“Cough… cough, cough…”
The sharp smell of disinfectant rushed into his nose and mouth. Qi Ji covered his lips as he coughed, chest tight and suffocating, the dizziness at the back of his skull worsening with every shake of his body.
The hospital lobby was bright and sterile, yet his vision kept dimming into patches of gray and black.
“Don’t move—hey, you’re about to pull the needle out.”
A nurse’s voice sounded beside him, and a moment later her cool fingers brushed directly against the skin on the back of his hand. The touch only made everything harder to bear.
Qi Ji bit his lip, forcing down the trembling in his body and the nausea rising in his throat. Only when he clearly felt the IV needle slide out of his skin did he cough again and lift his eyes to the nurse.
“Sorry. Thank you.”
His eyes were still wet from coughing, eyelashes trembling like butterfly wings. Combined with his pale, delicate features and the way he looked up from beneath them, no one could handle being stared at like that and remain unaffected.
The young nurse froze for a good two seconds before remembering to answer. “It’s fine, really.”
She put away the empty IV bottle, her gaze drifting back to his pretty, sickly-pale profile.
“You’re the patient with the moderate concussion, right? You should stay and observe a bit longer—don’t go back too soon.”
“Oh, and for the next few days, no intense exercise, no sudden standing or sitting, and avoid emotional stress. If your head still feels really dizzy in two or three days, come back for a recheck…”
Another patient called her over for a bottle change before she could finish fussing.
Qi Ji closed his eyes for a moment. Behind his eyelids, the darkness flashed blood-red under the lobby lights—
—exactly like the fight last night under the blazing heat of the arena lights.
His memory had always been frighteningly good, a blessing to everyone else but now a merciless enemy, dragging him back into the scene with painful clarity.
In the red haze flickered the swaying figure of his opponent, the shadow of a fist swinging straight toward him. The air had been stiflingly hot, like he’d been trapped under a steaming lid. Outside the cage, the screams roaring from the crowd were loud enough to tear the roof off. Faces twisted with thrill and bloodlust filled the stands.
They had shouted, howled—craving torn flesh and heavy blows. A tsunami of noise swallowing the lone thin figure standing on the raised platform.
“…Student? Hey, student? Are you okay? Wake up!”
A distant voice tugged him back to reality. He opened his eyes to see the same nurse from before.
“Did your head start hurting again?” she asked, worried.
Qi Ji forced down another cough, weaving under the wave of dizziness. His voice came out hoarse. “No.”
“Just be careful,” she said. “If that’s all, go to that window over there to pay your fees.”
She added, “Once it gets crowded, you’ll have to line up.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He thanked her, then went to the payment window and received a long printed receipt.
Ambulance: 275 yuan.
Registration: 10 yuan.
Medical fees (including oxygen): 173.76 yuan.
Because everything happened so suddenly, he’d been brought straight from the subway station. Even the medical booklet was newly purchased—1.5 yuan.
For the past two years, Qi Ji had avoided hospitals whenever he could. He knew immediately after last night’s match that he’d hurt his head, but he’d only let the gym’s doctor glance at it before going home. If the kind stranger on the subway hadn’t insisted this morning, he wouldn’t have come at all.
He didn’t have the money, either.
The final diagnosis was more than just a concussion—anemia, low blood sugar, moderate malnutrition. The doctor prescribed two bottles of glucose, forty-five yuan each.
Then add syringe fees, CT imaging, and the taxi fare for the kind stranger who needed to return to work…
All the little miscellaneous charges together—
Total: 637.26 yuan.
Qi Ji stared at the blue-and-white receipt. He’d calculated the total instantly despite the dizziness, but the number itself made the ache in the back of his skull worsen.
If not for the prize money he won last night, this unexpected bill would’ve meant he couldn’t even afford his brother Qi Mingyu’s food expenses for the month.
Luckily…
He rubbed his temples. The prize money from the finals was substantial enough. He could survive a little longer.
With that buffer, he could rely on his internship pay for upcoming expenses. Several commercial design drafts he’d submitted were also due to be paid.
At least… he wouldn’t have to take high-risk part-time jobs like underground fighting again.
Qi Ji stuffed the receipt into his bag. The cotton ball on the back of his hand had shifted, and since his blood clotted slowly, he couldn’t remove it yet. He pressed the tape back into place.
When he raised his hand, the bracelet on his right wrist slid loosely down toward his forearm.
It was a dark hand-woven bracelet he’d worn for years, its texture warmed and polished by time. But the adjustable knot was at its tightest, and somehow it still hung loose on his wrist now.
After fixing the tape, he studied the skin underneath. Bruising spread under the cotton, looking worse than it felt. Where the nurse had pressed earlier, a faint red fingerprint remained beside the bruising.
