Chang Xiao, having only tasted his boss's reprimand for merely speaking ill of the young man, swiftly spun around and walked out the cell. Closing the door as he didn't wish to see bloodshed so early in the day. Silently, he offers his prayers for the dead men.
The cell door groaned closed with a heavy clang. The dim light from the corridor was replaced with the overhead light from his cell ceiling— slicing across the soft cushioned floor like a blade. Dong Yingming, once inside, his presence immediately commanded the room. His tailored coat caught the flicker of yellowish light, and his eyes — dark and sharp like broken glass — locked on the scene before him.
One of his lower-ranked guards had Yao Ziyang half naked on their bed, fumbling with the new shirt tossed at him. Yao Ziyang's bare shoulders were exposed, his skin fever-flushed and glistening with sweat. He was limp, almost boneless, head lolling back against the plush, red pillows. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his eyelids fluttered weakly, as though he were barely clinging to the waking world.
For a split second, silence reigned — tense, suffocating.
Then Dong Yingming spoke, his voice low and cold as winter steel.
"Explain. Now."
His jaw stiffens as he listens. His hands curl slowly into fists. There is a pause. A heartbeat of silence. Chen Bo was the first to speak up, in his chipper tone, trying to ease the tension as best he could.
"He got dirty. Zhao Heng spilled food on him as an excuse to sneak a peek. Wei Jiang tried to stop him. Dr. Zhang didn't want to be implicated. And me, I was merely told to drop by and put the new clothes away so that's what I did, Boss Dong, sir!"
Chen Bo gave a half-hearted military salute in a joking manner. But nothing about this was taken as a joke to Dong Yingming.
Zhao Heng froze, color draining from his face as if the blood itself had obeyed an order. He expected Wei Jiang to only threaten to tell on him but never had he imagined the group's idiot, Chen Bo, to rat him out.
Dong Yingming's expression didn't change, but his steps were slow and deliberate as he approached, each one an omen.
"What did you just say?"
His voice is dangerously calm, but there's an edge in it — a sharp, trembling thread of steel.
On the other end, the loyal informant repeats it, eerily dropping his tone:
"Zhao Heng stripped him. Publicly. On purpose."
The moment the words leave the Chen Bo's lips, something inside Dong Yingming snaps— not loud, not obvious, but precise, like the silent fracture of a blade under pressure.
A glass tumbler, placed far too close to Dong Yingming, shatters a moment later, thrown against the concrete wall with a sudden roar of fury.
"Stripped him?"
Dong Yingming repeats, low and disbelieving, as if the word itself is foreign in his mouth.
"Publicly?"
The syllables roll out slowly, like venom dripping from his teeth. He doesn't shout — not yet. Instead, the rage begins in his body.
His shoulders stiffen like iron rods, muscles coiling beneath his prison shirt. His hands tremble, just slightly, then slams down onto the nearby desk, sending a crystal ashtray flying.
His face, once impassive and unreadable like carved jade, twists — not into open rage, but something worse: a cold, burning fury that settles deep into his bones. His nostrils flare. His breath hitches once. Then his eyes narrow into slits, dark blue and glinting like deep water under a storm, impossible to read and more dangerous because of it.
There's a pause. One long inhale.
Then — an eruption.
"Are you out of your mind?!"
His voice booms through the room like thunder.
Chang Xiao — stationed just outside the cell — stiffen, standing at attention. Not daring to enter.
A chair is kicked backward, splitting plastic against stone. His voice bellows through the room once more, rough and guttural like an animal being unleashed:
"DO YOU THINK I'M A FUCKING JOKE?! DO YOU THINK YOU ARE WORTHY OF TOUCHING HIM?!"
Inside, Dong Yingming began to pace like a caged predator, breath ragged, fingers tangled through his hair. His eyes — normally cool, calculating — burn now with unchecked rage.
"He is mine. Mine."
Dong Yingming growls under his breath, voice cracked with emotion.
"He's under my protection."
