Forty minutes passed. Tòumíng stayed alert, watching Pàng Hǔ's unconscious form for any signs of movement, gripping the knife with white knuckles. The giant's breathing had become even more shallow, the blood pool from his groin spreading wider across the floor. He probably needed actual medical attention if he was going to survive.
Tòumíng didn't particularly care if he survived.
The apartment door burst open and Měi Nán stumbled in, dragging something large and heavy behind him. He was breathing hard, hair disheveled, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.
"Got… the food…" he gasped out.
Tòumíng stared at what Měi Nán had dragged in.
A bucket. Not a small bucket. An industrial-sized white plastic bucket, the kind used in commercial kitchens, with a lid that had been hastily secured. It had to weigh at least fifty pounds based on how much effort Měi Nán was putting into moving it.
"What the hell is that?" Tòumíng asked.
Měi Nán pried off the lid with effort. Inside was a translucent white substance, solid but slightly greasy-looking, packed to the brim.
Lard. Pure animal fat. One hundred percent rendered fat from god knows what animals, probably pork based on the slight smell, dense with calories and absolutely disgusting to contemplate eating.
"Where on god's green earth did you get that?" Tòumíng's voice rose in disbelief. "That's like fifty pounds of pure fat!"
"Old escort friend of mine," Měi Nán explained between breaths, still recovering from hauling the bucket up from wherever he'd gotten it. "Works a day job at this crappy diner on East Street. They buy like a hundred fifty pounds of lard every week for their deep fryers, biscuits, whatever. I called in a favor." He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "So you better not fucking die after I carried this monstrosity across half the district."
"That's…" Tòumíng looked at the bucket, doing quick mental math. Lard was roughly 900 calories per 100 grams. Fifty pounds was about 23 kilograms, which meant… "That's over 200,000 calories."
"Is that enough?" Měi Nán asked anxiously.
"That's like ten times what I need. This is perfect."
"He's a keeper," Cupid said, his voice carrying genuine appreciation despite himself. "I'm mock giving him my blessing to pursue you. You have my permission to date the femboy escort."
"SHUT UP!" Tòumíng yelled at his own chest.
Měi Nán froze, staring at him with an expression that was equal parts concern and confusion. "What the fuck is up with you?"
"What?"
"You just yelled at yourself. Again. You've been doing that since we met." Měi Nán sat down on the floor across from Tòumíng, careful to avoid the blood spreading from Pàng Hǔ's unconscious form. "You talk to yourself constantly. You apparently have 'skills' that let you heal from being shot. You're fine—or claim to be fine—after getting shot in the spine. Your torso looks like a firing range target from yesterday. And now you're about to eat fifty pounds of lard to regenerate your spinal cord?"
His voice was rising with each point, stress and confusion and accumulated terror from the past hour bleeding into his words. "What the FUCK is up with you, Tòumíng? What are you? Are you some kind of superhuman? A mutant? A science experiment? Because normal people don't survive this shit! Normal people don't eat butter and olive oil to heal bullet wounds! Normal people don't fight giant gang members and win!"
Tòumíng opened his mouth to deflect, to make up another lie, to brush it off like he'd been doing since this all started.
"The jig is up," Cupid said quietly. "He's not stupid. He's seen too much. And honestly? He earned an explanation after hauling fifty pounds of lard across the city for your dumbass."
"I can't just tell him everything. That's insane."
"More insane than asking him to watch you eat industrial quantities of animal fat to regenerate nerve tissue? He's already in this. He's already involved. Either you explain and he understands, or you don't and he thinks you're completely unhinged and leaves. Which would you prefer?"
Měi Nán was still staring at him, waiting for an answer, his expression showing he wasn't going to accept any more deflections or half-truths.
Cupid sighed, the sound echoing inside Tòumíng's chest. "Tell him everything. The mine, the gems, the system, me, Schrödinger's Heart, all of it. He deserves to know what he's getting into by staying here."
Tòumíng looked at Měi Nán—really looked at him. At the concern in his eyes, the fear mixed with determination, the fact that he'd just risked getting caught by Pàng Hǔ's gang connections to bring emergency lard to someone he'd met yesterday.
"What the fuck is up with you?" Měi Nán repeated, quieter this time. "Please. Just tell me the truth."