Through the microphone, Xun Yuming heard Zhuang Yi's voice, calm and measured.
"Dr. Xun, I am a cooperating physician of the hospital. Like you, I hold a medical license and have the right to enter the operating room. Besides, I haven't gone in yet, so I'm not violating any hospital regulations. Please focus on the surgery."
Xun Yuming clenched his jaw but said nothing.
He turned his attention back to the surgical field, reviewing Qin Xueyan's imaging and operative plan once more. Then he began.
The scalpel parted the scalp. He moved layer by layer through the muscle, placing hemostatic clips with steady hands. When it was time to open the skull, Zhou Rong drilled two burr holes cleanly. Before anyone could speak, Cen Ji had already passed over the milling cutter.
The bone flap was removed.
"Scissors."
Cen Ji handed them over. Xun Yuming incised the dura mater.
A bright red brain came into view, its surface laced with delicate vessels like fine leaf veins. The microscope was advanced. Under magnification, he gently separated the tissue, working his way toward the skull base. The tumor, wrapped in a thin gray-pink membrane, gradually revealed itself.
"Electrocoagulation. Control the bleeding."
He began debulking from the side, movements economical and precise. He was in no rush. In this space, speed meant nothing; only control mattered.
The sterile area grew crowded as interns gathered behind the line, craning their necks to watch. When they reached the far side of the lesion, Zhou Rong asked quietly, "Should we open the falx?"
Instead of answering directly, Xun Yuming glanced at Cen Ji.
"What are the potential consequences of cutting the falx?"
Cen Ji stiffened. "Studies show it increases the risk of brain herniation and other complications."
Xun Yuming gave no comment. His eyes never left the field. His expression was the same one he wore when navigating the most delicate steps, focused, controlled, almost detached. One wrong movement here would not allow for correction.
From the observation room behind the glass, Zhuang Yi watched in silence.
He had thought he knew Xun Yuming well. Yet the composure on display now ,the clarity, the steadiness was nothing like the restrained, awkward figure he saw outside the operating room.
Hours passed.
Zhuang Yi stepped out midway. When he returned, Xun Yuming was lifting the tumor free.
The tissue dropped into the metal tray with a muted thud.
"Send for pathology."
An intern hurried forward to carry it out.
"Thank you, Dr. Zhou."
After nearly seven hours of concentration, the tension finally eased from Xun Yuming's face. He glanced at Cen Ji and said lightly, "Do you want to take a look?"
Cen Ji's eyes lit up. Xun Yuming stepped aside, giving him a brief moment at the microscope. Beneath the lens, the internal carotid artery, anterior cerebral artery, anterior communicating artery, and both olfactory nerves were clearly preserved. Even the delicate olfactory filaments remained intact.
"Wow..."
The difference between seeing something on a monitor and observing it directly under magnification was immense. Cen Ji felt a rush of exhilaration he could barely contain.
But the moment was short. Xun Yuming resumed his position, sutured the dura, replaced the bone flap, and closed the incision.
The surgery ended.
Qin Xueyan was transferred to the ICU. Xun Yuming removed his gloves, washed, signed the operative record, and gave final instructions to the nursing staff.
When he stepped out, Zhuang Yi was waiting near the observation room.
"The surgery went well," Xun Yuming said. "If there are no complications, she should wake up tomorrow morning."
Zhuang Yi looked at him for a moment before speaking.
"Thank you, Doctor Xun."
The words were simple, but his tone was different, quieter, sincere. For the first time since their reunion, there was no irony or distance in it.
A subtle warmth spread through Xun Yuming's chest. He hadn't realized until that moment how much he had been waiting for that acknowledgment.
"There's no need to thank me," he replied, voice steady. "Go see your mother."
"I will." Zhuang Yi nodded. "I'll treat you to dinner another day."
Xun Yuming gave a noncommittal sound and walked away, feeling unexpectedly light.
In the corridor, the head nurse approached him with a folder. "Dr. Xun, your psychological assessment is out. Dean Chen asked me to give it to you."
He thanked her and opened it.
On the final page, beneath Zhuang Yilong's signature written in a sweeping hand, were three words:
Unqualified.
The sight of the report sent him straight to the ICU.
The hallway outside was crowded with relatives. Qin Xueyan was still unconscious. Zhuang Yi stood slightly apart, speaking with a man in a dark gray shirt.
Xun Yuming had come intending to confront him, but seeing the crowd, he hesitated. He didn't want a scene.
Instead, he stepped outside the isolation doors and pulled out his phone.
He opened his contacts and paused...
He didn't have Zhuang Yi's number.
The last message he had ever sent him was after graduation. Eight years ago.
Eight years ago, he would have found it absurd to imagine that one day he wouldn't even have this basic means of contact.
During those eight years, he had deliberately kept his distance. He had chosen silence. And now even the right to speak felt delayed, postponed until it resurfaced all at once.
He let out a breath and took out the business card Dean Chen had given him earlier. The number was printed on the back.
He typed:
I need to talk to you. I'm at the ICU entrance. :Xun Yuming
Half a minute later, a reply came.
...I don't have time right now. Is it urgent?
Xun Yuming glanced back through the glass.
Zhuang Yi was holding a little girl with curly hair and bright eyes, smiling gently as he spoke with the group around him.
He remembered the family tree assignment in university.
His own had been a sparse two modest branches.
Zhuang Yi's had filled an entire sheet of paper and still continued outward. Great-grandparents who had studied abroad. Grandparents with twelve children. Aunts, uncles, cousins, so many that even during holiday gatherings he sometimes mixed up the proper forms of address.
Xun Yuming had never known that kind of noise.
He grew up with his maternal grandfather, a man who had been ostracized in his youth and who had withdrawn even further after hardship fractured his family. Silence had become a habit passed down.
He met his biological mother for the first time in his second year of high school. He still did not know what his biological father looked like.
In his life, there had been very few people.
His grandfather.
And Zhuang Yi.
Eight years ago, even Zhuang Yi had left.
He stood before the glass door, only a step away from the bustling corridor, yet separated by something invisible and firm.
After a long moment, he lowered his head and typed:
...Let's talk tomorrow.