Xun Yuming stayed in the hospital for three full days.
The ward was small but clean, sunlight filtering through the blinds in pale strips that shifted slowly across the floor from morning to afternoon. The IV stand stood beside his bed like a silent guard, the clear liquid dripping steadily into his veins. The first night, the pain had still lingered faintly, a dull ache that reminded him of his own foolishness. By the second day, it had faded into mere weakness. By the third, he was only left with embarrassment.
Zhuang Yi came every morning and every evening.
He didn't make a show of it. He would arrive quietly, sometimes with his hair still slightly damp from a shower, sometimes in athletic clothes as if he had come straight from training. In his hands would be a paper bag containing white porridge and two or three simple side dishes, pickled vegetables, steamed egg, shredded tofu.
California was full of Chinese restaurants, but authenticity was another matter. The flavors were either overly sweet or aggressively oily, modified to suit unfamiliar palates. The porridge Zhuang Yi brought wasn't extraordinary, but it was warm and plain, the kind that settled the stomach instead of challenging it.
For someone hospitalized in a foreign country at fifteen, that warmth mattered more than taste.
Xun Yuming never complained. He never asked for anything else.
He had already felt secretly grateful, grateful that when he fell ill so suddenly, he hadn't been alone in a sterile emergency room with no familiar face nearby. Grateful that someone had argued with nurses for him, signed paperwork for him, and stayed until the IV drip finished.
He didn't want to trouble Zhuang Yi further, nor did he want him missing classes because of him. So as soon as the doctor approved discharge, he packed his bag and left promptly, insisting he was fine.
"I only found out after I was discharged," Xun Yuming said now, looking at the consultation screen, "that the Golden Bears versus Red Tide game that day turned into a huge upset."
He sighed faintly.
When they had left the stadium, the outcome had seemed inevitable. The Red Tide dominated the first half with overwhelming force. The scoreboard had displayed a comfortable lead; the crowd had been relaxed, almost complacent. Even Zhuang Yi's friends had treated it as a routine victory.
But the Golden Bears had held something back.
In the second half, they substituted their backup quarterback, a move that initially drew skepticism. Then the pace shifted. The rhythm changed. The Red Tide's defense faltered. The Golden Bears closed the gap point by point until the stadium atmosphere turned from confident to tense.
With three minutes left on the clock, a controversial play was ruled valid by the referee after review. The crowd erupted. The momentum tipped.
In the final minutes, the Golden Bears seized the lead and held it.
The Red Tide lost.
Because the match had been so unexpectedly dramatic, those who had left early or hadn't bothered to watch were filled with regret afterward. Students joked bitterly that it had been "the missed game of the century."
"Zhuang Yi was wrong," Xun Yuming said quietly. "There are games every year, yes. But a game like that… might not happen again for ten years."
The regret lingered in him more stubbornly than it should have.
Zhuang Yi loved sports with a kind of purity that Xun Yuming couldn't fully comprehend but deeply respected. It wasn't just entertainment for him; it was discipline, competition, instinct, and pride.
"His parents' old neighbor in New York was a Stanford Red Jackets player," Xun Yuming continued. "That man injured his Achilles tendon and recommended him as a substitute. Originally, he wasn't even eligible. But he performed so well that day that the Stanford football coach noticed him and personally recruited him."
Academically, Zhuang Yi had never needed sports to secure admission. His grades had been flawless throughout high school, A+ after A+. Stanford would have accepted him without hesitation.
But his grandparents had other ideas.
They were conservative, dignified, and impossibly traditional, one-third British aristocratic blood, rooted deeply in old-world values. They lived in their ancestral manor and refused to leave. In their view, Oxford was the only respectable university in existence. Cambridge was tolerable. Harvard might pass. But Stanford? On the wild, sun-scorched West Coast of America?
Uncivilized.
Yet Zhuang Yi loved sports with a stubborn devotion. The promise of "entering school and immediately joining the red team" had tempted him more than prestige ever could. In the end, he had chosen that path even if it meant disappointing his grandparents.
For someone like him, missing a legendary match was not trivial.
The thought unsettled Xun Yuming.
The consultation ended early that evening. He closed his laptop and sat in the darkened room, an inexplicable tightness swelling in his chest. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't read. His throat felt blocked, as if something unsaid sat lodged behind his ribs.
