The rush blurred into chaos. One moment, there was still air. The next, Jiang Cheng was breaking through the ring of gawkers, his voice raw with rage and terror.
"Out of the way—move!"
People stumbled back as if struck by his fury.
Song Lan appeared next, his face unreadable even now, but his hands swift and certain. Without a word, he tore off his coat and pressed it to Wei's shattered temple, firm pressure that turned white fabric crimson in seconds.
"Steady," he said lowly, his calm cutting through the panic like a blade.
Xichen's voice followed, softer but commanding, rallying scattered strangers like soldiers. "We need space. Clear the road—now. Make way for the car!" His calmness was a thin thread keeping hysteria from breaking loose.
And Guangyao—his bravado stripped bare—was fumbling, hands shaking too hard to even pull the keys from his pocket on the first try. "We can't wait for an ambulance. His car—downstairs—I'll drive!"
Wangji's jaw clenched. The risk burned his throat, but hesitation meant death. In one motion, he slid his arms beneath Wei, lifting him bridal-style. His body felt heavier than any patient he had carried before, as though the weight of every unsaid word, every missed chance, had sunk into his bones.
The heat of blood spread across his chest, seeping, unstoppable.
Wei's head lolled against his shoulder.
"Don't close your eyes," Wangji whispered, his voice breaking into the wound of the night. Just for him, just for Wei. A memory stabbed through him—snowflakes on a rooftop, laughter echoing, and then silence. His chest seized, but he forced it back, crushing it beneath the ice of his discipline. Not again. Not him.
They slammed into the car, the doors shaking with the force. Yao drove like a madman, engine roaring as tires screamed against asphalt. City lights blurred into streaks of white and red outside.
Xichen shouted from the passenger seat, ordering cars aside with his name, his authority. Jiang Cheng's voice cracked like a whip, snapping instructions that no one dared disobey. Song Lan knelt in the cramped backseat, palms iron-strong against Wei's wound, while Wangji anchored him, one arm locked around Wei's chest, the other digging into his medical kit.
The kit snapped open. Instruments glinted under the passing neon. Wangji's hands were already gloved, shaking once before stilling, as steady as carved jade.
Fragments of stone, glass, and blood glimmered grotesquely in Wei's hair.
"You're not—" Xichen's voice faltered in disbelief. " sir , you can't possibly—"
"No choice," Wangji cut in, his tone colder than steel, but his throat thick with the tremor of fear. "He won't live through the ride."
The car jolted. He braced himself, forceps steady, extracting shard by shard from torn scalp. Blood soaked his gloves until they slipped, but still he worked. Song Lan's pressure stemmed the worst of the bleeding, Jiang Cheng's arm pinned Wei from sliding with every lurch, and Yao's knuckles were white on the wheel as he ran lights without slowing.
Wei groaned faintly, a wet, fragile sound. His lips parted, blood-flecked breath rattling weakly.
Wangji bent closer, whispering like a vow. "Don't you dare die on me." The words cracked, raw enough to tear him open, but his hands never faltered.
Then—the screech of brakes, the slam of the car pulling into the ER bay.
"I'll take responsibility!" Wangji's shout tore across the night. He was already out, Wei in his arms again, blood dripping down his sleeves in streams.
Nurses froze, then scrambled at his command, swept into his current. "OR—now! Move!"
Fluorescent lights swallowed them, harsh and sterile. The automatic doors closed behind Wangji, sealing the world outside, leaving the others staring after him, the cold smell of blood still thick in the air.
The trail of red smeared across the gleaming hospital tiles.
The line between life and death had never been thinner.