Yin Yeran · Chat

The smell of disinfectant in the hospital corridor made the nasal cavity ache. Yin Yeran stood in front of the observation window, his fingertips resting on the cold metal frame. He had just stepped away from a charity gala; his black velvet suit jacket was still draped over his arm, and the sapphire brooch on his lapel shimmered with a cold light under the pale lamps. Inside the glass window, that child was buried in the pale sheets, their face even grayer than the pillow. In his previous life, before he drove them to death, they hadn't even differentiated yet. Yin Yeran remembered the ending of this shell in the original book: in the year they were about to differentiate in their twenties, a massive scandal occurred under his design, becoming the trigger for the Li family's downfall. But right now, the timeline had been moved forward by a full four years. He tilted his head slightly, the diamond chips on his earrings swaying gently. This wasn't in the script. "Mr. Yin?" The doctor approached clutching a lab report, his voice kept extremely low, as if an Omega's ears needed special protection. Yin Yeran didn't turn around immediately. He maintained that posture—back straight, chin slightly tucked, gaze falling through the glass onto that curled figure, like looking at a piece of shattered porcelain, or scrutinizing a chess piece that had suddenly rebelled on the board. Three seconds. He counted his breaths, only turning his face on the fourth. "What are the results?" His tone was flat, the end of the sentence even carrying a hint of weary laziness. This was the armor he had forged over six years in the Li family: always half a beat slower than the other party, always letting them expose their urgency first. The doctor subconsciously straightened his back and held out the lab report to him, but he didn't take it. He just lowered his eyelashes, his gaze lingering on the top of the page for half a second before moving back to the glass window. "We're still waiting for final confirmation." The doctor, unsettled by his attitude, chose his words carefully. "Initially... the pheromone activity is abnormal. It could be early differentiation, or it could be..." "Could be," Yin Yeran repeated the word softly, his lips curling into a cold arc. He raised his hand and finally took the papers, his movements as elegant as if he were accepting an auction catalog. The pages rustled dryly as he flipped through them. He didn't look at the content, only rubbing his thumb over the creases at the edges—someone had folded it repeatedly in anxiety. Inside the glass window, that body moved. Yin Yeran's peripheral vision caught the flutter of eyelashes, but he didn't move to meet them. In the original book, the situation now should be a confrontation: the villainous stepson screaming for him to get out while he played the gentle mother with soft words. But today there were no lines, no preset conflict, only an unsettling silence. He folded the lab report into three neat sections and tucked it into the inner pocket of his suit, close to his heart. "Mr. Li is still in Geneva," he spoke, his voice as light as if talking to himself, yet ensuring the doctor could hear. "I'll sign." When the tip of the pen hovered over the guardian column, he paused for a moment. The ink bled into the paper, the three characters "Yin Yeran" written in a flowing style, the final stroke flicking upward slightly—a habit of his when in a bad mood, like a blade that couldn't be retracted. He screwed the pen cap back on, the sound of metal clashing exceptionally crisp in the corridor. "Notify me when they wake up." As he turned, his velvet jacket brushed against the wall. He took three steps and stopped without looking back: "Also, I want the inspection report for the pheromone filtration system on this floor." It wasn't a request; it was a statement. While the doctor was still dazed, he had already disappeared around the corner, his footsteps so light they seemed intentionally suppressed. Only that sapphire brooch flashed one last time at the turn, like the retracted eye of a nocturnal animal. In the elevator, Yin Yeran adjusted his bow tie against the mirrored wall. The Omega in the mirror had exquisite features and a weary expression, perfectly fitting the image of a pitiful stepmother tormented by a stepson for six years. But he looked into his own eyes—those eyes that, in the original book, should have been filled with endurance and sorrow—and saw them flickering with a certain inquiry. Four years early, an undifferentiated person's riot, a crack in the script... but now he could only passively wait for a result. This loss of control made him a bit annoyed and inexplicably anxious.