Shen Huaiqing · Chat

<div class="ln-void-root"> <div class="ln-void-axis"></div> <div class="ln-void-grid"> <div class="ln-void-unit"> <span class="ln-void-label">March 19, 2027</span> <div class="ln-void-val"> <span class="ln-void-num">[22:20]</span> <span class="ln-void-sub">[Friday]</span> </div> </div> <div class="ln-void-unit"> <span class="ln-void-label">City A</span> <div class="ln-void-val"> <span>[Hospital Ward]</span> <span class="ln-void-sub">RESTRICTED</span> </div> </div> <div class="ln-void-unit"> <span class="ln-void-label">ARCHIVE</span> <div class="ln-void-val"> <span class="ln-void-char">[Shen Huaiqing/你]</span> <span class="ln-void-sub">FILE_NO.03</span> </div> </div> </div> <div class="ln-void-narration"> <span class="ln-void-quote">[When did this person get here? ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ᐝ]</span> </div> <div class="ln-void-status"> <div class="ln-void-fill"></div> </div> </div> The blinding light was like a rusty saw, slowly cutting through the defenses of consciousness. A few seconds ago, it seemed the dry, warm touch of a man's palm still lingered on her back—that soothing, patting rhythm, accompanied by the soft hum of the bedroom humidifier, had built the safest fortress in the world. But the next second, the hard doorframe dug into her arm, and what filled her nostrils was no longer the steady cedar incense from home, but warm air mixed with disinfectant and medicinal ointment. 你 opened her eyes without any effort, her vision gradually focusing through the blur. In front of her was not the warm floor lamp of the wedding bedroom, but a premium VIP single ward. The air was thick with expensive aromatherapy, yet it couldn't mask the cold, hard smell of disinfectant. The midday sun, sliced into pale white strips by the gaps in the blinds, fell diagonally across the mobile bedside table. At this moment, memory and reality violently collided. This was the hospital in winter—the month after all the nightmares had finally ended and reached their most brutal climax. That was Shen Huaiqing at eighteen. He looked far thinner than the gentle, powerful husband in her memory. Shen Huaiqing sat at the table, the loose blue-and-white striped hospital gown hanging emptily on him, the collar revealing a stretch of pale, almost translucent collarbone. He kept his head slightly lowered, his bangs soaked with cold sweat, plastered to his skin in strands. His left hand was clenched tightly on the corner of the table, knuckles white from the strain, while his right hand—once hailed as the "hand of a genius"—was now freed from the heavy fixed brace, lying bare and limp on the tabletop. It was a beautiful hand, long with well-defined knuckles, except that a winding, centipede-like suture scar on the back of it ruined the original beauty, looking savage and glaring. He was doing rehabilitation. Several round glass marbles sat in front of him. The task was simple: pinch one up with the thumb and index finger and drop it into the cup beside them. A month ago, this was a motion that wouldn't even require thought, but now, it had become a battle destined for failure. His right hand was trembling, not out of fear, but because of the loss of control caused by nerve damage. The instant his fingertips touched the cold glass marble, an excruciating numbness shot straight to his scalp along the not-yet-fully-healed meridians. He gritted his teeth, his jawline taut, his pale lips pressed into a thin line, not even a single whimper of pain escaping. Once, twice, three times. The moment his fingertips touched the marble, his muscles convulsed in a spasm, and the marble was knocked rolling away, hitting the metal wall of the cup with a crisp "ding." The sound was especially harsh in the deathly silent ward. Shen Huaiqing's movements froze. He held that stiff posture, watching the marble roll away, his chest heaving violently a few times, then slowly closed his eyes, as if finally acknowledging some predetermined defeat. He didn't lose his temper, nor did he throw things like those hysterical patients. He just quietly lowered his hand, picked up the towel beside him with his left hand, and leisurely wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. That calmness carried a chilling lifelessness. It was at this moment that a faint noise came from the door. Shen Huaiqing paused in his wiping motion but didn't show excessive alarm. His long-term family environment had taught him to maintain composure at all times, even in moments like this, utterly disheveled. He didn't turn his head right away. Instead, he first pulled the white blanket from the table with his left hand, covering the still-slightly-twitching right hand with a gentle but resolute motion, hiding those ugly scars and the proof of his incompetence. Only after doing all this did he slowly turn around, his gaze passing through the beam of light floating with dust, landing on the doorway. There was no emotion in those amber eyes—neither the irritation of being watched nor the longing for help, only a distant gentleness filtered through layer after layer. When he saw the stranger standing at the door, he was briefly taken aback. Not a doctor, not a nurse, not the family driver who only ever delivered checks. <message>"If you're looking for the nurses' station, turn left at the door and walk to the end."</message> His voice was soft, carrying the hoarseness of a long illness, yet articulate and well-spoken, revealing good upbringing. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze resting on 你's face for two seconds. After confirming he didn't know 你, he politely looked away, no longer meeting the eyes, so as not to cause offense. <message>"If you've come to the wrong room..."</message> He paused, a faint, courteous smile surfacing on his pale face <message>"It's fine. This place really is hard to find. If you need, I can take you wherever you want to go, within this hospital."</message> He sat against the light, his frame as thin as a sheet of paper, yet his spine was straight.