nod was all the answers he received from Dong Yingming. He looked back down, as if that was all he had wanted to hear.
Wei Jiang didn't leave.
After a beat, he added quietly.
"He got up. Out of bed."
That made Dong Yingming's jaw clench.
"And you let him?"
"He was crying."
The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
Dong Yingming looked up again, slower this time. His eyes—usually hard as steel—were glassed over, red-rimmed from sleepless nights and guilt.
"Did he say anything?"
He asked, voice low, hesitant. Wei Jiang nodded once.
"He asked why you weren't there."
Dong Yingming leaned back in the chair, one hand lifting to rub over his mouth. He didn't respond.
"I helped him back to bed…"
Wei Jiang continued.
"He…could barely lift his arms."
Dong Yingming closed his eyes.
"And before I left…"
Wei added, softer now,
"He said to tell you he was sorry."
There was silence again. Longer, deeper. Then Wei Jiang said the part that mattered most.
"I told him I'd let you know he cried."
That broke something loose.
Dong Yingming stood abruptly, the chair scraping behind him. His movements were stiff, wounded by guilt more than fatigue. He stepped around the desk and paused by the door he'd just opened, hand on the frame. He didn't meet Wei Jiang's eyes.
"Is he asleep?"
"I told him to rest."
Wei Jiang replied.
"He's likely passed out by now. He used a lot of his strength just to make it to the door."
Dong Yingming's fingers tightened on the doorframe. He was a man who gave orders, who struck fear with a glance, who ruled this prison like a second kingdom. But right now, he felt like nothing more than a man who had failed the one person who trusted him.
"…I shouldn't have left."
He said finally.
"No…"
Wei Jiang agreed.
"But you can still go back."
Wei Jiang stood, hands gripped tightly hidden behind his back, silently in place. In the open doorway, Dong Yingming slowly closed the door and made his way back behind his desk. Every footstep, boots knocking on concrete, sounded of barely held resolve—The air was stale with silence. Dong Yingming sat again behind the desk, hunched forward, elbows on the wood, eyes shadowed by the overhead light.
The words hung in the room like a stone dropped in deep water.
Dong Yingming didn't look up right away. His fingers curled slightly, knuckles taut against the edge of the desk. He leaned back in his chair slowly, exhaling through his nose. There was no satisfaction, no relief—just another fresh bruise inside his chest.
"I still can't go to him…"
He murmured, almost ashamed.
"Not yet. Not until he's fully recovered… He's no good if he's dead…"
Wei Jiang nodded once, not fully convinced about that last sentence.
"Then make the time away count."
And with that, he left the room in silence, heading down the corridor, each footstep echoing a little too loudly in the quiet hall—like someone walking not toward a cell, but heading out for a leisure stroll. No one saw the slight smile that held the corners of his lopsided grin.
After the guard left, Dong Yingming sat in silence for a long while before standing and moving to the narrow window. The light cast his profile into sharp relief—dark brows furrowed, jaw locked, guilt carved into every angle of his face.
He had his suspicions. This wasn't just a regular fever. Something about his lover's deteriorating health felt… too sudden. Too severe. But not fabricated. That quack said he'd been recovering. The bath had been warm, not too hot. The sheets had been clean. The room hadn't been drafty. He made sure his man was eating and taking his medicine regularly.
So what was it?
He turned his gaze from the window and picked up the small black receiver of the private wall phone. He didn't call Wei Jiang back. Nor the quack to come. But Chang Xiao—the one man he trusted with information he didn't want anyone else to know he was searching for.
The line clicked, and a quiet, almost lazy voice answered.
"Boss Dong."
"I need you to investigate something."
He said flatly.
"Discreetly. No written record. No trace."
A pause.
"Understood."
"I want a list of all the men I've used while here. Past playthings—specifically ones who got sick after. Flu symptoms. Fever. Sudden collapse. Anything strange. Anything similar to what's happening now."
Another pause. Longer.
"You think this is something tied to you?"
"I think I've been careless before…"
Dong Yingming said.
"And I'm not willing to risk him being a second mistake."
Chang Xiao didn't ask more. He never did.
"I'll start tonight."
Dong Yingming hung up the phone with a slow click, then pressed his palms against the desk, steadying himself. His chest ached—not from illness, but from the pressure of knowing someone soft, someone bright, had trusted him… and might have paid the price for it.
He didn't know if the answers would save his lover.
But not knowing definitely wouldn't.
...
In the dim, quiet cell, Yao Ziyang stirred beneath the blankets. His fever hadn't spiked again, but it lingered — a heavy weight pressing him down into half-consciousness, where time didn't move properly and the line between dream and memory blurred.
In the haze, he saw him.
