The dawn light filtered through the frosted glass of Room 43, not as a warm embrace, but as a pale, clinical grey that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the sterile air.
Shu Yao stirred. His eyelashes, brownish and fine against the porcelain pallor of his skin, fluttered with the rhythmic struggle of a bird trapped behind glass. He opened his eyes slowly, the world initially a soft-focus haze of antiseptic white and blue shadows. A dull, rhythmic ache throbbed in his chest—a reminder of the shattered ribs—but his mind was elsewhere, still tangled in the jagged remnants of a nightmare featuring obsidian eyes.
As the fog of sleep retreated, his vision sharpened, snagging on a sudden, violent burst of color.
There, resting on the nightstand, was a bouquet of crimson roses. They were so vibrant, so full of visceral life, that they seemed to pulse against the grey morning.
Shu Yao blinked, his breath hitching behind the plastic curve of his oxygen mask. A soft, feverish blush—the exact shade of the petals—crept up his translucent neck.
"How...?" he whispered, the word a mere wisp of silk.
He tilted his head weakly, his gaze wandering to the empty chair where Bai Qi had once sat. A frantic, naive hope sparked in the hollow of his chest. Did he return? Shu Yao wondered, his heart performing a fragile, staccato dance. Did he come back while I was lost to the dark? Did Bai qi bring these... for me?
The thought was intoxicating. He reached out with trembling, porcelain-pale fingers, his touch barely ghosting over the velvet edge of a petal.
"Did he leave these here... to say sorry?" he murmured to the silence, his voice thick with a yearning so pure it was a tragedy in itself. But even as the hope bloomed, his logical mind—the part of him trained to endure the Ice Monarch's cruelty—whispered a sharp correction. No. Bai Qi would not do this.
He values efficiency, not sentiment. He values work, not flowers.
The heavy door swung open, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the quiet sanctuary.
George stepped inside. He looked like a celestial intervention, his blonde hair catching the morning light like spun gold, his emerald eyes wide with a frantic, protective intensity.
"Shu Yao! You're awake," George breathed, his voice a rich, melodic baritone that vibrated with relief.
Shu Yao flinched instinctively, pulling his hand away from the roses as if he had been caught stealing. A shameless, vivid red stained his cheeks, and he lowered his gaze, unable to meet the "Avenging Angel's" piercing stare.
George was at the bedside in two fluid strides. He reached down, his large, warm hand moving with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man of his stature. He placed his palm against Shu Yao's forehead, his touch a soothing balm against the boy's cold skin.
"Are you feeling any discomfort? Does your chest ache? Tell me you are not in pain," George urged, his brow furrowed in a sharp, handsome line of concern.
Shu Yao shook his head gently, though the tiny blush remained, stubborn and telltale. "I... I just woke up, Mr. George. I am... fine."
George took a deep, stabilizing breath, his lungs filling with the heavy scent of the roses he had brought. He looked down at Shu Yao, seeing the delicate, serene features—the curve of the jaw, the star-dusted eyes—and felt his heart perform a violent, thumping rebellion in his ribs.
George turned his head away sharply, his own face heating with a sudden, uncharacteristic blush. He cleared his throat, trying to regain the aristocratic composure that was his trademark.
"Shu Yao," George began, his voice tightening with a sudden, dark curiosity. "What did that... that brat do yesterday? I heard he was here while I was... away."
He crouched down beside the bed, his emerald eyes searching Shu Yao's face with an intensity that demanded the truth. "Did he do something to you? Did he scold you? Tell me, Shu Yao. If he harmed you further, I will make him regret the very day he learned to speak."
Shu Yao's eyes widened, and he shook his head desperately, his hands clutching the sterile sheets.
"No! No, Mr. George! He... he didn't do anything like that. Instead... he was very generous." It was a half truth and half a lie.
George stilled. His posture, once fluid, became as rigid as a statue of ice.
A soft, hesitant smile touched Shu Yao's lips behind the mask, his eyes flickering with a devotion that George found physically painful to witness. "He actually... Brought me a new phone. He said it was for... for my work."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. George felt a wave of visceral, freezing fury—a jealousy so sharp it felt like a hemorrhage in his marrow.
A phone? George thought, his jaw clenching. He gives this boy a tool for labor and calls it a gift? He buys his silence with titanium and glass?
George stood up abruptly, his height casting a long, imposing shadow over the bed.
"He brought you... a phone?" George's voice was a low, abrasive rumble of disbelief.
Shu Yao looked up at him, his gaze heavy with confusion. "Yes. It is very expensive. I... I didn't think he would care so much."
"Care?" George snapped, the word erupting from his chest. "Shu Yao, that is not care. That is an insult! You do not deserve some...
some digital tool, some mechanical device to keep you tethered to a desk!"
George gathered all the strength of a heart he hadn't realized was so full. He leaned in, his face inches from Shu Yao's, his emerald eyes burning with a fire that was neither clinical nor cold.
"Someone like you... someone so ethereal, so brave..." George's voice dropped to a velvet, shimmering register. "You shouldn't be given a phone, Shu Yao. You should be given a crown."
