The door to the patient's room slid open without a sound. A handsome, expressionless man entered, his footsteps light yet deliberate. Wu Zhen's eyes swept over the frail figure on the hospital bed—little more than a skeleton draped in skin, limbs twisted, face ruined beyond recognition. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, while the steady beeping of monitors was the only proof that life still lingered. Wu Zhen clicked his tongue in disdain. "Tsk. Ming Ze, what a sight. I almost find it refreshing, seeing you like this." A low chuckle escaped him, thick with mockery. "You should have known your place from the beginning. Did you really think you could compete with Ming Yu? You should be grateful he's so kind—otherwise, trash like you wouldn't even be alive right now." Ming Ze stared at the ceiling, unmoving, his eyes dull and empty. Once, Wu Zhen had courted him, lavished him with affection. Ming Ze, naïve and longing for love, had believed it was real. Now, he saw the truth: Wu Zhen's so-called love had been a cruel ploy, a way to get close to Ming Yu. But back then, Ming Ze was desperate for someone to belong to, convinced his boyfriend would never betray him. Ming Ze didn't understand how his life had come to this. At eighteen, he was taken back to the Ming family. They said he was the missing youngest biological son. The Ming family was well-off in the city—wealthy, but not among the true elite. When Ming Ze realized his parents had come searching for him, he was heartbroken. He had grown up with Aunt Chen in the village, never knowing she wasn't his real mother. He cried and clung to Aunt Chen, insisting he wouldn't go back to his family. She was his only close relative; if he left, no one would care for her. Aunt Chen hadn't married because of him. She always told any man who wanted to marry her that Ming Ze would follow her, and they'd have to treat him as their own son. No one wanted such a burden. Aunt Chen—her full name Chen Xia—had come to the village and bought a house near the hill. The previous owner had moved to the city, and Aunt Chen arrived just in time to buy the place. The house stood alone, with no close neighbors, perfect for someone who disliked noise. No one knew where Aunt Chen came from or who her parents were. Introduced to the village by the chief, her beauty captivated the young men, which instantly made her unpopular among the local women, who feared she'd seduce their husbands. The gossip only worsened when they saw her with a baby. Some said she'd run away after getting pregnant by a stranger; others called her a mistress hiding from a jealous wife. Either way, Aunt Chen was ostracized by the women of the village. Growing up wasn't easy, especially for Aunt Chen, who had to care for him alone. When Ming Ze turned sixteen, Aunt Chen fell ill. She needed constant medication and rest, but she insisted on sending him to school and kept her fruit stall open. When the Ming family's driver finally came to the village, the truth became known—he was not Aunt Chen's son. Before leaving, Ming Ze promised her he'd come back, take her to the hospital in the city, and care for her. But that was the last time he saw her. Wu Zhen turned on the TV in the room. Loud romantic music filled the air. Ming Ze stared blankly at the screen and saw a beautiful wedding. On the screen, a match made in heaven. In the lavish Phoenix Hall, flower petals danced through the air. A couple in ceremonial attire kissed passionately—a scene so beautiful it hurt. As the camera panned across the crowd, Ming Ze spotted the familiar faces of his 'family'. The Ming family members were all crying with joy, congratulating the new couple. "Oh, I have good news for you. Today is Xiao Yu's wedding day. Isn't that wonderful?" Wu Zhen's voice snapped Ming Ze back to reality. Wu Zhen gazed lovingly and obsessively at the cute young man whose face filled the screen. He turned. "Ah, and one more thing—your dear aunt is dead. Hit by a truck." He said it casually, as if commenting on the weather. Ming Ze's breath hitched. His fingers trembled. Aunt Chen… The woman who had cared for him, the only one who'd ever truly loved him. "No…" His throat tightened. He wanted to scream, but only a strangled, animalistic sound escaped. Wu Zhen watched with amusement. "She kept pestering Ming Yu about your whereabouts. Poor Ming Yu—he's too sensitive for all that stress. So I took care of it for him." He sighed theatrically. "Don't worry, I arranged a proper funeral. Such a pitiful woman," he added with false sympathy. Ming Ze's eyes burned with hatred. He knew—he knew—Wu Zhen had orchestrated the accident. But he was powerless. Rage shook his useless body. Tears streamed