The hospital hallway was quiet again, but Bai Qi wasn't ready to leave.
He lingered beside the door, his hand resting loosely in his coat pocket, thumb brushing the soft edge of his phone. Behind him, Shu Yao slept beneath sterile sheets, machines breathing for him in delicate rhythm. A small body, so still. Too still.
Bai Qi's shoulders tensed as his phone rang once more.
He didn't need to check it. He already knew.
The voice on the line was familiar—brisk, professional, tinged with the echo of someone waiting outside in the cold.
"Master is waiting for you," the driver said, the unspoken message sharper than the words. "I'm at the front."
A pause. Bai Qi didn't reply right away. His gaze drifted back to the hospital door behind him, its edges glowing faintly under the hallway lights.
He could still feel the heat of Shu Yao's fever against his chest.
He could still hear the sharp, broken breath that clung to his collarbone.
He wasn't ready.
But duty never waited for the heart.
"I'm coming," Bai Qi murmured at last, the words pulled from his throat like a thread unraveling.
He ended the call.
And with one last glance at the door—at everything fragile and unsaid that lay behind it—he turned and walked.
His footsteps were slow, muffled by the quiet hospital floor, each one heavier than the last. When he reached the automatic doors, they sighed open with indifference, spilling him into the night.
The car was already there, black and polished, reflecting the orange of the streetlights like oil-slick glass. The driver stood beside it, tall and waiting, holding the door open like a silent accusation.
Bai Qi didn't speak.
He simply lowered himself into the backseat, the leather cool against his palms. The seatbelt clicked into place, quiet and mechanical, and the door shut behind him like a seal pressed over something tender.
The engine hummed softly.
The car moved.
And still, Bai Qi didn't look forward.
He turned his face to the window, letting the city blur past in streaks of gold and grey. Traffic lights blinked like fading stars. The sky above was bruised deep violet.
But all he saw was the past.
Not Qing Yue's smile.
Not her laugh.
Not the teasing tilt of her head.
No, not anymore.
Now, it was Shu Yao.
That moment—the image carved behind his eyelids like it had been branded—Shu Yao crouched on the floor, swaying with fever, fragile hands reaching for porcelain shards like they were more valuable than his own bones.
The bowl.
The broken bowl.
And Shu Yao, trembling, saying in a voice thin as paper: "It was expensive."
As if that was what mattered.
As if he didn't.
Bai Qi's fingers tightened in his lap.
Why did it feel like a betrayal?
Not of Qing Yue. Not even of himself.
But of something softer. Something unnamed.
Something human.
The car slowed.
They turned into a long, familiar drive—cobblestone and winding, lined with moon-kissed hedges and lantern-lit trees.
Home.
Or something that resembled it.
The house came into view—large and beautiful, more estate than dwelling. Its walls were painted the color of old pearls, every window glowing with curated warmth. A fountain glimmered in the center of the courtyard, sculpted and elegant, casting ripples into the night like a memory trying to return.
It had never looked colder.
The car rolled to a gentle stop.
But Bai Qi didn't move.
The driver glanced back once, then again. He cleared his throat, cautious, and said his name softly.
"Master Bai Qi?"
No answer.
The man hesitated. Then, carefully, he stepped out and opened the back door with a practiced hand.
And that was when Bai Qi blinked.
As if waking from a deep, splintered dream.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused, the silence clinging to him like a second skin. He hadn't heard the voice. He hadn't noticed the car stopping. His thoughts were still in that white hospital hallway, in that fevered room where a boy who never asked for anything lay silent beneath machines.
A boy who said "It was expensive," and meant it.
As if his life had a lesser value than a piece of ceramic.
As if no one had ever told him otherwise.
Bai Qi stepped out slowly.
The breeze tugged at his sleeves, but he didn't feel it.
He looked up at the house, its grand archways and warm lights.
A home that had raised him.
A home that had taught him rules.
Discipline.
Honor.
But never—
Never—
how to carry a boy too fragile to stand.
Never how to hold guilt that wasn't yours, and feel it bloom anyway.
He stood there, unmoving, as the driver gently closed the car door behind him and walked toward the entrance.
Bai Qi stayed a step behind.
The stars above were fading.
