The lights in the observation room were dimmed, the curtains half drawn. The sound of footsteps in the corridor was muffled behind the door, as though it came from far away.
Jiang Xun reclined against the raised hospital bed, the gauze wrapped around the back of his head glaringly white. His frail body huddled beneath the covers, looking like no more than a small bundle from the side.
A small patch of hair had been shaved from his fringe. Without it in the way, the contours of his face looked clearer, the purple bruises on his cheekbones making his skin seem almost transparent.
He was picking at a corner of the IV dressing on the back of his hand. When the door opened, he did not even lift his eyelids, his voice languid and hoarse from sleep. "Nurse, can you take this needle out? I need the bathroom."
No one answered.
He had picked and tugged at the IV dressing until half a corner had peeled up. At last, he looked up impatiently.
His eyes were veiled in the watery haze of someone just awake, wet, his pupils dark and bright. A little undried moisture still clung to his lashes. Each blink sent that haze trembling, enough to make a person's heart tighten.
The instant his gaze met the person at the door, the haze in his eyes abruptly cleared.
Shen Wangjing stood in the doorway.
He had changed into clean hospital clothes. The knife wound on his chest was tightly wrapped in gauze, his left palm bandaged, and a square dressing covered the wound at his temple.
His right shoulder was swollen, stretching the sleeve of his hospital clothes a little tight, but he stood straight, just as before, like a javelin planted in the ground.
Jiang Xun froze