The showerhead was turned off, but water still dripped from it, one drop after another, now fast, now slow, splattering onto the tiles that were still draining toward the floor grate. The sound mingled with faint, ambiguous gasps from outside the room.
Xie Yingnian bent over, gripping the edge of the sink with white-knuckled hands. Veins snaked across the backs of her hands, bulging faintly as she entrusted nearly her entire weight to the cool porcelain beneath her palms—as if only this could keep her steady on her feet.
The bathroom light was off, as was the warmer. Even the water from the showerhead had been ice-cold. The door was shut tight, allowing only a hazy glow to filter in from outside. The glass mirror, spattered with water droplets, reflected Xie Yingnian’s face: dark circles under her reddened eyes, her long hair unbound from its ponytail at the back of her head. The black hair tie had probably been washed down the drain long ago. Her bangs were soaked through, leaving her looking utterly disheveled.
She always projected an image of strength and composure. This side of her—overwhelmed by emotion, revealing vulnerability—was a rare sight indeed.
In fact, from certain angles, Xie Yingnian’s earlier behavior had still been decidedly “inhuman.” If her attending physician, Ni Qian, had been present, she surely would have reached that conclusion.
The episodes came on suddenly, with no time to take medication. If her partner survived, they could count themselves lucky to have escaped the jaws of a tiger. Several case records ended right there, because in the blink of an eye, the patient became a criminal suspect.
Such thoughts brought to mind the question Ni Qian might pose in the not-too-distant future:
“How did you stop?”
Without relying on drugs, how had she used sheer willpower to wrest control back from the dark side that held absolute dominance?
Had she cranked the shower to full blast, using the stinging cold water to jolt her reason awake? Had a splitting headache forced her to her knees on the floor, silently reciting calming sutras? Or had she pulled that prepared needle from her pocket, injecting fine threads of pain into her hands and legs to counter the maddening restlessness surging inside her?
None of those.
It was her. She was my medicine.
“You’re really not coming out to see me?”
Zhong Jia asked again, her words coming in fits and starts. Xie Yingnian slowly closed her eyes, picturing what Zhong Jia must look like in that moment. Ever since Wonderful Cloud Temple, that face had taken on a hint of sickly fragility. Flushes of red often seeped through her pallor, spreading from her neck to cover her entire face. She bit her lip, tears falling one by one in an unhealthy, fragile display. Toward the end, her gasps had been soft and prolonged, as if she lacked even the strength for them—yet somehow, it only made her more enticing than before.
Her eyelashes trembled lightly. She refused to open her eyes, exiling herself to endless darkness, yet her hearing grew all the sharper.
The gasps by her ear were like a rusty blunt knife scraping across her heart valves, one stroke after another. It itched. It ached.
I’m not coming out. Do you even realize how close I came to never seeing you again?
Xie Yingnian thought, evading the truth.
Perhaps because she stayed silent, the sound of running water had stopped too. The person outside seemed to catch some signal, instinctively stumbling upon the art of temptation in her desperation. She deliberately used that beautiful singing voice of hers to let out sounds that varied from light to heavy.
Xie Yingnian frowned slightly. She wasn’t sure if, after what had just happened, Zhong Jia could still accurately discern the valuable lesson in it: that no matter the circumstances, flaunting control over her own body to her was never a smart move. Whether Zhong Jia knew that or not, she was doing it anyway—likely putting herself in danger once more, just to force her out for a meeting.
Even then, you’re not afraid of me?
She lowered her head, thinking of the birth mother who had abandoned her, and of Shi Cainran, who had called her a lunatic deserving of abandonment.
After Liang Sufen’s death, they had been like two plants parasitic on each other from childhood, leaning on one another, each seeing the other as the vine that pulled them upward as they struggled to grow from cracks in the pavement.
In just a few short years, their mutual dependence had fostered a pathological reliance. So Shi Cainran both loathed her and couldn’t live without her—even going so far as to check into the sanatorium, despite having no illness herself. But time’s power was not to be underestimated; it could change everything, turning familial bonds into a tangled, indistinct shadow where past and present intertwined. Shi Cainran’s occasional outbursts could even be seen as manifestations of reluctance to let go.
Time had imprisoned them both, trapping them in memories of the past where they struggled bitterly. Even their progress was merely treading water.
No matter if it was hate or love, every emotion had its limits. Over time, when that high-pressure point was touched, Shi Cainran wanted to escape, to withdraw, to return to a normal life—a perfectly reasonable desire. The acrid smoke of the fire had seared her nostrils, coating her mouth and nose with soot. She couldn’t breathe, suffocation descending again and again in nightmares. Shi Cainran had been pampered her whole life; natural and man-made disasters had punctured the balloon of her sense of security. And was Xie Yingnian herself any different?
She had always seen herself as a seed scattered by the wind, rootless and homeless. Her sense of security was laced with poison no one dared touch. The strength she projected was as flimsy as paper. When it came to those she held dear, she had tried forceful methods a few times. If they backfired, she was the first to fear the failure—the bold search ending in defeat once more.