Without thinking too carefully, he stood, changed clothes, grabbed his phone and keys, and went out.
After returning to China, he had gradually become familiar with the nearby bars. He disliked loud places, no flashing lights, no dance floors, no drunken shouting. He wanted a quiet space where he could sit alone with a glass and his own thoughts.
There weren't many such places.
He was fortunate to find a taxi waiting downstairs. He got in and gave an address.
The driver laughed lightly. "They've fenced that area off. Unearthed some relics recently. You can't get through. Why not try somewhere else?"
Xun Yuming hesitated. "Are there any decent bars nearby?"
"What kind?" the driver asked. "High-end? Casual?"
"Quiet. Good atmosphere."
The driver nodded knowingly and drove onto the coastal highway.
About fifteen minutes later, the car stopped in front of a striking pineapple-shaped building, its exterior lit with soft golden light.
"What's this place?" Xun Yuming asked while scanning the payment code.
"The Bay Hotel," the driver replied. "There's a bar upstairs. You look like you'd prefer it."
The taxi drove off before Xun Yuming could reconsider.
He stood there, a faint chill creeping up his spine. The building radiated luxury. The kind of place where a single glass of wine might cost half a month's salary.
He was, after all, a public hospital doctor.
Reputation did not equal wealth.
Still, hailing another taxi proved difficult. After a moment of internal struggle, he decided to at least look. If it was too expensive, he would leave.
He climbed the spiral staircase and reached the 27th floor.
The foyer was paved in brown marble. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, refracting light into delicate patterns. The scale of the space made him feel unexpectedly small.
A waiter approached with professional calm. "Good evening, sir. May I assist you?"
"Where is the bar?" Xun Yuming asked.
"This is the banquet hall," the waiter said gently, pressing the elevator button. "The bar is on the 37th floor."
So the driver had been wrong about the floor.
He stepped out on the 37th and entered a long, dimly lit space lined with high stools and a polished bar counter. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the ocean below, dark and endless under the night sky.
He chose a seat near a stone pillar in the corner and ordered a martini.
The lighting played across the glass, the floor, and the sea beyond. A pianist in a tailored suit played softly in the background. The music was restrained, almost intimate.
His white shirt caught the ambient light. He sat with his head slightly lowered, the clean line of his neck flowing into his collarbone. His long legs bent and straightened idly against the stool's footrest.
When the martini was gone, a waiter approached with a glass of Pinot Noir.
"Compliments of that gentleman."
Xun Yuming followed the indicated direction.
A man in a gray suit sat alone, composed and observant. He was older, refined, with the kind of calm confidence that came from experience.
The bar wasn't crowded, which made the gesture more noticeable.
Xun Yuming nodded politely. Then, almost as an afterthought, he slipped a loose ring from his pocket onto the ring finger of his left hand.
The man stood and approached anyway.
"Drinking alone isn't monotonous?" he asked smoothly, sitting beside him.
Xun Yuming smiled faintly. "Aren't you alone too?"
"Not anymore," the man replied, eyes lingering. "Let me guess, you just broke up."
"Why would you say that?"
"Someone as beautiful as you drinking alone," the man said lightly. "Either a breakup just happened, or it's about to."
Xun Yuming laughed softly and placed his left hand deliberately on the bar, the ring catching the light.
"Sorry," he said. "You guessed wrong."
The man noticed. He nodded in understanding, paid his bill, and left without pressing further.
Xun Yuming checked his watch.
10:30.
He signaled for the check.
"The Pinot Noir was complimentary," the waiter said politely. "The martini is nine hundred and eighty."
Nine hundred and eighty.
His fingers tightened slightly around his phone as he pressed the lock screen twice.
No response.
He pressed again.
Nothing.
It had clearly had power earlier. This wasn't a shutdown, it was a malfunction. The recent fall outside the operating room flashed in his mind.
His stomach dropped.
"Do you have a phone I can use?" he asked the waiter quietly. "My phone won't turn on. I need to call a friend to settle the bill."
The waiter, impeccably trained, showed no hint of judgment. He led him to the front desk and gestured toward a landline.
"Please."
Xun Yuming picked up the receiver.
Then froze.
Who could he call?
He mentally scrolled through numbers.
He realized there was only one he remembered by heart.
He inhaled slowly.
Then dialed.