The air between them had already cracked.
Shu Yao hovered between the two — uncle and nephew — his arms half-raised, as if the fragile gesture could hold back their fury. The world swayed faintly, his vision blurring at the edges. Fever hummed through his skull like a swarm of insects. He could barely tell if he was breathing.
Bai Qi's voice struck again, low and venomous.
"For me, he's nothing but a dog."
The words cut through Shu Yao's chest like splinters of ice.
Something inside him went still.
George's expression shifted — wide-eyed disbelief, then the sharp tremor of anger. Shu Yao knew that look. He knew what would follow. The pulse in his throat stuttered.
He moved before he could think.
"Please—" he tried to say, but the word came out a whisper.
George's hand lifted — fast, furious — and Bai Qi's eyes closed, ready for the blow.
Shu Yao stepped forward.
The sound landed before the thought did.
A clean, merciless crack that sliced the room in half.
Shu Yao's head snapped to the side. The slap burned like fire spreading beneath his skin, stealing the air from his lungs. His knees gave way, his balance fractured. For one suspended second, the world was light and noise — and then nothing.
Bai Qi opened his eyes to silence.
The slap had never touched him.
His gaze fell on the figure slumped before him — pale, trembling, the faintest line of blood marking the corner of his mouth.
George froze. His hand still hovered mid-air.
For a heartbeat, even the clocks seemed to stop ticking.
"Shu Yao…" His voice broke. He stumbled forward, catching the boy before he hit the marble floor. "Dear God—no. I didn't mean—" His words tangled with breath. "I didn't mean to hit you."
Shu Yao's face rested against the furr fabric of George's coat, the scent of roses perfume clinging to it. Shu Yao skin felt too hot, fevered beneath the cold air. He tried to open his eyes, to tell him it was none of anyone's fault, that it didn't matter. But his lips only parted; no sound came.
The pain from his burnt hand, the fever, the slap — all collided inside him, dull and suffocating.
His lungs forgot the rhythm of breathing.
"Shu Yao—hey, stay with me," George said, panic threading through his usually steady tone. He tapped the boy's cheek lightly, but Shu Yao's body only shivered harder. The air hissed from the vents above, cruelly indifferent.
George's throat tightened. "I didn't mean to… God, I'm sorry."
He shrugged off his heavy fur-lined coat, wrapping it around the trembling frame. The coat dwarfed Shu Yao completely — he looked like something fragile that didn't belong in this world, all autumn lashes and bloodless lips. The blistered hand slipped limply from the edge of the coat, fingers curled upward on the marble floor.
George clenched his jaw. He could already see infection setting in if it wasn't treated soon.
"Hold on," he murmured, cradling the boy closer, one arm under his knees, one around his back. "I've got you…"
Behind them, Bai Qi hadn't moved.
He stood still, eyes blank, the sound of the slap still echoing in his ears. His jaw was set, his knuckles white against the polished wood of the desk. He felt something flicker deep inside — not guilt, not pity, something far uglier. The scene replayed in his mind like slow fire: Shu Yao stepping forward, shielding him, taking what was meant for him.
And then a thought colder than glass:
"IT wasn't my fault that he stood infront of me."
George was still crouched down, horror and fury still battling in his green eyes.
Bai Qi turned his head slightly, his face a mask carved in marble.
"You were lecturing me about kindness," he replied softly. "But you're the one who struck him."
"You insolent—" George's voice cracked, the words trembling with rage. "Bastard!"
Bai Qi flinched—not from fear, but from the sound. He had never heard his uncle use that tone. The fury in it scraped against his nerves like a knife. Still, he only looked away. "I don't care," he said coldly.
George gathered Shu Yao more tightly in his arms. The boy's head lolled against his chest, his breath shallow, uneven, the fever radiating through the fabric. George's heart hammered painfully. He could feel the tremor in those small shoulders.
"Shu Yao," he whispered again, "I'm taking you out of here."
Bai Qi's gaze followed as George shifted, one hand beneath Shu Yao's knees, the other supporting his back. The injured hand dangled, pale and blistered against the dark of George's coat. For a single breath, Bai Qi stopped breathing.
The light from the window caught Shu Yao's face — the fever-flushed cheek, the trembling lashes that still fluttered faintly against his skin. His lips were blue from cold, his hair unbound, a few autumn strands sticking to his damp skin.
Something in that sight twisted in Bai Qi's chest, sharp and immediate.
He turned his head away at once, jaw tightening. Don't look. Don't remember.
Because if he looked too long, he'd see her — Qing Yue — he couldn't afford to remember.
George paused at the door, his voice low, roughened by guilt and anger. "You are my nephew, Bai Qi," he said, not looking back. "But for what you've done today— I won't forgive you."
"I don't need anyone's forgiveness," Bai Qi muttered, staring at the floor.
George turned halfway, eyes glinting under the pale light. "Then you've become worse than I feared."
Bai Qi said nothing.
George's grip tightened on Shu Yao's small frame as he pulled the door open. The cold air spilled through the gap, brushing past Bai Qi's face like a ghost.
"I can't believe you," George said, his voice quieter now, heavy with finality. "You're a monster."
That word hit harder than could any slap could.
For a heartbeat, Bai Qi's expression cracked — a flash of something human — but then it vanished, smoothed away like a ripple under ice.
The door shut behind them.
And silence fell — a silence so deep it roared.