He snarls to the room as though daring someone to argue.
"I told you all what would happen if anyone touched him. I warned every man in this goddamn compound. You, Zhao Heng, knew. And still…"
He trails off, unable to finish. His chest heaves, heart thundering against his ribs. He turns away and stares blankly at the wall for a moment — as if seeing through it — and clenches his jaw so tightly it ticks.
The silence afterward is heavier than the shouting.
Dong Yingming runs a hand over his mouth, trying to hold himself back from flipping the desk entirely. His palms are sweating. His fingers twitch. When he finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse but deadly calm — like a storm just before it hits.
"How dare you lay a hand on him... strip him... humiliate him like that."
He slams his fist on the desk, rattling the lamp. A slow, deadly silence follows.
Dong Yingming straightens, calm returning to his posture like ice forming over fire. But his eyes are colder now, lethal.
"Get out, horse stance by the door until I say. No exceptions."
Dong Yingming orders his men and the doctor through gritted teeth. He walks to the side of the bed and picks up the red blanket — soft, still faintly scented like the boy. His fury doesn't burn out.
It simmers — dark, endless, and waiting to be unleashed.
Yao Ziyang slumped sideways, too disoriented to process what was happening. Fever blurred his vision, turning the world into a haze of light and shadow. Somewhere deep in his fogged mind, he knew he was exposed — chilled skin prickling under the draft — but he couldn't move. He couldn't even form a thought.
He tried to say Dong Yingming's name but only a small whimper escaped, cracked and hoarse.
Dong Yingming dropped to one knee beside him, taking off his coat and wrapping it and the blanket tightly around the boy's fragile body. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, and his hands trembled — not from fear, but from fury held in brutal restraint.
He looked up at the man he'd fallen for.
"If you ever touch what's mine again…"
A pause. A deadly one.
"I'll make you wish you were never born."
He voices out, intending for his guards to overhear. With the door shut again, silence settled once more, save for Yao Ziyang's soft, feverish breaths. Dong Yingming gently lifted him, pressing him to his chest, his hand cradling the back of his head.
"You're safe."
He whispered, more to himself than to Yao Ziyang.
But the boy barely heard — his world was floating, weightless and strange, lost in the heat of illness and the strange comfort of strong arms.
Then, softer, almost to himself:
"I promise you'd be protected. I swear no one will ever touch you like that again."
His fingers brush against the nape of Yao Ziyang's neck. His hand lingers there for a moment. Then he closes his eyes.
"Someone's going to bleed for this."
Feeling the young man shiver, Dong Yingming gently lays Yao Ziyang back down. Quickly, he goes to the dresser and takes a new green, long sleeve prison shirt. Like all the ordered clothes, it was made with the best materials while also being extremely soft and comfortable.
Dong Yingming carefully maneuvered Yao Ziyang's arms and head to get the new shirt on. Afterwards, he bundles him up in his coat and places Yao Ziyang on the sofa in front of the tv mounted on the cell wall. He changes the damp sheets to dark blue silk ones. Once finished, he places Yao Ziyang back into bed, tucking him in with the new matching blue blanket.
Seeing the tray of food and the microwave light still on, Dong Yingming takes it upon himself to feed Yao Ziyang his medicine and lunch.
He goes to the microwave and takes out the herbal decoction. It's still steaming hot but his hands had been worn hard by the harsh upbringing he endured in the streets and back-alley ways.
He went over to the edge of the bed and blew cautiously until he was sure the decoction was cool and safe enough to drink. Just to be sure, he even brought it to his own lips and tasted a little of it.
Afterwards, he felt strange. As if all his fatigue was washed away. Dong Yingming was surprised and immediately took a mouthful in without swallowing. He leaned in close to Yao Ziyang's sleeping face and pressed their lips together.
Using his tongue, he parts Yao Ziyang's lips and allows some of the liquid medicine to funnel its way through. As time passed, Dong Yingming managed to feed all the herbal decoction to Yao Ziyang without spilling a drop.