down his face, but there was nothing he could do. Wu Zhen leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Rest assured, you'll be seeing her soon." With a twisted smile, he tore the oxygen mask from Ming Ze's face. Agony ripped through Ming Ze's chest. His lungs burned; his body convulsed as he fought for air. Yet beneath the suffocating pain, there was a strange sense of relief. At least now, he knew Aunt Chen had never abandoned him. As his vision faded, his thoughts drifted. Aunt Chen… I'm sorry. If I had another chance… I'd never let this happen. Darkness swallowed him whole. ------- Ming Ze felt weightless. He was no longer in the hospital. No romantic music, no blaring monitors. Only endless darkness. Where am I? Is this heaven? A faint glow flickered in the distance. He moved toward it, footsteps soundless on the unseen floor. The light solidified into a stone platform, where a single book hovered in midair. A book? Hesitantly, he reached out. The cover bore an unfamiliar title: The Cute Young Master is Everyone's Favorite. His heart pounded as he turned the pages. His hands trembled. This world… it's a novel? Ming Yu was the protagonist—the beloved child of fate. Kind. Cute. Intelligent. Untouchable. And him? He was merely cannon fodder, a disposable villain doomed from the start. No wonder. No matter how hard he tried, something always forced him down a path of destruction. Ming Yu always emerged unscathed, protected by fate itself. A bitter, hollow laugh shook Ming Ze's body. It had never been a fair fight. A sudden chill ran through him. His fingers faded, his body turning translucent—his very existence unraveling. He gazed at his dissolving hands and closed his eyes as darkness claimed him again. -------- Sunlight spilled through the window, bathing the small bedroom in gold. It fell across the face of a young man lying in bed—skin fair as porcelain, features delicate and ethereal, a beauty both innocent and dangerous. His eyes snapped open, sharp and cold, upturned at the corners. He bolted upright, breath ragged. He was… breathing. Ming Ze scanned his surroundings in confusion. The study desk, the bunk beds, the wardrobe—this was his university dorm. He clenched the blanket—smooth, whole hands, not the chapped remnants from his memory. He stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a stranger: high cheekbones, long lashes, hazel eyes, soft lips, flawless skin. He looked untouched. Beautiful. As if suffering had never left a mark. Heart pounding, he grabbed his phone and checked the date. April 16. The second year after he'd moved into the Ming household. He was back. Memories of his previous life flashed before him: pain, betrayal, helplessness. His fists tightened. Not this time. A cold, determined light flickered in his eyes. The fear, the humiliation, the agony—he would never let himself suffer that fate again. Make this passage painful and emotional for readers ChatGPT said:
Here is a more painful, heavier, and emotionally sharpened version, tightening the cruelty, regret, and despair while keeping your plot intact. I focused on lingering suffering, emotional contrast, and slow devastation rather than just violence.
The door to the patient's room slid open without a sound.
A tall, handsome man stepped inside. His expression was calm—too calm—his footsteps light, deliberate, as if he were merely visiting an exhibit. Wu Zhen's gaze swept lazily over the figure on the hospital bed.
What lay there barely resembled a human being.
Skin clung tightly to bone, limbs twisted unnaturally beneath thin sheets. The face—once youthful, once gentle—was ruined beyond recognition, swollen and scarred. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of it, misting faintly with each labored breath. The rhythmic beeping of machines was the only thing proving that the body had not yet completely surrendered.
Wu Zhen clicked his tongue.
"Tsk." His voice carried faint amusement. "Ming Ze… you look worse than I imagined."
He laughed softly, the sound echoing in the sterile room. "Strange. Seeing you like this is almost refreshing."
He walked closer, stopping at the bedside. "You really should've known your place from the beginning. Did you honestly think you could compete with Ming Yu?" His eyes curved with mockery. "You should thank him. If he weren't so kind, trash like you wouldn't even be breathing right now."
Ming Ze didn't react.
His eyes were open, staring dully at the ceiling. No anger. No fear. No tears. Just emptiness—like something inside him had already died.
Once, Wu Zhen had held his hands.
Once, he had whispered promises, pressed kisses against his temples, looked at him as if he mattered.
Ming Ze had believed it.
