Xi Chen didn't shoot himself out of desperation.
He pulled the trigger, curious about the sensation it would cause.
Bang!
The bang was muffled by the falling snow. The bullet pierced his left chest—deep enough to injure but not fast enough to kill. A burning sensation exploded, followed by a slow, stabbing wave of pain, creeping like a hand that refused to let go.
He was pushed back, his back hitting the concrete wall of the narrow alley. Blood flowed, warm, a cruel contrast to the white snow that continued to fall from the sky. His breath was cut off for a moment, not from fear but from the strange pleasure pressing against his nerve endings.
"Ah…"
A sigh of satisfaction escaped him.
Xi Chen lowered the gun slowly, his fingers still trembling not from shock, but from controlled pleasure. He stared at his own wound, assessing the angle of the shot, the rate of blood flow, and the possibility of fainting. The OCD in his head compiled statistics. The bipolar in his veins pulsed with a brief euphoria. PTSD allowed the scene to unfold without resistance, as if it were just another fragment of a never-ending battlefield.
He sat on the snowy ground.
Silent. Waiting.
This was his plan: to die slowly.
And beyond recovery.
He savored the blood draining before consciousness.
Snow clung to his eyelashes. The world faded to white and red. He felt the cold creeping up, gnawing at his fingertips, touching his bones. His body trembled—a boring biological reaction.
"Wang Ji," he whispered to the void.
The voice answered from within, calm, almost gentle.
"Neat. Efficient. You picked a good spot."
Xi Chen smiled faintly.
"If I die… at least I did it right."
Time passed slowly. Too slow for death, too fast for regrets.
His head began to feel light. His hearing faded. He was almost disappointed—death wasn't as silent as he'd imagined.
Then there were footsteps. Hurried. Out of sync.
Xi Chen opened his eyes half-open, more out of reflex than hope. A silhouette appeared in the snow—a thick jacket, a medical bag, breathing heavily. The white world suddenly had a center.
"Oh my God—"
The voice stopped at the sight of blood.
𝐖𝐮 𝐗𝐢𝐚𝐧
Something shifted in Xi Chen's chest. Not fear. Not the will to live. But… a renewed interest.
Wu Xian knelt without hesitation, his gloves instantly red. "You… what?" His voice wavered, but his hands were firm, pressing on the wound with the precision of someone accustomed to saving lives.
Xi Chen stared at the face from beneath wet eyelashes. An expression of worry. Total focus. Pure empathy.
Perfect.
"I almost made it," Xi Chen murmured softly, his voice hoarse but clear. "Just a little more."
Wu Xian froze for a split second. "What?"
"If only you had arrived five minutes later…" A faint smile appeared, thin and misplaced. "I will die a perfect death."
Wu Xian gritted his teeth. "Don't talk. Stay conscious."
He worked quickly—bandaging, applying pressure, counting pulses. His body leaned too close, as if the distance could steal his life if left unchecked.
Xi Chen felt something stronger than pain:
a desire to be seen longer.
"Why did you help me?" he asked again, his voice not a plea, but a lure.
"Because you were injured," Wu Xian answered without thinking. "And because I can't let someone die in front of me."
The answer was… warm.
And dangerous.
In his head, Wang Ji smiled.
"He came when you were bleeding. Remember that face."
The ambulance arrived shortly after. Sirens broke the snow. Xi Chen was lifted, his body weakened not by the loss of blood, but by the new decision that was beginning to form.
As his eyes nearly closed, he whispered, only loud enough for himself:
"Death can be postponed."
Because now…
he had found a far more compelling reason to live.
Obsession isn't born out of a vacuum.
It's born out of someone who stops death and, unknowingly, offers their life in exchange.