"Someone call the ambulance—now!"
Wangji's voice cut like thunder through the chaos. His knees slammed onto the cold pavement, bone meeting stone, but he didn't feel it. His hands pressed down instinctively, trembling against torn flesh. White sleeves bloomed red in seconds, the blood soaking, spreading, refusing to stop.
Wei's body sagged in his arms—too limp, too heavy for someone who had been laughing only minutes ago. His breath rattled weakly, caught between shallow gasps that barely counted as living.
Wangji had seen blood before. Too much of it. He had stood in surgery rooms where life slipped through his fingers despite hours of work. He had stood beside patients whose pulses faded no matter how much he fought. But never like this.
Never someone who had dropped from the sky into his arms, like a falling star that shattered on the earth before he could catch it.
His throat tightened, words breaking out in a low, desperate murmur, more plea than command:
"No… no, no, don't. Don't just leave me with those heavy guilts."
His jaw clenched until it hurt. "Wangji, you cannot fail here."
The wound at Wei's temple was grotesque—bone fractured, skull cracked, blood streaking down his cheek until his face blurred into something unrecognizable. For the first time in years, Wangji felt his stomach turn. His heart pounded so violently it drowned out the noise around him, nausea clawing at the edges of his calm. For a breathless instant, he was no longer a senior doctor—he was a terrified intern again, frozen, helpless, watching a life slip through his hands.
A ring of people had formed around them. Phones raised, screens lit, lenses pointed at suffering like it was theater. Their mouths moved—gasps, whispers, idle commentary—but their bodies didn't move forward. Not one.
The rage hit him sharp and cold. His voice cracked out, harder than any scalpel, sharper than any reprimand:
"Are you all so cruel?" His eyes burned. "Is this entertainment to you?!"
The words struck. A silence fell, awkward and guilty. A few finally moved—fumbling to call, whispering excuses as if that would erase their hesitation. But Wangji already knew—help would come too late.
Above, in the penthouse, laughter had died. Shrieks echoed down the stairwell. Someone had found the empty bathroom, the window wide open, the lamp swinging like a cruel pendulum in the night. Realization swept the party like wildfire.
Then footsteps thundered down.
Guangyao appeared first, face bloodless as he saw the scene: Wei's body collapsed in Wangji's lap, blood streaming down, staining the pavement.
"Wei-ge—!" The shout cracked like glass, raw and disbelieving. Guangyao staggered forward, his usual arrogance stripped away. His hands shook violently at his sides, but even then, his eyes darted with frantic calculation—half in panic, half already thinking of the fallout.
"We… we have to move him—fast!" Guangyao's voice cracked, desperation rising bit by bit .