The sight made him frown.
His skin had always been sensitive—easy to mark, easy to redden—but he’d never felt this uncomfortable from a simple touch.
He glanced up at the signs hanging in the lobby. Since he was already here, maybe he should visit dermatology. Just in case something was wrong.
Otherwise, he definitely wouldn’t come back on his own.
He had just turned toward the stairs when his phone rang.
Lin-ge’s name lit up the screen.
Qi Ji answered, “Hello, Lin-ge?”
“Hey, Xiao-Qi, how’re you feeling now?”
“I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.” He walked as he spoke. “I’ll head back soon—I should be at the company by noon.”
The voice on the other end shot up. “You’re discharged? Wait—your body’s really okay? Why’re you rushing back so soon?”
“I didn’t stay at the hospital. Just an IV. I’m fine,” Qi Ji said.
“Don’t push yourself! Your health is your foundation!”
“I know. Thanks, Lin-ge.”
Qi Ji thought the call was simply to check on him and was about to hang up when the other man suddenly spoke again.
“Actually… Xiao-Qi, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Hm? What is it?”
The person on the phone hesitated for a moment before saying, “It was this morning… You know, the new president, Mr. Pei, just arrived. After the meeting he came down to do an inspection…”
A faint sense of dread crept up on Qi Ji.
“Sigh… Honestly, it wasn’t even supposed to be our department’s turn. Director Gao was taking him to the main division. But somehow President Pei ended up in Group D instead. And the moment he walked in, he saw your empty desk… The manager tried explaining, but the second they saw an empty seat, they got upset and wouldn’t listen. They just marked you as absent without leave…”
“…”
Qi Ji’s step froze just as he was about to go up to the second floor.
“…Xiao Qi?”
“Alright. I understand.”
He turned around. Instead of heading to Dermatology upstairs, he walked straight back down.
His voice stayed as calm and polite as ever, no hint of anything out of place.
“Thank you for letting me know, Lin-ge.”
After a few more words, the call ended. Qi Ji grabbed the handrail and stopped walking.
He coughed twice—then couldn’t stop. He kept coughing until spots filled his vision and he had to bend over, his waist folding in on itself.
Absent without leave meant a one-to-three deduction.
Six thousand a month, twenty-six working days in September… subtracting four days of intern wages—
A total of 923 yuan and 8 cents.
Qi Ji leaned weakly against the railing. In the shadowy blur of his vision, the face he’d seen yesterday floated up again.
All the fear from yesterday vanished—replaced by a glaring, oversized, bright red X.
【President Pei】 → blacklist.
Qi Ji never made it to Dermatology. He went straight back to the company.
Even if they deducted his pay for “unexcused absence,” he still had to finish his assigned tasks. The only silver lining was that this mess didn’t affect his transfer to the design team.
Even so, his impression of this President Pei had plummeted straight into the negatives.
Personnel reshuffling was common at Yuntu. Before he left the operations team, his coworkers even booked a private room in the company cafeteria to give him a small farewell meal. Three days later, he officially reported to the design department.
The work there clearly suited him far better than operations ever did. Qi Ji had been gifted at drawing since he was young—his senses were naturally sharp, and people had praised his instinctive grasp of color since he was a child.
Before college, most of his work was in visual design. After starting software engineering, he began learning UX and UI, and eventually his freelance projects broadened into all kinds of design work.
Skill level aside, nothing could replace real workplace experience. So for the next few weeks, Qi Ji was busy—but fulfilled.
After transferring to design, he often ate with two seniors. Li Anbei worked in the PR department doing post-production, with plenty of design experience and his own unique insight. Back in university, he’d even run an independent studio. Qi Ji learned a lot from chatting with him.
—If only Li Anbei weren’t so obsessed with gossip.
During his internship, Qi Ji ended up learning about everything from which departments at F University had the most queer students on dating apps, to the straight-to-gay ratio of users at the nearby gym, to an alarming number of closeted celebrities in the entertainment industry.
And lately, Li Anbei’s newest topic of interest happened to be the one person Qi Ji had marked with a giant mental red X: the new president.
It wasn’t that he’d declared the president gay—but precisely because his gaydar wasn’t reacting the way it usually did, he found the man even more intriguing.
His exact words were:
“President Pei looks aggressively straight, but something about him just feels off.”
“Because you’ve built him up as your fantasy prince charming and now you’re in denial?” — That was Chen Zixuan’s deadpan retort.
Used to being roasted, Li Anbei’s enthusiasm didn’t fade. Within a few meals, Qi Ji had absorbed quite a bit of Pei Yusheng gossip.
