Morning in Haicheng arrived with sunlight filtered like a layer of thin powdered sugar—transparent and sweet. But inside Room 2808, the air plummeted to sub-zero temperatures in an instant.
Silas Shen sat on the edge of the bed, half his body still wrapped in the lingering warmth of the previous night, but his logic had already outpaced his body, donning the invulnerable armor known as "The Professor." He stared down at the arm sprawled across the white sheets, mottled and stained with blood, his breathing heavy and tight.
The wound was long.
It stretched from below the elbow nearly to the wrist bone. The jagged edges of torn flesh were visible beneath the dried, dark red scabs. Because it had been caused by a rusty or unclean blade—and further aggravated by a night of friction and neglect—the edges of the wound had taken on a frightening purplish-red hue, slightly swollen. It was a clear signal that inflammation was running rampant beneath the skin.
Silas felt as though someone had dragged a scalpel across his own heart; the pain wasn't sharp, but it carried a long, suffocating ache.
Just then, a groggy hum came from behind him.
Sensing his arms were empty, Hunter instinctively felt around the sheets before snapping his eyes open.
A flicker of hungover confusion crossed those obsidian eyes, followed immediately by a spark of joy upon seeing Silas's cold silhouette. But before that spark could ignite into true happiness, it was frozen solid by the stagnant low pressure emanating from Silas.
"Pro... Professor?"
Hunter cautiously propped himself up. As the movement pulled at his left arm, he instinctively furrowed his brows, a nearly inaudible gasp of pain escaping his lips.
Silas heard it. His spine stiffened further, but he did not turn around.
Watching Silas's motionless back, Hunter's mind began to churn. The frantic, sweet, and bloody memories of last night flashed like a film on fast-forward—he remembered how he had marked the Professor, the fractured gasps, and that whispered, almost yielding "Ranran."
His heart sank. It's over.
Professor Shen was the definition of rationality. That near-absurd mark last night must have been the result of the inducer. Now that it was daylight and the sun was out, the Professor's logic had returned. Was he going to... turn a cold shoulder and kick the "offender" out?
"Professor, I..." Hunter swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously, his voice carrying a hint of humble appeasement. "Last night... did I make you angry? Or... did I mark you too hard?"
Ignoring the sting in his arm, he inched forward, reaching out to grab the hem of Silas's gray silk robe. But just as his fingertips were about to touch the fabric, Silas spun around so abruptly that Hunter yanked his hand back in shock.
Silas's eyes still held a lingering flush—a physiological remnant of his heat—but his gaze was as cold as a scalpel freshly pulled from liquid nitrogen.
"Why didn't you treat it?" Silas's voice was low, carrying a faint, imperceptible tremor.
"Huh?" Hunter was stunned.
"I'm asking you, why didn't you treat the wound after we got back last night?" Silas's gaze was locked onto the swollen scar, the fury in his eyes nearly igniting the air. "Hunter Huo, you are a medical student. Did you let a dog eat your basic training in sterile procedure and trauma assessment?"
It took Hunter a long moment to realize that the Professor wasn't angry about the "transgression" of the previous night, but rather that Hunter had neglected his own body.
His tensed nerves relaxed slightly, followed by a secret surge of sweetness. He pursed his lips and offered a guilty, whispered defense: "Last night... I was only focused on you. You were in such a bad state; how could I have the mind to worry about a wound?"
"Nonsense!"
Silas stood up abruptly. Because he rose too fast, his body—still weakened from the heat—swayed before he regained his footing.
Looking at Hunter's "As long as the Professor is fine, I don't matter" expression, Silas felt a mixture of guilt and heartache ferment into an agonizing bitterness. This idiot. Did he not know how high the humidity was in a coastal city? Did he not know that if a deep trauma like this wasn't debrided, it could lead to sepsis or necrotizing fasciitis?
Silas didn't dare think further.
"Do you think you're being noble? A martyr?" Silas took a deep breath, his tone becoming caustic and frigid—the only way he knew how to mask extreme emotional upheaval. "Hunter Huo, if this is your level of professional conduct, then get the hell out of my lab. I don't need a useless subordinate in my team who can't even control his own body."
The words were incredibly harsh.
Hunter's face paled. He looked at Silas, his lips trembling, a flash of hurt in his eyes. He wanted to say, "I was just too afraid of losing you," or "I couldn't care about anything else while you were suffering," but under that frost-covered gaze, he could only lower his head in shame.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Hunter said hollowly, his voice raspy like sandpaper.
Silas didn't answer. He walked straight into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The man in the mirror was pale, the fresh tooth-mark on his neck looking strikingly savage yet intimate against his white skin. He gritted his teeth and pulled on a high-collared shirt, concealing all the ambiguity and madness beneath tightly fastened buttons.
When he stepped back out, Hunter had finished dressing. He still wore the white shirt, though the left sleeve was rolled up empty. He sat on the edge of the bed with his head down, looking like a giant dog that had been scolded by its master, the vibrant orange scent around him now wilted and dull.
"Move," Silas spat out coldly.
"Where to?" Hunter looked up blankly.
"The hospital. Unless you plan to wait until it rots so I can just amputate the arm for you?"
Silas turned and led the way to the door. He took large strides, and only he knew how violently his hand was shaking at his side.
He couldn't forgive Hunter's selfishness—this reckless, overbearing, and heavy love that protected him at the cost of Hunter's own safety. It filled him with a never-before-felt fear that bordered on drowning.
Hunter scrambled to follow. As he closed the door, he stole a glance at Silas's back.
Even though the Professor's voice was as cold as ice, Hunter didn't miss it: as Silas reached for the door handle, his other hand was instinctively pressed against his chest—a gesture one only makes during a heart palpitation.
He's worried about me.
Realizing this, a small, brilliant sunflower quietly bloomed in the dark corners of Hunter's heart.