Giving a nod, Chen Bo looks through the boxes and finds a navy blue long sleeve prison shirt. He hands it over, and Wei Jiang goes to see about helping Yao Ziyang change. Before he could, Zhao Heng seemed to have the same thought. Little did Wei Jiang know this was his actual plan.
Zhao Heng promptly lifts Yao Ziyang's dirty shirt. Without warning. Without so much as a word.
The cell was quiet, the kind of stillness that made every movement feel louder than it should be. Overhead, the dim buzz of the ceiling light cast a yellow glow across the carpeted floor. Yao Ziyang lay half awake on the sweat soaked sheets and blanket, unaware—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the eyes that were soon on him.
Zhao Heng sat at the edge of the bed, arms tugging roughly at the shirt, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
"That shirt's disgusting."
He said flatly, motioning with a tilt of his chin.
"I'll help you to take it off. Be grateful, slut."
The boy could barely look up. Large, dark eyes blinked slowly, confusion and innocence showed on his flushed face. Zhao Heng hesitated just for a moment, then began to unbutton the stained prison shirt. One button… two… three.
As the fabric loosened, the full shape of Yao Ziyang began to emerge. His frame was slender but lithe, the kind of lean beauty shaped more by neglect than strength, though there was something deceptively firm about his figure. His chest was smooth, almost delicate, but not frail—soft pectorals shifting subtly with each ragged breath.
His chest was smooth and pale, the skin almost luminous under the dim light. At the center of each pectoral, small, soft pink nipples stood out subtly against the paler canvas of his skin—delicate in appearance, like rose petals in early bloom. They moved gently with each breath, unassuming yet quietly intimate, a natural detail that spoke to both his youth and vulnerability.
His skin, pale from too much time indoors, had the sheen of a light sweat, clinging faintly to the slight curves of his ribs. The only imperfection came from the light bruises and hickey marks that trail down from his jawline.
Zhao's mouth felt dry.
The shirt slipped off his shoulders, revealing more hickey marks along with the soft slope of his collarbones and the elegant line of his neck. His waist tapered in, leading down to the loose waistband of his uniform pants that hung a little too low on his hips. Every part of him seemed sculpted to draw the eye—fragile, yes, but not unaware of the effect he had.
Wei Jiang held out his hand wordlessly, and attempted to grab the old dirty shirt only to be avoided. His grip tightened around the new fabric, creating fresh wrinkles on it.
Zhao didn't move his gaze at first. His eyes lingered too long, tracing every inch of bare skin now exposed. He told himself it was just observation. Just vigilance.
But that wasn't true.
The boy tilted his head slightly, sensing the weight of that gaze, lips parting as if in silent question. There was no mockery in it—just quiet, dangerous curiosity.
Zhao Heng finally turned away, jaw clenched. He threw the stained top onto the floor and reached for the clean one. The image of the boy, stripped down and unguarded, would follow him long after he left that cell, that was for sure.
Dr. Zhang was too stunned! The audacity this fellow had was far too much! Did he not care about living anymore? Yao Ziyang is owned and clearly favored a lot by Dong Yingming! He stepped a few paces back, not wanting to be implicated in what might happen next.
Wei Jiang kept his disgusted look trained on Zhao Heng and avoided his hand. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is clenched, and his fingers twitch by his side — signs only those who know him well would recognize as fury held barely in check.
Zhao Heng stands near the bed now, arms crossed, his eyes full of unapologetic defiance. By his side, Yao Ziyang curls into the soft mattress, stripped down, clutching the burgundy blanket to his chest. His eyes flick nervously between the two men in a fevered haze.
Wei Jiang steps forward.
The air shifts.
A smirk begins to crawl up his face when he sees Wei Jiang quietly approach, but it fades when he notices the tension radiating off the younger man.
Wei Jiang's face is calm — eerily so — but a muscle pulses at his temple, betraying the wrath bubbling beneath his composed surface.
"You're out of line, Zhao Heng."
Wei Jiang's voice was low and even, as if each word was weighed before leaving his mouth. His eyes flick to Yao Ziyang just once — enough to see the confusion and fear etched into his fragile posture — then lock back onto Zhao Heng like a loaded weapon.
Zhao Heng doesn't flinch.
"I was merely helping out the weak tramp. He needed to change clothes anyway hehe."
"You humiliated him."
Wei Jiang says, voice low, tight as he steps further towards Zhao Heng. Each word is measured, careful — like a blade being sheathed rather than drawn.
Zhao Heng scoffs lightly, trying to play it off.
"You're going soft. Don't act like you're above it. You keep coddling him and they'll see it. The others already talk."
Wei Jiang moves closer, now just a foot away from Zhao Heng, the weight of his presence pressing heavily between them. His voice drops to a warning whisper.
"Say that again."
Zhao Heng's mouth opens, but something in Wei Jiang's eyes stops him. That barely-restrained fury, the flicker of something cold and dangerous. Wei Jiang's eyes narrow, the kind of stare that could level a man if not for the restraint behind it.
"I'll be informing Boss Dong about this. You stripped him — publicly — for your own amusement, not to help him."
The silence thickens. Zhao Heng's smirk falters. Wei Jiang inhales sharply through his nose. He's shaking, just slightly. His hands remain clenched at his sides. He wants to strike. His body begs for it. But he doesn't. Not here. Not now.