And for the first time in his life, the place he called home felt too far from where his heart had just been.
The air inside the house was still. Too still.
Bai Qi stepped into the grand entrance, the soft click of his shoes echoing against polished marble. Warm light spilled from chandeliers above, brushing across portraits of long-gone ancestors and the silver vases no one ever touched. Everything in its place. Everything flawless.
But none of it reached him.
His thoughts were still back in the hospital room, back where oxygen machines whispered and porcelain boys fought fevers like they were storms.
He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his phone—not because he wanted to talk, but because he had to. Because someone would be wondering. And because he couldn't keep carrying the weight alone.
His thumbs moved slowly across the screen.
"I've left the hospital. He's stable now."
He stared at it for a moment, the words hanging heavy. Then he pressed send.
The screen lit up moments later.
Qing Yue.
Her name blinked, soft against the dark background.
"How is he now? Is he fine?"
Bai Qi's lips twitched faintly—not a smile, not fully. Just a movement that hadn't reached his face all day.
He sat on the edge of a cushioned bench near the entryway, letting his school bag drop beside him. Then he typed again, fingers slower this time.
"He needs rest. And to eat properly. He's weak, but he'll be okay."
A pause.
Then another reply slid in like breath over glass.
"Thank you so much. Because of you, he made it to the hospital in time."
This time, Bai Qi's expression shifted for real.
A small, crooked smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth.
Not arrogant. Just honest.
He looked at her message for a moment, then tapped a new reply.
"You also take care of yourself, okay?"
The response didn't come instantly—but he could imagine it, even before it arrived.
Somewhere across the city, Qing Yue was probably curling into her pillows, phone pressed to her chest, eyes wide with that barely-hidden smile she thought no one could see.
His phone buzzed again.
"Are you… are you flirting with me?"
No.
That wasn't it.
But it was close enough.
He chuckled under his breath and sent a follow-up:
"Are you blushing right now?"
No reply.
But in another part of the city, Qing Yue hid her burning cheeks behind a floral cushion, her heart racing like a schoolgirl's secret.
Then her message appeared, soft and simple:
"Good night."
Bai Qi stared at the heart emoji a second longer than he meant to.
The smirk came back. A little more smug this time.
His reply was smooth, practiced, and teasing with just a hint of warmth.
"Goodnight, princess."
He locked the screen.
The light faded into black.
The moment dissolved into the quiet hum of the house around him.
Without a word, he slid the phone into the back pocket of his uniform jeans, the gesture easy—like he was putting away a secret.
Then, with steady steps, Bai Qi crossed the threshold into the heart of his home.
But this time, the silence didn't follow him like a ghost.
This time, it glowed—just faintly—with the warmth of a heart emoji and a girl who still blushed on the other end of a phone.
Bai Qi pushed open the door to his room, the soft click of the latch echoing behind him like the end of a chapter. Familiar shadows greeted him—the tall windows veiled with gauzy curtains, the neatly made bed with corners sharp as a soldier's discipline, the quiet perfume of cedarwood lingering in the air.
This was his space.
His sanctuary.
And yet tonight, it felt hollow. A beautiful shell with nothing inside.
He was just starting to unbutton his blazer when a gentle knock came at the door. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just proper.
A voice followed, smooth and practiced:
"Young Master, dinner is served. The Elder Master and Mistress are waiting for you in the dining hall."
Bai Qi closed his eyes for a moment.
Of course they were.
He let out a slow exhale through his nose, the breath sliding past clenched teeth. The blazer stayed on. The room behind him remained untouched.
With shoulders squared and expression unreadable, he stepped back into the hallway.
Each footfall down the corridor was muted, like the mansion itself knew how to be quiet at the right time. Paintings watched him from the walls—ancient faces carved in gold frames, their stares proud and heavy with expectation.
The scent of roasted duck and herbal broth wafted faintly from ahead, subtle and refined. No part of this house shouted. It never needed to. Power here whispered.
As he turned the last corner, the tall doors to the dining hall stood ajar, just enough to let light spill out—warm, golden, and sharp around the edges.
He took a breath.
Then walked through them like he belonged.
Because that's what they expected.
No matter how much of him had stayed behind… in that hospital room.