Desperate for warmth, for someone—anyone—to choose him, he had clung to that false affection with everything he had. He had convinced himself Wu Zhen would never betray him.
Now, lying here, he finally understood.
Wu Zhen's love had never been meant for him. He had merely been a stepping stone. A tool. A convenient bridge to Ming Yu.
A bitter ache settled deep in Ming Ze's chest.
How had his life ended up like this?
At eighteen, the Ming family had come for him.
They said he was their youngest biological son—lost, misplaced, finally found. The Ming family was wealthy, respected in the city, though far from the true aristocracy. They spoke of blood, of responsibility, of reunion.
But Ming Ze hadn't felt joy.
He had felt terror.
He had grown up in the village with Aunt Chen—his world small, poor, and warm. He never knew she wasn't his real mother. When he learned the truth, he clung to her and cried until his throat burned, begging not to be taken away.
She was all he had.
If he left, who would care for her?
Aunt Chen—Chen Xia—had never married because of him. Whenever a man expressed interest, she would smile gently and say, Ming Ze comes with me. You'll have to treat him as your own son.
No one stayed.
She had bought a small house near the hill when she first arrived in the village—quiet, isolated. No neighbors. No noise. No past.
No one knew where she came from.
She was beautiful—too beautiful. The village women whispered, eyes sharp with suspicion. When they saw her with a baby, the rumors multiplied. A runaway mistress. A disgraced woman hiding shame. A man's abandoned plaything.
They ostracized her.
Life had been hard. Especially for her.
When Ming Ze turned sixteen, Aunt Chen fell ill. She needed medicine. Rest. Care.
But she still sent him to school. Still opened her fruit stall every morning. Still smiled and told him everything was fine.
When the Ming family's driver came to the village, the truth surfaced at last.
He was not her son.
Before leaving, Ming Ze knelt in front of her and promised—promised—that he would come back. That he would earn money, take her to the city hospital, let her live comfortably.
But that goodbye had been final.
Wu Zhen casually turned on the television.
Romantic music flooded the room—loud, jarring, cruel.
Ming Ze's eyes shifted, unfocused, landing on the screen.
A wedding.
In the luxurious Phoenix Hall, flower petals fell like blessings from heaven. A beautiful couple stood beneath crystal lights, dressed in ceremonial attire, kissing as applause thundered around them.
A perfect match.
The camera swept over the guests.
Ming Ze saw familiar faces.
The Ming family.
They were smiling. Crying. Laughing with joy.
Celebrating.
"Oh," Wu Zhen said lightly, as if suddenly remembering something trivial. "I almost forgot. Today's Xiao Yu's wedding. Isn't it wonderful?"
Ming Ze's heart clenched.
Wu Zhen's gaze softened as he stared at the screen, eyes filled with obsession as Ming Yu's smiling face filled the frame.
Then he turned back.
"Oh, right. There's something else." His tone was casual. "Your aunt is dead. Hit by a truck."
The words fell like stones.
Ming Ze's breath caught violently.
His fingers trembled.
Aunt Chen.
The woman who had raised him. Protected him. Loved him without condition.
"No—" His throat constricted. He tried to scream, but only a hoarse, broken sound escaped, something animal and raw.
Wu Zhen watched with interest. "She kept bothering Ming Yu, asking about you. Poor Xiao Yu—he's too sensitive for that kind of stress." He sighed dramatically. "So I handled it."
He smiled. "Don't worry. I arranged a funeral. Proper enough, I suppose."
Ming Ze's vision blurred.
He knew.
He knew Wu Zhen had done it.
Hatred surged through him, violent and scorching, but his body refused to respond. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even lift a hand.
Tears streamed down his temples, soaking into the pillow.
Wu Zhen leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Don't worry. You'll be seeing her soon."
He reached out—and ripped away the oxygen mask.
Pain exploded.
Ming Ze's chest seized as his lungs burned, starved of air. His body convulsed, instincts screaming for breath. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
Yet beneath the agony, there was relief.
At least now, he knew.
Aunt Chen had never abandoned him.
As consciousness slipped away, one thought echoed faintly.
Aunt Chen… I'm sorry.
If I had another chance…
I would never let this happen.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
-------
Ming Ze felt weightless.
