Qi Ji felt dazed.
His thoughts were in disarray—so many things surged at once, yet nothing seemed to make sense.
Until someone opened the door.
“Andy, hand me that clinical scale.”
It was Li Xin-jie.
After taking the scale, he was about to head upstairs. Passing by Qi Ji, the latter stepped aside, but Li rolled the scale into a tube and gently tapped Qi Ji’s shoulder.
“If anything comes up, remember to consult the doctors in time.”
He smiled as always, yet Qi Ji couldn’t shake the feeling of being completely seen through by those eyes—eyes that, under other circumstances, had been full of warmth.
“You just recovered; you can’t take too much strain.”
Qi Ji froze.
Why say that?
Dr. Zhao, who was flipping through documents, frowned slightly. “What is it?”
Li Xin-jie glanced at Qi Ji, smiling lightly. “Nothing, just a friendly reminder.”
With that, he walked away slowly.
Qi Ji watched his back, frowning.
What did he mean by that? Had he seen through Qi Ji’s thoughts?
Yet even Qi Ji himself hadn’t fully understood what he was thinking.
Still, it wasn’t impossible—Li Xin-jie specialized in psychopathology and had studied the mind extensively. Reading a person’s thoughts wasn’t extraordinary for him.
The realization made Qi Ji’s emotions even more tangled.
Li Xin-jie’s presence in the medical team seemed to confirm, in a way, that Pei Yusheng truly had psychological issues that needed addressing.
If it were merely insomnia, there’d be no need for Li to be involved.
As Qi Ji pondered, Dr. Zhao said, “I had someone dig up some information about that comrade. Xiao Qi, did the Second Young Master ever mention him to you?”
The materials were laid out, and Qi Ji’s eyes lingered on the photo for a while before shifting to the man’s name: Wen Chuming.
A name as gentle as its bearer—just hearing it evoked warmth.
Qi Ji shook his head. “I’ve never heard this name before.”
“Or maybe the Second Young Master mentioned fragments?” Dr. Zhao continued. “He served three years. Wen Chuming joined at the same time. Records show they were promoted together nearly every time, always in the same unit. Before Wen Chuming’s death, they both entered a special forces squad—Second Young Master as team leader, Wen Chuming as deputy.”
“Even among special forces, they were outstanding,” he pointed to the columns of achievements. “These are honors they received publicly.”
The list of accolades was so extensive it couldn’t fit on one page.
“And these are only the awards that can be publicly verified. Honors from classified missions aren’t listed.”
Up until now, Qi Ji had only seen Pei Yusheng as a commanding, strategic CEO. Without the nightly care and the morning workouts revealing his perfect physique, he might have almost forgotten Pei Yusheng’s service in the special forces.
In fact, Pei Yusheng had excelled both as a soldier and now as a CEO. Seeing all the accolades laid bare shattered any rumors that he had merely coasted through military service.
Qi Ji looked closer at the data. Though Wen Chuming had slightly fewer awards, many of their honors overlapped. They had even earned first-class merits on the same mission.
A childhood memory stirred: a retired special forces soldier once told him that military awards were extremely strict, especially in peacetime. Earning a first-class merit in just three years of service meant involvement in life-or-death missions.
The data clearly showed they had survived such missions together.
Three years of shared combat—surely their bond had been profound. To witness one’s comrade die…
Qi Ji shivered at the thought.
“…No,” he finally said, his throat dry. “The Second Young Master never mentioned his service.”
Unconsciously, he corrected himself from “Pei Xiansheng” back to “Second Young Master.”
Dr. Zhao sighed. “Right, he probably doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“After that incident, his condition deteriorated quickly, and he retired soon after.”
“…Did he retire because of this?” Qi Ji asked softly.
Dr. Zhao nodded. “Most likely.”
“He was only twenty-two, young, fast-tracked, and exceptional among the elite of the special forces. His potential was vast. The military tried to retain him multiple times, but he insisted on leaving.”
Qi Ji fell silent.
Seeing the gleaming list of awards, he recalled Pei Yusheng’s continued self-discipline even after retirement.
At the time he arrived at Yuntu, everyone focused on his CEO position, not realizing the brilliance he could have achieved in the military.
Two years had passed since his retirement.
“Where did the Second Young Master go after leaving?” Qi Ji asked.
Dr. Zhao shook his head. “We don’t know. The information came from his friends; nothing mentions post-retirement life. I’ve vaguely heard he returned to the country shortly before coming to S City—perhaps he went abroad after retiring, seeking a new environment.”
The loss of his comrade had indeed been a major blow.
Qi Ji’s gaze lingered on the photo.
“Based on this, we suspect the Second Young Master might have PTSD,” Dr. Zhao explained. “But this isn’t confirmed. Besides insomnia, he hasn’t shown other typical symptoms.”
