Shu Yao's sobs had quieted.
Only the faint sound of breathing filled the room — shu Yao and George's, rising and falling out of sync.
George's hands were still resting on the boy's narrow back, steady and unsure, as though afraid that letting go might shatter something fragile between them. Shu Yao's eyes were closed. His lashes, still wet with tears, it trembled faintly.
His breathing had slowed. The fever still clung to him like smoke. The bruises Bai Qi left were faintly visible now — crimson traces curling around his pale throat like ghostly rings.
George said nothing. He simply held him there, letting the silence breathe for them both.
Minutes passed. The air had grown heavy with the kind of stillness that comes only after pain has burned itself out.
Then Shu Yao stirred. His lashes fluttered open, eyes unfocused at first — and when the world sharpened, he flinched back suddenly.
He jolted away from George's chest, hands instinctively pressing against his heart. His gaze dropped, voice trembling.
"I— I'm sorry, Mr. George. I didn't mean to… I didn't know, I—"
George stopped him quietly. "It's alright, Shu Yao."
His tone was soft, low. Yet beneath it lay a weight of regret. He lowered his gaze, noticing the faint redness at the corner of Shu Yao's mouth — the mark his own hand had left.
Guilt twisted deep in his chest.
"I'm sorry," George murmured. "For earlier."
Shu Yao shook his head quickly. "It doesn't matter, Mr. George. You didn't do anything wrong."
He said it without meeting his eyes. His voice was steady, but there was something hollow inside it — an emptiness shaped like apology.
George exhaled. "You're still sick," he said, his brows furrowing. "The doctor said you need hospitalization immediately."
Shu Yao cut him off gently. "I'm fine."
"You're not," George said firmly. "You need treatment. Let me take you there now—"
"I'm fine."
This time the words came sharper, though still fragile. Shu Yao backed up a step, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. The movement made him stumble slightly — he nearly touched the desk behind him.
George stepped closer. "Shu Yao…"
He saw it then — the faint red imprint on the boy's throat.
The marks weren't random. They were deliberate. Finger-shaped.
Shu Yao's hand flew to his collar immediately, tugging it higher to hide the evidence.
George's voice lowered, heavy with dread. "What happened to your neck?"
"It's— it's nothing."
The lie was soft, but it scraped against the silence.
George's expression darkened. He wanted to ask again, to demand, to shout — but the sight of Shu Yao trembling before him, his eyes wide and exhausted, stopped him.
He let out a slow breath, forcing his voice steady.
"You need rest. And nutrition. Proper eating."
Shu Yao's lips quivered. "I don't feel like eating."
George's eyes widened in quiet alarm. "Shu Yao, you know that's dangerous. You've barely eaten anything for days—"
"I'm sorry, Mr. George," Shu Yao whispered.
It wasn't just an apology for now. It was the apology of someone who had learned to blame himself for existing.
George fell silent. His fists clenched by his sides. He wanted to tell him that Bai Qi didn't deserve this kind of loyalty — this devotion that survived cruelty — but he couldn't bring himself to say it.
He turned away, his voice rougher now.
"Shu Yao," he said, "whatever happens — you will call me. Do you understand?"
Shu Yao hesitated. His eyes flickered up, uncertain.
George looked back over his shoulder. "Is that a deal or not?"
Shu Yao swallowed. His voice came small but clear.
"I will."
"Good." George's tone softened into something almost tender. "Then after the work you'll rest."
He reached for the door, pausing just a heartbeat before he left — as though reluctant to step away. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper. "I am sorry"
The door closed behind him.
And silence returned.
Shu Yao stood motionless for a moment, staring at the space George had left behind. Then he looked down at his bandaged hand.
It throbbed faintly — a throbbing ache that pulsed with memory.
He remembered how Bai Qi's fingers had brushed that same hand only moment's ago. So softly, almost lovingly, before the warmth turned to pain. Before the tenderness shattered into pressure and breathlessness.
He exhaled shakily and whispered, "I'm sorry… Bai Qi."
The name caught in his throat like glass.
Because no matter what he did, he couldn't bear the hate in Bai Qi's eyes. And he couldn't bear to see him in pain either.
He pressed his fingers lightly to his throat. The faint, reddish lines were still there — delicate, almost beautiful, like a necklace drawn in bruises.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the marks as though trying to make sense of them. A part of him believed he deserved them.
The room around him felt too big, too still.
He dragged his chair closer to the desk and sank into it. The movement was slow, deliberate — the exhaustion in his limbs almost graceful in its fragility.
He leaned forward, resting his head on the cool surface of the desk. His breath fogged faintly against the polished wood.
His hand, still wrapped in bandages, slid down beside him — fingers trembling faintly in rhythm with his pulse.
The fever had not left him. Neither had the ache.
Images flickered behind his closed eyes: Bai Qi's face twisted in anguish, Qing Yue's soft smile, his mother's distant voice.
All of it swirled together — too much for one fragile heart to hold.
He whispered again, softer this time, the words barely forming against the silence.
"How do I calm you, Bai Qi… when I can't even calm myself?"
His voice trembled. Then faded.
The light from the window stretched long across the floor, painting his bowed form in shades of gold and shadow.
For a moment, he looked almost peaceful.
Just a small, fragile boy — too delicate for the world that kept breaking him.
