The dining room was an cavernous expanse of polished mahogany and silver, illuminated by the cold, flickering light of a crystal chandelier that seemed to mock the stifling atmosphere below.
Marlene sat at the far end of the table, her movements dainty as she nibbled on her meal. Across from her, Bai Qi was a statue of forced composure. His plate was untouched, his mind a labyrinth of shadows and desperate calculations.
He was thinking of the East Wing. He was thinking of the cooling temperature in that room, of the way the medicine needed to be administered, and the terrifying, fragile fragility of a life that hung by a thread.
Marlene's light blue eyes tracked him with a persistent, curiosity. She watched the way he held his utensils, the way his jaw worked against an invisible tension. He has changed, she mused, her thoughts spinning. He is like a statue.
She reached for the silver bowl of dipping sauce on the far side of the table. As her hand extended, she caught a glimpse of Bai Qi's left hand, resting near the edge of the tablecloth.
Her breath hitched.
The skin across his knuckles was a gruesome landscape of angry, raised blisters and seared, crimson tissue. It was a fresh, agonizing injury, raw and weeping.
The silver fork clattered against the china—a sharp, dissonant sound that shattered the silence. Marlene shoved her chair back, the screech of wood against stone making Bai Qi flinch.
"Zuckerchan!" she cried out, her voice a shrill note of genuine alarm.
Bai Qi blinked, pulled from his internal torment. He saw her hurtling toward him, her face a mask of wide-eyed, frantic concern. Before his reflexes could register the threat, she had reached out and snatched his hand, pulling it into the light.
"Zuckerchan, what happened to your hand?!"
Bai Qi looked down, his gaze shifting to the mangled skin. He hadn't even bothered to bandage it. In the grand, agonizing scheme of his life, a mere third-degree burn felt like a pinprick. It was a penance, a physical manifestation of his own failures.
"It is nothing," he said, his voice clipped and cold. "I was... careless, A spill tea recklessly. It is trivial."
Marlene's eyes welled with sudden, glistening tears. Her touch was impossibly light, as if she were afraid he would shatter under her fingers.
"You're lying," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No hot dish makes a wound like this. You were cooking, weren't you? You were trying to prepare something, and you didn't even notice the fire."
Bai Qi averted his gaze, a flash of irritation sparking in his chest. "Marlene, don't be ridiculous. You know me. I have never stepped foot in a kitchen in my life. It was a simple accident. You're making a scene."
She didn't listen. She turned to a maid hovering in the doorway, her command crisp and authoritative.
"Bring the first aid kit. Immediately."
The maid dipped her head in a swift, obedient bow. "At once, Miss."
"Marlene, stop this," Bai Qi hissed, leaning in, his tone dropping to a lethal whisper. "I am not a child. I do not need to be coddled. It is just a burn."
But she was already leading him toward the parlor, her grip on his wrist surprisingly iron-clad. She ignored his protests, her mind racing with a singular, tragic conclusion.
As they reached the center of the room, the maid returned, setting the silver medical box on a side table. Marlene opened it, her fingers moving with a practiced, nervous grace. She retrieved antiseptic and clean, soft gauze.
"Why don't you feel it?" she asked softly, her eyes darting up to meet his.
Bai Qi stared at her, his face an impenetrable wall. "Feel what?"
"The pain," she said, her voice heavy with pity. She began to clean the wound, her movements so delicate they barely registered.
"How can you be so stoic while your skin is literally cooking? Is it because of her? Is it because of Qing Yue?"
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Bai Qi stiffened, the muscles in his neck standing out like steel cables. The mention of the name—the name he had stolen, the name he had pinned to the wrong boy—felt like a jagged piece of glass being driven into his throat.
"Do not speak that name," he commanded, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous intensity.
Marlene didn't stop. She looked at his hand, then back at his cold, empty eyes, and she saw the devastating truth she thought she understood.
"You've shut yourself off from the world," she murmured, her voice laced with an aching, naive sorrow. "You've punished yourself so much for her death that you've simply stopped feeling anything at all. You've become the monument to her memory, haven't you, Zuckerchan?"
Bai Qi looked away, his jaw clenching so tightly it echoed in his skull.
He watched her bandage his hand, her face filled with an innocent, misplaced love that made him feel like the biggest monster in existence.
"I am fine," he said, pulling his hand away the second she tied the knot.
The air in the parlor grew heavy, saturated with the scent of antiseptic and the suffocating weight of unvoiced confessions. Bai Qi remained frozen, his arm hanging at his side, the bandaged hand a stark white anchor in the dim light.
His jaw was a lock of iron; behind his teeth, he was swallowing a torrent of self-loathing that threatened to drown him.
He didn't care about the name. Qing Yue it was a phantom, a label he had mistakenly burned into his own heart, but the reality was far sharper. He was a sinner, a man who had systematically dismantled the dignity of the only person he truly cherished.
Every breath Shu Yao took in that shadowed room was a testament to his own cruelty, a debt he could never hope to settle.
Marlene watched him, her expression softening into a mask of tender, misplaced sorrow. She interpreted his stony silence as the paralysis of a broken heart.
I shouldn't have invoked her, she thought, a pang of remorse striking her. The wound is still raw. I am only twisting the knife.