Things like: he came from a powerful background, parachuted into the company, had unpredictable moods… And though he’d technically retired from military service more than a year ago, nobody knew what he’d been doing in the year before he arrived at Yuntu.
Rumors spread endlessly—especially because the new president himself almost never showed up. Aside from the first few days, he was practically invisible. Vice President Zhang still handled all company affairs. It was no different from the month when the president’s seat had been vacant.
With this kind of mysterious behavior, it was no wonder the rumor mill never slowed down.
But no matter what gossip circulated, Qi Ji treated it all like background noise. The president had nothing to do with him—especially someone who had literally cost him money.
As for that strange feeling when they first met—Qi Ji chalked it up to nerves from preparing for the fight arena finals. He assumed the sense of threat and tension had just been his adrenaline talking.
He stayed busy. Aside from his new workload, he still had to keep track of his finances.
The debt company had calculated the interest in a ridiculously complicated way. Since the numbers were such a mess, Qi Ji simply wrote his own simple algorithm to calculate the optimal repayment plan and timeline.
Qi Mingyu was in his senior year of high school and couldn’t help much with the debt. In fact, he was at the age where he needed money. Before this internship, Qi Ji had survived two years by selling design work. But with the debt company’s deadlines closing in, he’d had no choice but to follow their “suggestion” and enter the fight arena—where a few winnings had pulled him back from the edge.
The arena had been miserable—but the prize money helped. After the final match payout, Qi Ji calculated that he’d have at least four months without repayment pressure.
Four months was enough to save up what Mingyu needed for his final school year. He could finally quit those chaotic part-time jobs. And since he was in his senior year of college, he finally had time to work on his capstone project.
The math was uplifting enough that he didn’t even bother running his algorithm—he just did it in his head, scribbled the result on paper, and circled it neatly.
That was the amount he could save in the next four months.
But just as he finished writing the number, his phone rang.
It was Mingyu’s homeroom teacher—the middle-aged Mr. Yang, whose number Qi Ji had saved a few days ago.
The man had been teaching for over twenty years. Every word came out with the subtle authority of an educator.
“You’re Qi Mingyu’s guardian, correct?”
“Yes. Hello, Mr. Yang.”
Qi Ji hadn’t expected a call. He thought it was about being summoned last time.
But the teacher didn’t mention that incident at all.
Instead he asked, “Are his parents around?”
Qi Ji’s grip on the pen tightened, though his voice remained steady:
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yang. You can speak to me.”
“His parents aren’t available?” The teacher’s tone dipped—clearly displeased with this kind of ‘uninvolved parents’ behavior for a senior student. Still, he continued, “You’re his brother, right? Can you make decisions on his behalf?”
Qi Ji lowered his eyes, staring blankly at the pen tip.
“I can.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you directly.”
Mr. Yang cleared his throat.
“Here’s the situation. Mingyu has been participating in the school’s Olympiad program since freshman year. His results have been excellent. Recently, he passed two rounds of national team selection in the math Olympiad. He should have told you this.”
Qi Ji pressed his lips together.
“…Yes.”
He hadn’t known. Mingyu never mentioned it. Those two months were when Qi Ji had just started his internship, juggling night shifts and multiple part-time jobs. Sometimes he didn’t come home for three or four days.
The teacher went on, unaware:
“Being selected for the national team is a big deal. Out of the entire city, only four students got in this year. And next month, the team will represent the country at the International Mathematical Olympiad—this year it’s in Mar del Plata, Argentina. It’s one of the top three international competitions for high school students. If he places, he won’t just be earning honor for himself—it’s honor for the country.”
“Mingyu is one of our key students. His results speak for themselves. This is the perfect chance for him to shine. But…”
Qi Ji knew the real issue was coming.
“…but Mingyu—well, this child has a mind of his own. With the competition next month, he still hasn’t signed the agreement to travel abroad. The team has seven students, and he’s the only one who hasn’t signed. We’ve urged him repeatedly, but he won’t budge. He even said he doesn’t want to go—that he wants to give up his spot… How can he pass up such an opportunity? Ah?”
“And here’s the real problem: we still have time to do the ideological persuasion. But the registration payment portal for IMO is closing soon. If he doesn’t pay the fee, he’ll miss the competition entirely.”
The moment Qi Ji heard “registration fee,” his hand jerked—the pen sliced straight across the neatly circled number on the paper, cutting it cleanly in two.
Mr. Yang finished with:
“So that’s why I’m calling. What exactly is going on with Mingyu?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yang. We’ve caused you trouble.”
Qi Ji tore the paper off and crushed it tightly in his fist.
“When does the payment portal close? I’ll pay it right now.”