George stopped just outside the office door.
His hand was still on the handle, knuckles pale, as if something inside him refused to let go. A long breath escaped him, weighted with frustration and pity both.
"Oh, my beloved Shu Yao…" he murmured under his breath, voice almost lost to the hum of the corridor. "Why can't you just let go of Bai Qi… and learn to start again?"
The words dissolved into the sterile air. He straightened, shoulders drawn tight, then turned toward the hallway—only to see a tall figure waiting near the end, arms crossed.
Armin.
George's brows pulled together. "What is it?"
Armin pushed himself off the wall, his tone clipped. "What's happening between Bai Qi and his assistant?"
George's jaw tightened instantly. "Stop meddling into other people's business, Armin."
Armin didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the marble floor, sharp and deliberate. "Then why are you meddling? You've been watching those two since you got here."
George's eyes narrowed. "I know Shu Yao. I've known him since the moment I arrived in China."
Armin arched a brow. "So what? From what I've heard, he's Bai Qi's best friend."
There was a flicker—a subtle, dangerous stillness—in George's face. He turned his head aside, exhaling through his nose. "So what?"
"So that means Bai Qi knows him better than you," Armin shot back, voice cool but edged.
George brushed past him, one hand in his pocket, his tone low and cutting. "Whatever."
Armin watched him go, his own expression tightening. He waited until George's footsteps faded before muttering under his breath, "The moment Father travels for one business meeting, everything turns upside down."
He dragged a hand down his face, his tone low, annoyed. "What the hell are they all even doing? First Bai Qi. Then Shu Yao. Now Uncle too. What's next, the whole board losing its mind?"
He raked his fingers through his hair, pacing slowly down the corridor, his frustration unspooling in mutters.
"No one seems to remember their damn ages anymore. Bai Qi's only twenty-two. Uncle's twenty-six. And that boy…" His eyes narrowed faintly. "Who even knows how old he is? He looks like he should still be in school."
Armin stopped near the window, the city lights burning silver beneath the glass. He stared out, reflection fractured across the pane.
"But they all act like they're trapped in some tragic play—" he said bitterly, "—instead of running the company they were born into."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Unbelievable. Rothenberg Industries… the empire of misplaced priorities."
The words lingered, brittle and sharp.
Still, for all his mockery, a faint unease shadowed his face. Armin had seen Bai Qi these past few days—seen the hollow look in his eyes that never quite matched his polished charm in front of cameras. He'd seen Shu Yao too, thin wrists, quiet voice, moving through the office like a ghost afraid of everyone sound.
And Uncle,George… Uncle, George had that look again—the one Armin remembered from years ago, when he used to visit the estate and overheard hushed arguments about protection and keeping someone safe.
The vibration in his pocket startled him.
A sharp trill cut through the corridor's hush, slicing neatly into the thin air.
Armin paused mid-step, glancing at the screen.
The name flashing across it made his stomach tighten.
Father.
For a second, he hesitated. He almost let it ring out. But instinct—obedience, habit, whatever you'd call it—made him swipe the screen.
He lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes, Father."
Niklas Rothenberg's voice came through, smooth but cold, the sort of voice that carved more than it spoke. "How is everything going, Armin?"
Armin stopped walking. The marble beneath him gleamed like ice; the silence hummed against his eardrums.
His mouth twitched. There were a hundred ways to answer that question—truth, sarcasm, confession—but none would survive his father's scrutiny.
He forced a breath. "Everything's going fine, Father."
A brief pause—then that measured tone again, each word clean and deliberate.
"What about the next shoot in Suzhou?"
Armin's throat went dry. He pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose, as though steadying his voice might also steady his thoughts. "Yes, Father… it's scheduled for tomorrow."
"Is Bai Qi ready?"
That question. The one he'd been dreading.
Armin hesitated. His gaze drifted to the tall door of Bai Qi's office. Behind that door—he didn't know whether there was silence or destruction.
He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
"I'll… talk to you later about that," he said finally, voice low.
A small sound came through the receiver—not quite a sigh, not quite approval. Just that dangerous quiet his father used when he was deciding whether to push harder.
Then: "Good. Make sure Bai Qi agrees to it."
"Yes, Father. Just as you say."
The line went dead.
Armin stood there a moment longer, the silence ringing against his eardrum. Slowly, he lowered the phone and shut it with a quiet click that sounded too final, too relieved.
He exhaled, the breath leaving him like smoke. "Bloody hell."
The conversation had lasted less than two minutes. It still managed to drain the color from his face.
Niklas Rothenberg never raised his voice. He didn't need to. His words carried the weight of empires and expectations—enough to make even his eldest son's spine straighten out of reflex.
Armin slipped the phone into his pocket and rolled his shoulders back. The mask came on again: calm, efficient, unreadable.
His steps echoed down the corridor, toward Bai Qi's office. Each one sounded sharper than the last.
He stopped in front of the door, staring at it as if it might stare back. Behind that door was a storm—a genius rotting in his own coldness, dragging an innocent down with him.
Armin's hand hovered near the handle. His reflection ghosted over threshold, neat and composed.
But his jaw flexed once, betraying what he didn't say aloud.
"Ready or not, Bai qi," he murmured. "But Tomorrow is coming."
Then he pushed the door open.