Qi Ji asked, “How would you diagnose it?”
“Through more precise assessments, both psychological and physical,” Dr. Zhao said. “His prior physical exams showed nothing significant; we’d need psychological scales to evaluate.”
“The one Dr. Li took earlier?” Qi Ji asked.
Dr. Zhao shook his head. “No, that’s a different scale. PTSD tests are still being considered.”
He hesitated. “The Second Young Master… is difficult to cooperate with, which is why I asked about his behavior during insomnia.”
“Difficult to cooperate?”
“Yes. Treatment has always been this way. He remains highly alert and guarded.”
Just like Qi Ji—though this wasn’t said aloud.
Qi Ji nodded, realizing it was true.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here. When they signed the part-time contract, Pei Yusheng had insisted that no one else knew about his insomnia; even the caretaker had to be someone discreet like Qi Ji.
“Plus, with his special forces background, his mental resilience is formidable. Breaking through his defenses is tough. Without his cooperation, obtaining real diagnostic data is nearly impossible,” Dr. Zhao explained.
Hence the slow progress, requiring multiple, regular examinations.
Qi Ji asked, “So what should we do now?”
“We’re still gathering information. Only his close ones can help without triggering his defensive instincts,” Dr. Zhao replied. “We’re also contacting doctors in City B to obtain his past insomnia records. Once we have more data, we’ll plan the next steps.”
Qi Ji hesitated. “If there’s anything important, could you let me know?”
“I worry… about inadvertently offending the Second Young Master.”
“Of course. Many things require your awareness. Maintaining information flow is best. Daily presence provides a kind of security medicine can’t,” Dr. Zhao said, patting Qi Ji’s shoulder. “You’re healing him in the gentlest way.”
“Thank you for taking care of the Second Young Master, Xiao Qi.”
“Okay,” Qi Ji replied, feeling reassured. “It’s nothing, not tiring.”
Dr. Zhao’s words reminded him of what Aunt Xu had said earlier: that it was hard work caring for Pei Yusheng.
Even now, with the documents spread out, the page with the photo had been turned, yet the outline of the expressions could still be faintly seen through the white paper.
Qi Ji thought: despite knowing the Second Young Master’s tragic past, he still found himself distracted by his comrade’s photo.
Am I really cut out for this job?
About half an hour later, Li Xin-jie came downstairs, and the medical team began organizing documents. To avoid being in the way, Qi Ji stepped out.
Pei Yusheng was in the study; Qi Ji’s usual tablet was there. The two were supposed to be in the study together. Approaching the door, Qi Ji paused.
He didn’t know whether he should enter.
A tumult of unfamiliar emotions swirled in him, like an entire market amplified in his mind. Instinct told him to keep distance, yet reason commanded him to leave; his body remained rooted.
He stared at the patterns on the door until they blurred into the dark motifs on clothing.
Snapping back to reality, he realized the door had been opened from the inside.
“Why aren’t you coming in?”
The man’s low voice and downcast eyes made Qi Ji’s ear tips tingle. He lowered his gaze. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me.”
Pei Yusheng actually answered seriously, stepping aside naturally, making it impossible to refuse.
Even unprepared, Qi Ji entered the study.
“The tablet and pen are on the top shelf charging,” Pei Yusheng said, closing the door. “Need help?”
The pen could only charge while connected to the tablet. Its length prevented it from fitting into the drawer, so it had to go on the top shelf. Pei Yusheng worried Qi Ji might not reach it.
Qi Ji, embarrassed to trouble him, shook his head. “I’ll get it myself.”
Pei Yusheng said nothing, turning toward the desk.
Qi Ji let out a quiet breath of relief. Sharing a room with him made his thoughts even more chaotic.
Knowing Pei Yusheng’s perceptive gaze, Qi Ji avoided looking directly, lost in his own fumbling thoughts.
He tiptoed to the cabinet, stretching for the pen. The top shelf was high and slightly cluttered. After some fumbling, he found the tablet.
Reaching to remove it, he forgot the pen was attached. The pen knocked against something else, sending it tumbling.
A dark object fell from the top shelf, headed straight for the person below.
Qi Ji’s reflexes kicked in, reaching to catch it, but only felt a warm surface.
The light dimmed suddenly. Qi Ji froze, realizing just in time—it was Pei Yusheng.
The man caught the object, frowning. “How are you this careless?”
His voice carried a rare edge of anger. Qi Ji opened his mouth to apologize, but his gaze fell on what Pei Yusheng was holding—and froze.
Now he could see it clearly: a square glass—or crystal—box, sharp-edged, translucent.
In the finely set box, on soft velvet, rested a metal pin.
Compared to the transparent box, the pin looked slightly aged, though carefully preserved.
The design was simple: a diamond-shaped base with a single character engraved—
Wen (温).