Xun Yuming was afraid that Zhuang Yi might mistake his words for an excuse made out of panic, so he forced himself to slow down and explain everything carefully, trying to sound rational rather than impulsive. He spoke about her personality first, how Qin Xueyan had always been timid, how she had been visibly anxious even before entering the operating room, and how that tension had not dissipated after surgery. Then he shifted to the clinical aspect, citing data he had read and cases he had encountered over the years: ICU environments, though medically necessary, could intensify psychological stress. Some patients stabilized physiologically once removed from the high-pressure atmosphere of intensive care, only to relapse when returned to it. Psychological burden could manifest in very real, measurable physical fluctuations. It was not superstition; it was documented. He wasn't guessing blindly, he was weighing probabilities. Still, at the end of his explanation, his voice faltered slightly. "It's not common," he admitted quietly, "but it's possible."
Zhuang Yi listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable. When Xun Yuming trailed off, uncertain whether he had said too much or too little, Zhuang Yi calmly completed the thought he had been unable to voice. "But you don't dare move her." His tone was steady, neither accusatory nor sympathetic. "You're making a clinical judgment based on experience and intuition, but there's no concrete evidence. If something goes wrong after the transfer, the responsibility will fall entirely on you."
That was precisely the weight pressing on Xun Yuming's chest. He nodded slowly. As a surgeon, he was trained to make decisive calls, but he was also trained to bear the consequences of those decisions. If he was wrong, if her condition deteriorated after leaving ICU, no explanation about psychological stress would matter. Outcomes were what counted.
Zhuang Yi studied him for several long seconds, as though evaluating not just the medical reasoning but the man standing in front of him. Then, without hesitation, he said, "Transfer her." His voice did not waver. "I'll sign the waiver. I'll assume full responsibility. If there are consequences, they belong to me. It has nothing to do with you."
The decisiveness of it struck harder than any argument. There was no dramatics, no emotional outburst, just a clean, deliberate choice. In moments like this, hesitation only multiplied risk. Someone had to step forward. After saying it, Zhuang Yi turned and walked toward the administrative office to handle the paperwork himself, leaving Xun Yuming standing in the corridor, momentarily unable to process what had just happened.
He had not expected this level of trust, not after eight years apart, not after their strained and uneven reunion. Trust of that magnitude, given so simply, felt heavier than gratitude. It left his throat tight and his thoughts unsettled. For a brief moment, exhaustion and emotion collided, and he had to steady himself against the wall before returning to work.
That night, he remained in the duty room rather than going back to the dormitory. He reviewed the monitoring charts repeatedly while waiting for the ambulatory EEG report. The results did not arrive until the following morning, and when they did, every indicator was within normal limits. No seizure activity. No abnormalities. The data supported his suspicion: there was no organic cause for the episode.
With the results in hand, he signed the transfer order. The nurse began preparing the paperwork to move Qin Xueyan to a VIP ward.
The decision immediately triggered opposition within the department. Dr. Zhao argued that transferring a postoperative patient so soon was medically reckless and administratively dangerous. Dr. Sun emphasized the political implications, reminding everyone that Qin Xueyan was personally connected to the dean. If complications occurred, blame would not stop at Xun Yuming, it would implicate the entire neurosurgery department.
Under the pressure of simultaneous criticism, Xun Yuming's usual composure faltered. He repeated, "I'll take responsibility," but the statement felt thin against their pointed rebuttal: "Can you?" The answer, if spoken honestly, would have been uncertain.
At that critical juncture, Cen Ji arrived and quickly grasped the tension in the room. Unlike Xun Yuming, who struggled in verbal confrontations, Cen Ji countered each argument with sharp clarity and relentless energy. He reframed the issue as a family-supported medical decision backed by signed liability documentation. Within minutes, the tone of the room shifted from condemnation to reluctant acceptance.
When Zhuang Yi entered the duty room, it was crowded and loud. He did not raise his voice or demand attention. He simply walked through the cluster of staff, approached Xun Yuming directly, and handed him a signed document. "Here's the waiver," he said calmly. "Full liability acknowledged. You can proceed."
The volume in the room gradually dropped. With formal responsibility assumed by the family, the administrative objections lost momentum. Dr. Sun and Dr. Zhao left with restrained expressions, but without further protest. The crowd dispersed.
The transfer was carried out without incident.
Later that morning, Qin Xueyan regained partial consciousness. The sedative left her drowsy, but her neurological responses were stable. Xun Yuming personally conducted the examination, checking pupil reactivity, visual tracking, limb movement, and reflex symmetry. Each response fell within acceptable parameters. Once she was settled in the VIP ward, the atmosphere around her noticeably softened. The harsh vigilance of ICU monitors gave way to quieter surroundings, and her breathing remained steady.
In the stairwell afterward, Zhuang Yi mentioned that Old Chen had asked him to arrange psychological counseling for Xun Yuming. The statement caught him off guard.
"I thought you refused," Xun Yuming said quietly.
"I did," Zhuang Yi replied, equally composed. "It's a professional boundary. I don't counsel people I'm personally close to."
He sent over a contact number instead, Chen Linlin, one of his students.
When Xun Yuming glanced at Zhuang Yi's phone screen, he noticed his own contact name saved under an old nickname. It had not been changed. The small detail unsettled him more than any confrontation could have.
Zhuang Yi noticed the look, locked the screen, and said evenly, "It's an old contact entry. I forgot to update it."
He turned to leave.
"Why won't you do it yourself?" Xun Yuming asked, the question emerging before he could suppress it.
Zhuang Yi paused only briefly. "Because I don't counsel people I'm close to," he repeated. "That's the rule."
Then he left without elaboration.
The words lingered long after he disappeared down the corridor.
That evening, despite having worked nearly ten continuous hours in surgery, Xun Yuming felt an unusual steadiness beneath his exhaustion. He completed his tasks methodically, ate dinner, and then called Chen Linlin to schedule an appointment.
On his day off, he visited Old Chen's home as arranged. The older man enthusiastically attempted to share aged tea and extended commentary on brewing methods, filling the room with animated explanations. Xun Yuming endured politely, nodding through the lecture until Chen Linlin returned and gently redirected the conversation toward the consultation.
Sitting across from Chen Linlin at the table, with formal documents laid out between them, Xun Yuming finally felt that the scattered tension of the past days was beginning to consolidate into something structured and manageable. For the first time since the reunion, the direction ahead felt defined rather than chaotic.