Dong Yingming — tall, eyes dark with worry, his hands trembling as they cradled Yao Ziyang's face. He was kneeling. Saying something he couldn't quite hear.
"Don't leave me."
Yao Ziyang whimpered softly in his sleep. His fingers reached out blindly, searching through the air, brushing against nothing.
"Mmn… Brother Dong …"
The word slipped from his lips in a whisper, raw and thick with longing.
In the dream, Dong Yingming leaned forward and touched their foreheads together.
"I hurt you again."
He was saying.
"I don't know how not to."
But Yao Ziyang only smiled faintly and leaned into his touch.
"You make me feel safe…"
A tear trickled from the corner of his eye in real life. Wei Jiang had just returned with breakfast but seeing Yao Ziyang was still sleeping, he opted to just let the man rest.
He placed the tray of food by the nightstand then took a seat quietly in the chair beside the bed. Once seated, he noticed Yao Ziyang's quiet cries. He didn't move — just shifted his weight, leaned forward, and adjusted the blanket so it stayed close to the boy's chest.
Yao Ziyang sighed again, voice barely audible.
"Don't go…Dong Yingming..."
Wei Jiang exhaled through his nose.
"He's gone."
He said quietly, even though the boy was too deep in sleep to hear it.
"But I…I'm here."
…
The room was still, filled with the soft scent of steamed rice and medicinal herbs. Afternoon light slanted in through the narrow barred window, casting long strips of gold across the floor and the bed where Yao Ziyang lay, propped up against pillows.
He was awake now — still pale, still weak, but no longer burning. His skin had cooled to a soft warmth, and the fevered glaze in his eyes had lifted. Sweat clung damp at his collarbone, his new robe slightly askew, but he was lucid.
And tired. So, so tired.
It started innocently enough.
A light and reasonable refusal.
Wei Jiang took the uneaten breakfast and only returned as Zhang Wei was leaving after checking on Yao Ziyang. As they passed each other, Zhang Wei took notice of the food on the tray and gave a slight nod of approval and continued on his walk. Wei Jiang also continued his return to the cell just as noon struck, the new metal tray in his hands was still warm from the kitchen.
It was a large but thoughtful meal: a bowl of soft congee, steamed egg custard, shredded ginger chicken, and a small cup of warm tea steeped in goji and red dates. A new menu and far more food was added under Zhang Wei's advice. This kind of food is meant to coax the appetite back into a weakened body.
He moved with the same quiet precision he always did, setting the tray on the small bedside table with a soft clink.
Yao Ziyang was curled on his side under the covers, his back to the door, one pale shoulder exposed beneath the loose collar of his robe. His clothes felt too suffocating thus he only wore the warm and fluffy white robe in bed. His breathing was light but even — awake, not sleeping. He was looking at nothing in particular — eyes open, but distant. A kind of sadness had settled into him since the fever broke, like his body had healed faster than his heart.
"You skipped breakfast. You need to eat."
Wei Jiang said, his voice calm, controlled.
A pause.
Then, softly.
"I'm not hungry."
Wei Jiang stepped closer, stopping at the side of the bed. The boy didn't turn around.
"You haven't eaten more than a few mouthfuls in the couple of days you've been comatose."
Wei Jiang moves the tray closer beside the bed, for Yao Ziyang to easily reach and straighten up.
"You need to eat."
Yao Ziyang didn't even glance at the food.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't eaten real food in days. You need the nutrition to recover."
Wei Jiang said, voice firm but quiet.
Yao Ziyang shook his head slightly.
"Not eating."
Wei Jiang paused.
Something twisted in Wei Jiang's chest.
Yao Ziyang's voice was gentle but flat, the tone of someone who had been wrung out and folded over. There was no resistance in it. No fight. Just quiet resignation.
Yao Ziyang stirred slightly, attempting to rise only to fall back onto the bed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
"He still hasn't come."
Wei Jiang didn't respond at first. He just sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, just in case.
"He's watching. Just from a distance."
The younger man looked away, toward the window.
"I thought… after everything, maybe he…I don't know...cared…that I…mattered…"
Wei Jiang's jaw tightened. He stood up, reached to the side table, and poured water from the pitcher into a glass cup. He returned and crouched beside the bed, holding it to Yao Ziyang's lips, one hand rested behind his head, helping to elevate him.
"Drink slowly."
The man obeyed. Their eyes met, briefly.
"You do matter…"
Wei Jiang said softly once the boy leaned back again.
"Just…more than you should."
Yao Ziyang's brows pulled together.
"What does that mean?"
Wei Jiang looked away.
Wei Jiang stood up for a moment, hands by his sides. It was supposed to be simple: set the tray down, check vitals, report back. But seeing the boy like this — turned away, curled in on himself like something brittle — something bothered him in a way it hadn't before.