Zhan Yao winced as the antiseptic burrowed through the gash at his temple. It was a feeling he’d become grossly familiar with though could never quite get used to. The stinging still persisted for some time after bandaging, but it was far more tolerable than feeling like his forehead was being filleted. 

He glanced up at the figure approaching him amiably.

“Good work,” Zhao Fu grinned, giving the doctor a hard pat on the back. The stocky young man glanced over to the warehouse in the distance. “We’ve got all the information we need—all that’s left is for Boss Bai to nab the er.”

So that’s why he didn’t see his loud-mouthed mouse anywhere when the calvary arrived. Admittedly it was a bit of a shock, not seeing Yutong among the others but it was expected. He, after all, was the most capable of the lot and was best suited for pursuit.

Yao inched over to let the surveillance specialist take a seat beside him on the van’s side-runner. Time passed by in companionable silence between the two, Zhao Fu raising conversation with the other team members as they meandered by.

The gunshot pierced the air and cut through the idle chatter.

The other members paused, everyone’s attention snapping toward the gutted building. Zhao Fu and his current companion Ma Han both put fingers to their earpieces, waiting. 

Yao’s face chilled under its growing pallor and, it took him a moment to come back to himself—to shake away the old, vivid image of Yutong collapsing into his arms. 

No, he told himself—his vehement denial of the possibility. Yet a full minute groaned by like hours to the growing ache in Yao’s clenched jaw.

“Ma Han,” he tried, choking on the stubborn lump in his throat.

“Yes, Sir,” the sniper acknowledged, moving to settle atop the black van.

Zhao Fu didn’t slack either, already on his feet and issuing instructions to the others to get ready. 

“There’s no movement from what can be seen,” Han said, eye still peering through the scope of his specialized rifle.

“I’m sure Boss Bai is fine,” Zhao Fu worked his shoulders. “He’d radio for back up when he needs it, though it doesn’t hurt to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

The comforting hand on Yao’s shoulder felt like lead as he stared across the cracked, overgrown lot. A voice at the back of his head was yelling, muted and urgent, that something was not right.

“We’re going in,” he bit out. He got to his feet and fished out the spare Kevlar vest, slipping it over his head. Before there was any token protest, his long legs were already carrying him across the distance.

The sunset bled across the dusty floor, crawling around broken containers and old car parts. 

Yao made his way through the ruins, coming to an abrupt halt. The shaft of weakening light could only hope to touch the crooked fingertip of the body lying there at the edge of the shadows. 

Tang Li Wei’s sightless eyes struggled upward, brows weakly coiling together in sordid betrayal of the Sistine Chapel painting.

That’s when he felt it.

Zhan Yao brought his hand to the wet spot on his face and looked at it. His gaze snapped upward, and his feet were moving before his mind caught up.

The doctor took heedless steps up the rusted and disintegrated metal steps. He left them behind in twos, fingers already reaching for the rails of the swaying catwalk.

He heard a voice barking orders, barely discerning the words as his world narrowed around the man sprawled across the metal pathway.

Bai Yu Tong’s face was ashen—blood had splattered to the left of his chest, its weight leading it to pool under the man’s back and head. His hand lay across the wound like a pledge, slack but dutiful. 

No matter how hard Zhan Zhao shook him, the other man did not stir, head only listing to the side.

When the detective was hefted down the dubious steps and onto the gurney, Zhao watched the medics pull the white sheet up and over, eternally grateful that it didn’t move further than the injured man’s chin.

Bai  Yu Tong woke to a heavy head and numb fingers. 

Alive, then, he thought hazily. And not alone.

He let his head’s weight turn his vision to the left—to the shadow in the corner of his eye.

Through his lashes in the low light, he recognized Zhan Zhao. The doctor was all but slumped in the visitor’s chair, head supported by only two fingers while the other hand laid across his lap. He wore the look of a man seeing into a time that could have been.

The detective tried to speak but was soon doubled over to the side in a fit of coughing. The sudden motions caused pain to flare up in his shoulder. 

Yeah, he thought to himself. The er got him good.

Tang Li Wei was stubborn, and he fought to the bitter end. In moments like those Yu Tang wished he had his Cat’s gift of gab. Maybe he could have convinced the perpetrator to come without much fuss. But the given circumstance forced his hand.

Yu Tang knew he got the shot in—that Tang Li Wei toppled through the decaying rail and to his demise. He recalled as much before he, too, went down and pain seared through his shoulder. 

Soon, hands were on his chest, a gentle pressure guiding him to lie back on the bed. He felt a cup at his lips, and he followed the silent command to drink. After a few moments, the cup was taken away, and a hand found purchase on his cheek, then chapped lips met his own. He felt them waver, then tremble before they left.

“How do you feel?”

The question was no more than a whisper, causing Yu Tang to frown. “Xiao Zhao,” he tried, angry that his voice was so weak. 

“Yes?”

“Guolai.”

After a brief moment, he felt the bed dip beside him, and he reached up with his uninjured arm to guide Zhao into the low light above the bed. He willed his vision to focus and felt his chest tighten.

The other man’s eyes were bloodshot—red-rimmed and glossy. There were still dried tear tracks on those unnaturally pale cheeks. He found himself reaching up and catching a freshly falling on and wiping it away. But another was born soon after. Then another.

Another.

There was nothing else he could do but hold the other in a one-armed hug as Zhao sobbed into his neck.