Lunatic. Monster. Genetic disease—her father had it, so she would too… The international calls Xie Yuyao made to Liang Sufen had become a childhood nightmare, sprouting tentacles that wrapped around her body, her neck, strangling her awake again and again on the rickety wooden bed on the second floor of the diner.
From early on, she had researched related materials. Her desire to become a doctor was partly for easier access. She strove desperately to avoid the genetic destiny awaiting her—yet on the day she chased down the man who molested Shi Cainran, the disheveled clothes, tear-streaked face, and bloodied scene had awakened her long-dormant nature.
Chaos reigned on the street: screams, shouts calling for an ambulance, footsteps milling about her ears. Xie Yingnian dry-heaved for a moment before lifting her eyes. The ambulance arrived promptly; the crowd parted, and she saw the broken, motionless body in front of the vehicle. It had rained that day; the air afterward carried an unsettling scent—whether the tang of wet earth or human blood, she couldn’t tell.
Her first episode. Xie Yingnian wasn’t yet adept at masking it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a chilling smile curling her lips. In her mind, she thought: Touch my little sister? Good riddance.
That was how it should have been. She was a maniac with terrifyingly intense possessiveness—a monster everyone shunned.
But the person before her now had witnessed it firsthand… Zhong Jia, why aren’t you running? Don’t I have any limits for you?
Her lips paled from biting them. Xie Yingnian steeled herself, her eyelids snapping open. Another person’s ragged breaths reignited desire in her eyes. The humid air worked its mischief; her own exhalations lost their former steadiness, turning heavy one moment, faint the next—as if synchronized to the other’s uncontrollable rhythm.
She had choked down mouthfuls of cold water, yet now she felt parched. Xie Yingnian backed up against the white tiles, trying to use their chill to ease the frustration of arousal left unfulfilled. Water droplets slid from her face along her nose; her eyelashes held a thin film of moisture. She blinked, and it was as if the light piercing her eyes had shattered.
Her shirt was soaked through, clinging damply to her body.
Enveloped in the misty atmosphere, her mask seemed to slip away, her demeanor softening considerably.
Hearing the drawn-out tail of a low gasp, Xie Yingnian clenched her fists and let out a muffled grunt. She tilted her head back; her gracefully arched jaw shook loose a few drops of water. The pale, slender column of her neck took on a rare vulnerability.
With no sign of anyone emerging and no response to her calls, Zhong Jia grew frantic. She had never done anything like this before. Imitating Xie Yingnian, her movements were clumsy and rough. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs slightly parted, her eyes reddened—whether from urgency or pain, she couldn’t say. She even coughed.
The chains on her wrists made movement inconvenient. Meant to confine her, they now felt like barriers keeping her from Xie Yingnian—otherwise, she could simply leave the house and find tools to break the door lock outside.
“I really want to… uh, see you.”
Zhong Jia studied art, it was true, but not every art student was like Chen Kuang, flaunting explicit details and reveling in them. She couldn’t bring herself to be any more indecent. Even without a second pair of eyes watching, she felt ashamed and turned her body slightly away from the bathroom. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down; the thin straps of her nightgown slipped from her shoulders, her rounded, pale shoulder rising and falling with trembles.
Her awkward posture and crude actions brought her no end of discomfort. She pressed her lips together, unable to bear the unfamiliar pain, and let out a small, animal-like whimper.
“Are you an idiot?” came a cool, steady voice from above her head. Xie Yingnian had approached silently and now stood right in front of her.
Zhong Jia: “Mm—”
Before those excessively beautiful eyes could express her joy, her head was pressed down, forcing her to lower her gaze. Xie Yingnian’s cool hand grasped her wrist, where her own hand had frozen.
Her vision was locked to the scene before her. The downward tilt made blood rush to her head, her breathing labored as she confronted the flood she had wrought herself. Mortified beyond measure, Zhong Jia couldn’t turn away; her eyes squeezed shut too quickly, the fine shadows beneath her eyelids quivering.
The flush on her neck spread to her ears, yet she clamped her legs around Xie Yingnian’s. From her constricted throat, she mustered her voice, timidly saying, “Then teach me, okay? I feel so uncomfortable…”
Xie Yingnian thought to herself, You’re not the only one who’s uncomfortable.
She first undid the top button of her shirt in the bathroom. She still felt stifled by the heat, so she switched on the exhaust fan. Gusts of wind brushed over her clothes, carrying away the damp moisture, and she finally felt a little better. But when she heard Zhong Jia yelp in pain, she could not bear to stay a moment longer and hurried out.
“Are you an idiot?” Xie Yingnian asked, neither lecturing nor holding back. Her gaze fell on the obvious marks on Zhong Jia’s neck. She reached out and gently stroked Zhong Jia’s sweat-dampened sideburns. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
In place of a verbal answer came a hug from just a short distance away. A stubborn glint returned to Zhong Jia’s eyes and brows as she said sincerely, “I am afraid. But I love you more.”
A long time later, Xie Yingnian let out a sigh whose meaning was hard to discern. All her unease, her irritability, her unstable emotions—they seemed to be soothed by that simple response.
Their clasped hands entwined tightly. She kissed the small, burning-hot tip of Zhong Jia’s ear. “Let’s go to the bed. I’ll teach you—and tell you about my illness.”