He was no longer in the hospital. No romantic music, no blaring monitors. Only endless darkness.
Where am I? Is this heaven?
A faint glow flickered in the distance. He moved toward it, footsteps soundless on the unseen floor. The light solidified into a stone platform, where a single book hovered in midair.
A book?
Hesitantly, he reached out. The cover bore an unfamiliar title:
The Cute Young Master is Everyone's Favorite.
His heart pounded as he turned the pages.
His hands trembled.
This world… it's a novel?
Ming Yu was the protagonist—the beloved child of fate. Kind. Cute. Intelligent. Untouchable.
And him? He was merely cannon fodder, a disposable villain doomed from the start.
No wonder. No matter how hard he tried, something always forced him down a path of destruction. Ming Yu always emerged unscathed, protected by fate itself.
A bitter, hollow laugh shook Ming Ze's body.
It had never been a fair fight.
A sudden chill ran through him. His fingers faded, his body turning translucent—his very existence unraveling. He gazed at his dissolving hands and closed his eyes as darkness claimed him again.
--------
Sunlight spilled through the window, bathing the small bedroom in gold. It fell across the face of a young man lying in bed—skin fair as porcelain, features delicate and ethereal, a beauty both innocent and dangerous.
His eyes snapped open, sharp and cold, upturned at the corners.
He bolted upright, breath ragged. He was… breathing.
Ming Ze scanned his surroundings in confusion. The study desk, the bunk beds, the wardrobe—this was his university dorm.
He clenched the blanket—smooth, whole hands, not the chapped remnants from his memory.
He stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a stranger: high cheekbones, long lashes, hazel eyes, soft lips, flawless skin.
He looked untouched. Beautiful. As if suffering had never left a mark.
Heart pounding, he grabbed his phone and checked the date.
April 16.
The second year after he'd moved into the Ming household.
He was back.
Memories of his previous life flashed before him: pain, betrayal, helplessness.
His fists tightened.
Not this time.
A cold, determined light flickered in his eyes. The fear, the humiliation, the agony—he would never let himself suffer that fate again.
-------
Ming Ze felt weightless.
He was no longer in the hospital. No romantic music, no blaring monitors. Only endless darkness.
Where am I? Is this heaven?
A faint glow flickered in the distance. He moved toward it, footsteps soundless on the unseen floor. The light solidified into a stone platform, where a single book hovered in midair.
A book?
Hesitantly, he reached out. The cover bore an unfamiliar title:
The Cute Young Master is Everyone's Favorite.
His heart pounded as he turned the pages.
His hands trembled.
This world… it's a novel?
Ming Yu was the protagonist—the beloved child of fate. Kind. Cute. Intelligent. Untouchable.
And him? He was merely cannon fodder, a disposable villain doomed from the start.
No wonder. No matter how hard he tried, something always forced him down a path of destruction. Ming Yu always emerged unscathed, protected by fate itself.
A bitter, hollow laugh shook Ming Ze's body.
It had never been a fair fight.
A sudden chill ran through him. His fingers faded, his body turning translucent—his very existence unraveling. He gazed at his dissolving hands and closed his eyes as darkness claimed him again.
--------
Sunlight spilled through the window, bathing the small bedroom in gold. It fell across the face of a young man lying in bed—skin fair as porcelain, features delicate and ethereal, a beauty both innocent and dangerous.
His eyes snapped open, sharp and cold, upturned at the corners.
He bolted upright, breath ragged. He was… breathing.
Ming Ze scanned his surroundings in confusion. The study desk, the bunk beds, the wardrobe—this was his university dorm.
He clenched the blanket—smooth, whole hands, not the chapped remnants from his memory.
He stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a stranger: high cheekbones, long lashes, hazel eyes, soft lips, flawless skin.
He looked untouched. Beautiful. As if suffering had never left a mark.
Heart pounding, he grabbed his phone and checked the date.
April 16.
The second year after he'd moved into the Ming household.
He was back.
Memories of his previous life flashed before him: pain, betrayal, helplessness.
His fists tightened.
Not this time.
A cold, determined light flickered in his eyes. The fear, the humiliation, the agony—he would never let himself suffer that fate again.