Slowly, she extended her hand, her fingers trembling slightly before they rested upon his dark, silken hair. Bai Qi looked up, startled by the gesture. Her touch was warm, clashing violently with the cold, sterile void he lived within.
"Zuckerchan," she whispered, her voice a fragile melody. "I... I am sorry."
Bai Qi blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Why? Why apologize?"
"For her name," she murmured, pulling him into an embrace. "I brought back the pain. I am a thoughtless guest."
As her arms coiled around him, Bai Qi stiffened, his muscles vibrating with a mixture of revulsion and entrapment.
He wanted to push her away, to scream that the name meant nothing—that the boy was the one who mattered—but the words died in his throat.
Marlene rested her head against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut. "You used to be so wonderfully silly, do you remember? You were the boy who chased butterflies and laughed until your lungs burned. You made the most ridiculous jokes."
She paused, her breath hitching. "Now, you are... stagnant. You act as if you've grown into a man of stone. You haven't laughed since I've arrived. It is as if that version of you died the moment she left."
Bai Qi's blood ran cold. The memories she evoked were not a comfort; they were a pyre.
Those were the "golden days"—the days he had spent tethered to the false name, the days he had squandered living in a delusion while Shu Yao had been right there, waiting to be seen. Every memory of his "silly" youth was a reminder of his own blindness, a chronicle of time stolen from his beloved.
He felt the knuckles of his bandaged hand throb in sympathy with his tightening chest. He couldn't bear the comparison.
"It is natural," Bai Qi clipped, his voice strained, a jagged edge of irritation piercing through. "When a human grows, the triviality of youth is shed. Maturity is not a choice, Marlene; it is a necessity."
Marlene slowly pulled back, her eyes narrowing as she studied the marble-carved contours of his face. She searched for the spark, the boy, the brother. She found only the abyss.
"I haven't changed," she said, her voice dropping into a defiant, melodic whisper.
"I am still the same girl who followed you through the gardens. If I can remain tethered to the light, why can't you? You could just let the pain stop, Zuckerchan. You could simply let her go."
Bai Qi averted his head, his gaze fixing on the dark, impenetrable shadows of the hallway.
If only you knew, he thought, his internal monologue a chaotic, silent scream. I am not tethered to her. I am not grieving a fiancée. I am rotting from the inside because I turned my beloved's world into a cage.
"It isn't that simple," he finally said, his voice a hollow rattle.
He didn't want to explain. How could he articulate the depth of his shame to someone who lived in the sunlight? How could he tell her that he was not hurting because a girl had left him, but because he had spent a lifetime destroying a boy who had only ever offered him grace?
He looked at Marlene, whose lips were set in a petulant, downward curve, her blue eyes devoid of their usual, frantic hunger.
"Aren't you hungry?" Bai Qi asked, his voice a flat, hollow command.
Marlene pouted, crossing her arms over her chest with a sharp, decisive movement. "I lost my appetite the moment I saw you were hurt, Zuckerchan. How can I eat when you are suffering?"
A weary sigh escaped Bai Qi—a sound of profound, spiritual exhaustion. "Then let me instruct the staff. They will escort you to the guest quarters. You require rest."
Marlene's face brightened instantly, the shadows of concern banished by a surge of unearned excitement. She lunged forward, snagging his elbow with a grip that was shockingly firm.
"That sounds wonderful!" she chirped, her voice bouncing off the high, gilded ceilings. "Come on! Let's go together—it will be just like the old days."
Bai Qi didn't fight the contact. He allowed her to pull him into the hallway, his steps mechanical. But as he walked, his internal gaze was turned inward, a desperate, silent prayer directed toward the East Wing.
Wait for me, Shu Yao, he thought, his pulse drumming a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his ribs. I promise, I will be at your side before you open your eyes. I will not break that vow.
Across the sprawling estate, the atmosphere shifted.
The West Wing was a fortress of silence. The heavy oak doors were closed, serving as a boundary between the world of the living and the tomb Bai Qi had constructed. Inside, the world had been reduced to a dim, amber glow.
Thick, velvet curtains were drawn, choking out the afternoon sun, leaving the room to be lit only by the soft, sickly hum of an expensive table lamp.
The air was heavy, smelling of sterile ozone and stale, metallic breath.
On the oversized bed, buried under layers of crisp, white linen, lay Shu Yao. He was a fragile sculpture of bone and porcelain, his form barely disturbing the stillness of the sheets.
Beep.
Beep.
The monitor by the bedside provided the only heartbeat in the room, a slow, sluggish rhythm that seemed to struggle against the heavy silence.
Shu Yao was not at peace.
His brow was furrowed, a landscape of hidden agony etched into his pale skin. A bead of cold sweat trembled on his temple, catching the dim light before it traced a slow path down toward his hair.
His breathing was erratic—a ragged, shallow intake that hitched in his lungs, as if he were trying to draw air through a filter of ash.
Translucent tubes snaked from the machines, winding their way toward him like hungry, crystalline vines. They were anchored firmly to his wrists and the backs of his hands, pulsing with the life-giving fluids that kept him tethered to the waking world.
Shu Yao's eyelids fluttered, a brief, violent tremor, but he remained lost in the wreckage of his own consciousness.