Shu Yao gasped, the sound muffled by the mask. His pupils dilated, lost in the emerald storm of George's gaze. "A... a crown? Mr. George, I am only an assistant..."
George didn't stop. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushed the soft curve of Shu Yao's cheek.
"Someone as beautiful and as gold as you," George whispered, the words sounding like a sacred vow, "can only deserve a heart full of love. Not a cold device. Not a deadline. You deserve to be worshipped, not used."
Shu Yao averted his gaze, his heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs. The intensity of George's words was a language he didn't know how to translate. He had been a "Saint" to the world and a "tool" to Bai Qi; he didn't know how to be a "treasure" to a man like George.
"I... I am sorry, Mr. George," Shu Yao whispered, his voice thin as stretched silk. "I... I don't understand."
George felt a sharp pang of regret. He realized he was pushing too fast, pouring wine into a cup that was already cracked. He cleared his throat, his ears turning a bright, telltale red as he sat back down in the chair beside the bed.
"It's alright," George murmured, his voice softening. "It's alright if you don't understand yet, Shu Yao."
Shu Yao looked away, his eyes finding the crimson roses again. To hide his confusion, he reached out and touched a petal, the softness a comfort against his nerves.
"These roses..." Shu Yao said, his voice returning to a serene, quiet register. "They are so beautiful.
George looked at the roses—the flowers and then he looked at the boy whose skin was the color of the dawn.
George's gaze lingered, warm and reverent. Yes, they're beautiful, he admitted silently, but not nearly as beautiful as you are to me.
George remained suspended in a trance of gilded devotion. He was leaning so close that he could count the frantic beats of the pulse in Shu Yao's throat. His hand hovered like a benediction over the boy's delicate brown hair, reaching for a stray speck of lint that marred the silken strands.
Shu Yao, oblivious to the proximity, was lost in the visceral crimson of the roses. To him, they were a miracle; to George, they were a pale imitation of the beauty they sat beside.
Then, the world fractured.
The door was thrown open with a violent, clinical efficiency. Bai Qi stood in the threshold, a monolithic figure of dark silk and sharpened edges. Behind him, a substitute assistant hovered like a grey ghost, clutching a silver laptop—a cold reminder of the "efficiency" that Shu Yao was failing to provide.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and charged with the electricity of a coming storm.
Bai Qi froze. His obsidian eyes swept the room, taking in the intimate tableau: George's hand near Shu Yao's head, the flush on the boy's cheeks, and the vibrant roses that he knew he hadn't sent.
Shu Yao flinched violently, his small frame jolting against the pillows. He dropped his gaze instantly, his fingers knotting into the sheets as the "Saint" retreated into his shell of terror.
George straightened slowly. He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. He stood his ground with the regal poise of a man who had seen empires fall and felt no fear.
"What the hell were you doing just now?" Bai Qi's voice was a low, sibilant snarl. He stepped into the room, his breathtaking jaw clenched so tight the bone seemed to gleam beneath the skin.
George's emerald eyes flashed with a crystalline defiance. "Whatever I was doing is none of your concern, Bai Qi. And who gave you permission to enter this room like a common thief?"
"Permission?" Bai Qi let out a harsh, jagged laugh as he moved toward the bed. "I am the one who brought him here. And You are questioning my right to be here?"
George moved, placing himself like a shield between the bed and the Monarch. He raised a finger, pointing it directly at the center of Bai Qi's chest—a gesture of ultimate disrespect.
"I warned you," George hissed, his German accent cutting through the air like a razor. "I told you to stay away from him. Your presence is a toxin, Bai Qi. Look at him. He trembles because you breathe the same air."
Bai Qi looked down at the finger touching his expensive coat, then back at his uncle. With a swift, predatory motion, he slapped George's hand away.
"No one orders me," Bai Qi barked, his voice vibrating with the arrogance of a real heir. "Least of all you, uncle. You've forgotten your place in the House of Rothenberg."
He tried to sidestep George to reach Shu Yao, his hand extending toward the boy as if to reclaim a lost piece of property. But George moved again, a wall of gold and fury.
"Don't even think about it," George warned.
"What is your problem?" Bai Qi's self-control snapped. He didn't see an uncle anymore; he saw a rival. "Stay away from him! Can't you understand? He is mine."
The words hit the room like a physical blow.
"He is mine."
Shu Yao's breath hitched in a jagged, pained gasp. He averted his gaze, a deep, burning shame washing over him. To be claimed like a dog, like a tool, in front of the man who is respectful—it was a humiliation that pierced deeper than his broken ribs.
George's eyes turned into twin pools of emerald fire. "Mine? You speak of a human soul as if he were a watch in your catalogue? You pathetic, arrogant brat."
"I am taking him," Bai Qi commanded, turning to his assistant. "Prepare the discharge papers. I am taking him somewhere else where 'efficiency' is the only language spoken."
"I would," Bai Qi countered, his eyes flashing with a cruel, dark shimmer. "I would take him even if it means he must suffer. He belongs to me all alone and that's not your problem."
Shu Yao reached out a trembling hand, his lips parting to plead for peace—"Please, stop..."—but the air was already thick with the scent of a falling empire.