Bai Qi stood alone, the room dim around him. The faint scent of spilled coffee still clung to the air, mingling with the sterile chill of cold. His gaze drifted to the floor where a single drop of blood had fallen — small, bright, impossibly red.
He stared at it until he couldn't.
He turned away, his face unreadable.
Outside the window, the city stretched endless and bright, but the reflection in the glass was darker — a man too young to look so empty, staring back at himself as if through someone else's eyes.
Bai Qi straightened his collar, smoothed his hair, and whispered into the stillness:
"He shouldn't have stood in my way."
The words hung there, weightless and hollow.
The corridors of Rothenberg Industries were eerily silent.
George's footsteps echoed like faint thunder — hurried, uneven, desperate. The weight in his arms trembled; Shu Yao's body felt far too light for a living man.
He burst into the executive rest room — a space meant for quiet indulgence, not suffering. The morning light was bursting through the glass tall windows, reflecting two figures: one slumped, one breaking apart.
George laid Shu Yao down on the leather couch, his movements trembling. The heavy German fur coat was wrapped over the boy. Even through it, Shu Yao shivered violently, breath hitching in short, irregular bursts.
His skin — pale as winter frost — had turned feverish red, the fragile cheek marred with a raw mark that still bled faintly at the corner of his mouth. The blood looked dark against his lips.
George's voice was hoarse, almost prayerful.
"What have I done to you?"
He brushed Shu Yao's damp hair from his forehead. The boy's lashes fluttered, but his eyes did not open. His right hand, burned and unbandaged, rested limply on the edge of his chest. It was blistered, raw — the sight of it sent a chill through George's veins.
"Hold on, dear. Just hold on."
He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking too much to steady the screen. He dialed the number — once, twice — until the doctor's voice finally answered.
"Come now," George said sharply. "Executive rest room, south wing. It's urgent. He's burning up."
When he ended the call, silence fell again. Only Shu Yao's strained breathing filled the air — shallow, trembling, fragile.
George sank beside him. "I didn't mean to slap you," he whispered, guilt scraping his throat raw. "Forgive me, Shu Yao… forgive this old idiot."
He rubbed the boy's head gently, as if touch alone could erase pain. Shu Yao stirred faintly beneath the coat. His lips moved soundlessly, his fingers twitching against the fur, clutching it tighter — as though the world might slip away if he let go.
Minutes felt like hours. Then came the knock.
George shot up, rushed to the door, and yanked it open.
A man in a white coat entered, carrying a small case. Behind him stood a young employee, pale and nervous.
"This way," George urged, his voice low and urgent.
The doctor knelt beside Shu Yao, his expression shifting immediately from professional calm to concern. He touched the boy's forehead, then checked the pulse at his neck. His brow furrowed.
"He's at a dangerous fever — one hundred and six. His body's at its limit."
George's throat tightened. "Then do something," he snapped. "I called you because if I take him to a hospital, he'll run again.
The doctor hesitated. "I'll stabilize him for now, but he needs hospitalization. His fever could spike again, it could be fatal."
"I'll do it," George said, his voice breaking. "I'll take him to the hospital."
The doctor gave a small nod, opening his case. His motions were swift — precise. "Help me lift him a bit."
George moved instantly. He loosened the heavy coat, his hands shaking as he unbuttoned Shu Yao's suit jacket. The fabric clung to him, damp with sweat.
When the last layer was gone— there was only white dress shirt, George saw how frail the boy truly was. His chest rose in shallow, painful rhythm, every breath a battle.
"Hold him," the doctor said. "I'll prepare the injection."
George slid an arm beneath Shu Yao's back and supported his shoulders. The boy's head lolled weakly against his chest.
The doctor rubbed a cotton swab across Shu Yao's upper arm and murmured softly, "Easy now…" Then the needle pierced the skin.
Shu Yao's body tensed — his brows drew together, a faint gasp escaping his lips. But he didn't fight. He couldn't.
The doctor pressed cotton against the injection site and gestured for George to hold it. George obeyed, gripping it gently, his other hand brushing the damp strands of hair away from Shu Yao's temple.
He looked at shu Yao fragile face — pale, exhausted, almost translucent beneath the golden light. There was no anger there, no accusation. Only stillness.
George swallowed hard. "You never even blamed anyone… did you?"
The doctor began applying ointment on Shu Yao's burned hand. When the cool cream touched the blistered skin, Shu Yao flinched sharply, trying to pull away.
"Easy," the doctor murmured again. "It's Almost done."
George steadied his arm, murmuring softly, "It's alright, shu Yao. Just a moment longer."
The doctor's fingers worked quickly — smoothing, wrapping, securing. The scent of antiseptic filled the air. He bound the burn with clean gauze, layer after layer, until the angry redness was hidden beneath white.
When it was done, the doctor exhaled. "He'll sleep for a few hours. The injection should bring the fever down. But he needs to hospitalized — and proper care.…"
"I'll make sure take him on time," George said immediately. "I won't leave his sight again."
The doctor nodded, closing his kit. "Good now I'll take my departure."
When the door shut behind him, silence fell once more.
Shu Yao stirred faintly — a sound like a sigh leaving his lips. George brushed the coat higher over him. The fabric was far too heavy, but it was all the warmth the boy had left.
The clock on the wall ticked softly.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching Shu Yao's chest rise and fall.
"You're too gentle for this world, Shu Yao... and I became another wound in your quiet heart."
Shu Yao didn't answer. He only trembled once more, faintly, then went still.