Li Moting hadn't slept in three days.
The withdrawal symptoms of MN-07 were like countless tiny needles piercing his nerves. Golden spots flickered at the edges of his vision, and the constant hum of laboratory equipment echoed in his ears—hallucinations from his seven-year-old memories, forcibly awakened by the drug.
When Xia Xiaoman pushed open the door, she found him standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a syringe in his hand. The liquid dripping from the needle left dark stains on the expensive carpet.
"Get out." His voice was terrifyingly hoarse.
She didn't move.
"I said—" He whirled around, the golden-brown streaks in his irises nearly consuming his pupils, "—get the hell out!"
The syringe shattered at her feet, glass shards scattering. Xia Xiaoman saw his left wrist—bloodied, the three scars reopened with a blade, as if self-mutilation could ease some unseen agony.
"You need a doctor," she took a step forward.
"I *am* a doctor," he sneered, suddenly seizing her wrist with bone-crushing force, "A professional psychiatrist, remember?" His grip was vicious. "Go on, then. *Treat me.*"
Xia Xiaoman didn't struggle. She met his gaze and said softly, "Alright."
The answer gave him pause. Seizing the moment, she swiftly drew a sedative hidden in her sleeve and injected it into his neck.
The moment the plunger hit bottom, his pupils contracted violently. He retaliated instantly—slamming her against the wall, his hand closing around her throat.
"You..." The drug blurred his vision, "What did you... inject me with—"
"Just something to let you sleep," she said calmly, despite her labored breathing.
His fingers slackened. His body swayed forward, forehead resting against her shoulder. As Xia Xiaoman caught him, she felt his scorching skin—he was burning with fever, the heat alarming.
"Cold..." he murmured deliriously, "So cold..."#### **[Deterioration]**
Li Moting hadn't slept in three days.
The withdrawal symptoms of MN-07 were like countless tiny needles piercing his nerves. Golden spots flickered at the edges of his vision, and the constant hum of laboratory equipment echoed in his ears—hallucinations from his seven-year-old memories, forcibly awakened by the drug.
When Xia Xiaoman pushed open the door, she found him standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a syringe in his hand. The liquid dripping from the needle left dark stains on the expensive carpet.
"Get out." His voice was terrifyingly hoarse.
She didn't move.
"I said—" He whirled around, the golden-brown streaks in his irises nearly consuming his pupils, "—get the hell out!"
The syringe shattered at her feet, glass shards scattering. Xia Xiaoman saw his left wrist—bloodied, the three scars reopened with a blade, as if self-mutilation could ease some unseen agony.
"You need a doctor," she took a step forward.
"I *am* a doctor," he sneered, suddenly seizing her wrist with bone-crushing force, "A professional psychiatrist, remember?" His grip was vicious. "Go on, then. *Treat me.*"
Xia Xiaoman didn't struggle. She met his gaze and said softly, "Alright."
The answer gave him pause. Seizing the moment, she swiftly drew a sedative hidden in her sleeve and injected it into his neck.
The moment the plunger hit bottom, his pupils contracted violently. He retaliated instantly—slamming her against the wall, his hand closing around her throat.
"You..." The drug blurred his vision, "What did you... inject me with—"
"Just something to let you sleep," she said calmly, despite her labored breathing.
His fingers slackened. His body swayed forward, forehead resting against her shoulder. As Xia Xiaoman caught him, she felt his scorching skin—he was burning with fever, the heat alarming.
"Cold..." he murmured deliriously, "So cold..."