Dr. Hui arrived an hour after Ming's call, moving through YanTech's private corridors like a ghost from another life. His steps were steady, unhurried, but beneath the surface he carried the grim urgency of a man who had seen this kind of breaking before. He had been the Yan family's physician for more than thirty years—long enough to remember when Lou Yan was not a titan cloaked in composure, but a solemn little boy, silent and serious, watching the world from behind a wall he had built before he could even spell the word "lonely."
The executive suite was dim, the heavy drapes drawn halfway against the afternoon light. Lou lay sprawled across the wide bed, a soaked and crumpled figure against the pristine white linens. His body, usually taut with controlled energy, was now terrifyingly slack. His clothes, still damp from the cold shower, clung to him like a second, suffocating skin. His hair, usually impeccably combed, dripped messily against his forehead. He looked less like a man resting and more like a man abandoned—by strength, by dignity, by the stubborn will that had carried him for so long.
At the sound of the door opening, Lou's eyelids fluttered halfway before sliding shut again, as if even acknowledging another presence cost him more than he could spare.
Dr. Hui approached without ceremony and knelt beside the bed, his fingers moving with clinical efficiency over Lou's pulse, his temple, the line of his throat. The touch was professional, but beneath it was something rawer—a tenderness worn smooth by decades of helpless familiarity.
"How do you feel?" Dr. Hui asked gently, though he already knew the answer.
Lou's mouth moved sluggishly. His voice, when it came, was little more than a rasp. "Fine. Just tired."
A lie. And not even a convincing one.
The words hung in the air, fragile as spun sugar, daring anyone to touch them and shatter what little pride he had left. Dr. Hui, with the wisdom of long practice, chose not to challenge him. Lou Yan had never been the kind to admit weakness; pressing would only drive him deeper into the wreckage.
So the doctor nodded slowly, pretending to believe him, and finished the examination in silence.
When he stood, he found Ming waiting at the threshold, his face strained with worry.
They spoke in hushed voices, the heavy stillness of the room swallowing their words almost as soon as they were spoken.
"It's not fever," Dr. Hui said quietly, folding his arms across his chest. "It's collapse. Total systemic exhaustion. His body is screaming for rest and he's been ignoring it for too long."
Ming's face paled. "Can he recover?"
"If we intervene now—yes. But if he keeps pushing himself like this..." Dr. Hui's voice dropped even lower. "His heart. His immune system. His mind. All of it's at risk. He's burning the candle down to the wick."
"What triggered it?" Ming asked, though in his gut he already knew.
Dr. Hui's gaze slid back to the figure on the bed. Lou's hands twitched faintly against the sheets, the only sign that he was still fighting, even now, even in his sleep.
"Work. Stress. Emotional starvation. And someone he loves so deeply, it's tearing him apart to stay away."
Ming looked down, shame and helplessness knotting in his throat. Syra's name hung unspoken between them.
Dr. Hui reached into his worn leather bag and handed Ming a small bottle of white tablets. "One now. Only one more if he wakes in distress. No stimulants. No news. No demands. Keep the room dark, keep him warm. And if he doesn't eat or show improvement by the third day, call me again. We may need to hospitalize him."
Ming nodded wordlessly and returned to the bed.
Lou's lips parted without resistance as Ming coaxed the pill against his tongue, his body too empty of fight to argue. Within minutes, the harsh, shallow rhythm of his breathing began to slow, deepening into something closer to true sleep, though the furrow between his brows never quite disappeared.
Dr. Hui stood by the bed a moment longer, his hands folded behind his back.
He had seen this boy through nights of fever, nights of night terrors, nights when the weight of expectations crushed even the breath from his lungs. He had watched Lou grow into a man revered by the world, untouched, unshakable. But standing here now, it was all too clear: Lou Yan had never truly shed the loneliness that had wrapped around him like a second skin since childhood.
And now, for the first time, that loneliness was no longer enough to protect him.
Because now, he had something to lose.
Someone he loved.
Someone he was tearing himself apart to wait for.
Dr. Hui adjusted the blanket gently over Lou's chest, smoothing it down with a father's care, then turned and walked quietly out of the suite.
In the main office, he paused beneath the muted light and pulled out his phone, thumbing in a number he had memorized decades ago but rarely called.
The line connected almost immediately.
"Madam Yan," he said.
There was a beat of silence. Then, crisp and cold: "Yes, Doctor Hui?"
He closed his eyes briefly before answering. "I've just examined Lou Yan. He's collapsed."
Another silence, sharper this time.
"How serious?" she asked, her voice all steel, no softness.
"Serious enough that if he continues like this, he may not recover without lasting damage," Dr. Hui said, each word precise as a blade. "He is sleeping in his office. Not eating. Running himself into the ground."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "And he won't tell anyone why. But I think you know."
The silence stretched so long that for a moment, he thought she had disconnected.
But no—she was still there. Listening. Measuring.
"He's not just your heir, Madam Yan," he said, his voice breaking through the cold distance. "He's still your grandson."
Still no reply.
With a tired sigh, Dr. Hui ended the call. There was nothing more to say.
Behind him, the wall clock ticked on, indifferent to the quiet collapse of one of the city's most formidable men.
Ming slipped back into the suite, peeking in on Lou like a man afraid of what he might find.
Lou slept heavily, his chest rising and falling under the weight of exhaustion.
The tension had ebbed from his body, but the battle inside him was far from over.
And outside the fortress of YanTech, the city glittered, oblivious to the silent unraveling of one of its brightest stars.
---
The phone went silent. Madam Yan stayed still in her chair, her back straight, hands resting calmly on her cane. The call with Dr. Hui had ended, but his words stayed in the air, heavy and sharp.
Across the room, her tea sat untouched, now cold. She didn't move to drink it. Outside, the garden was peaceful. Plum blossoms drifted gently from the trees. The house was quiet, beginning to settle into its evening rhythm. But inside her study, everything felt too still.
Lou Yan. He had always been strong. Always composed. Always prepared. Because she had made him that way. From the time he was a boy, she had taught him to lead, to endure, to never bend beneath pressure. She had prepared him for power, for duty. But now—he was breaking. Quietly. Alone.
And she had seen it coming. Still, she said nothing. Still, she let him carry it all. Her jaw clenched. She hated feeling helpless. But right now, that was exactly what she felt.
Slowly, she stood and walked to the small family altar in the corner of the room. She didn't light incense. She didn't speak a prayer. She simply stood there, looking at the picture of her late husband, at the old scroll behind it with faded words about honor, family, strength.
She let out a slow, quiet breath. Then, barely above a whisper, she said—"I made him strong. But I never taught him how to be… human." She sat back down, slowly, carefully. And for the first time in many years, Madam Yan felt something she had never allowed herself to feel before. Not weakness or regret. But sorrow. Quiet, and deep, and still.