It was important to keep the peace when Dong Yingming wasn't around, however, Zhao Heng made this near impossible. He had join the organization before Wei Jiang, but he's contributed nothing of importance yet still flaunts his power and Dong Yingming's name as if it were his own!
"I won't let you implicate us or hurt Boss Dong's man."
"You going to stop me?"
Zhao Heng challenges, voice low and insolent. Wei Jiang takes a step closer, the heat of his presence unmistakable.
"Not here. Not now."
His voice lowers to a near growl.
"I'm not going to shed blood in this cell."
Wei Jiang mutters, forcing himself back a step. Zhao Heng tilts his chin, trying to maintain dominance, but he says nothing.
"But if you ever touch him again without cause, it won't be a conversation next time. You crossed a line. And if you do it again, I will remind you of yours."
A long silence stretches between them. The tension is nearly suffocating — an invisible noose drawn tight. Wei Jiang turns to Yao Ziyang on the bed, voice softening. He tosses the wrinkled navy shirt to the sick man.
"Get dressed."
Yao Ziyang just barely managed to grasp it from where it landed on his lap. The cell is thick with heat, though the painted stone walls remain cold to the touch. Sweat clings to the boy's pale skin, dampening the thick blanket pulled haphazardly over his frail frame. His cheeks are flushed with a deep, unhealthy red, while the rest of his body shivers with chills that won't go away.
His breaths come in shallow gasps — soft, uneven — lips parted, dry, and trembling. Every few moments, his eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes glazed with fever. But they barely focus. The world around him is a swirl of shadows and sounds, too bright, too loud, too far away.
He doesn't recognize the voices at first.
There's tension in the air — sharp, electric — the kind that makes even someone barely conscious feel something is wrong. Raised voices echo through his skull like distant thunder. Anger. Danger. Someone is shouting, but to him, it's just a muffled echo against the roaring in his ears.
He tries to turn his head toward the noise, but his limbs feel too heavy, like they've been tied down by invisible ropes. His body aches — not in any specific place, just everywhere, like he's melting from the inside out.
He lies curled beneath the soft blanket, its weight both too heavy and not enough. Sweat soaks the back of his neck, making the fabric cling to his skin. The fever makes his limbs ache and bend in odd ways — too warm, too cold, caught somewhere between sleep and delirium.
A soft whimper escapes his throat — small, involuntary.
He doesn't know who's in the room now. Faces blur. He sees the silhouette of a tall man by the door, another looming closer, voices clashing like steel. He hears the cell door creak. He feels a rush of colder air, then warmth again, then footsteps.
His eyelashes flutter as voices echo around him — low, harsh, and sharp like knives scraping against stone. He flinches at the sound but doesn't know why. He can't tell who's talking, only that one of them is angry. Very angry. The sound vibrates deep inside his chest, though he can barely feel his own heartbeat.
He shifts, trying to focus.
'What's happening? Where am I?'
His vision blurs, colors melting into one another — grey, black, a flash of red. The blanket? Blood? He can't tell. There's a hum in his ears, a dull pressure in his head, and beneath it all… something else.
A feeling...
That he's forgotten something.
His brow furrows weakly. His lips part. He tries to remember.
Was he supposed to say something?
Did someone ask him to wait?
Was there a promise?
A touch?
Something about a book?
A potential danger?
He can't grasp it.
Someone kneels by him — he doesn't know who — but he instinctively leans toward the presence, lips parted like he might speak. But no words came.
His hand reaches out from under the blanket, trembling, searching — like a child in the dark. His fingers find nothing but air.
Then, quietly, he breathes out something — not quite a name, not quite a word, just a fractured sound. Weak. Lost.
His fever carries him deeper into the haze, but even as he drifts, that forgotten thing gnaws at him. A thread just out of reach. A face. A voice. A warmth that once wrapped around him like a shield.
Then it hits him. That's right…
Dong Yingming.
Did he come back yet?
He's naked at the moment with many people around him. Will Dong Yingming get the wrong idea? In the novel, it was said Dong Yingming can be scarily possessive.
Yao Ziyang kind of wanted to see a jealous Dong Yingming. His consciousness was fading and just before his eyes slip shut again, the only thing he knows for sure is this:
Someone is furious.
And somewhere deep in the fog of fever, that makes him feel safe.
Yao Ziyang couldn't have known Dong Yingming had indeed returned. The cell grew immensely cold once he'd entered. Chang Xiao was not far behind and was more in a state of bewilderment by what he saw.
Yao Ziyang lay half naked in a mess of blankets and sheets. Two guards seem to be fighting over him while the third stands watch. And Dr. Zhang was off in his own corner, acting as if nothing wrong was taking place!
Did these guards want to die so soon? Weren't they still young and full of life? Dr. Zhang, it was understandable, after all he was nearing the end of his life. However, Chang Xiao couldn't understand why they would go so far as to stripping and harassing Boss Dong's man! In his own cell for that matter!
Chang Xiao, having only tasted his boss's reprimand for merely speaking ill of the young man, swiftly spun around and walked out the cell. Closing the door as he didn't wish to see bloodshed so early in the day. Silently, he offers his prayers for the dead men.