For the first time in Jiaqi’s life, she experienced being rescued. Her injuries weren’t severe—a tear in the auricle, a long but shallow cut on her arm—but the sight of blood all over her face was frightening. The 110 police arrived promptly and sent her to a nearby hospital. The doctor examined the wounds carefully, reassuring her that no stitches were needed—just disinfection and bandaging.
One of the officers shook his head and scolded gently, “Those robbers are outlaws. You’re too bold, a girl, chasing after them like that. You could have been seriously hurt!”
Jiaqi shivered at the thought. In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t even considered the danger, only acted instinctively. Even at the hospital, she hadn’t forgotten to retrieve her bag.
The officer continued, “Was there a lot of money in your bag? We need an approximate number for the report.”
Jiaqi whispered, feeling a pang of sadness, “No… besides my phone, less than a thousand yuan. Two cards, and my keys…”
The officer shook his head. “Keys aren’t worth risking your life over. Next time, call 110 first. You can’t just chase robbers on your own.”
Her mind flashed to the silk scarf, Ding Ding, and the Maybach left at the intersection—and panic surged. What if she couldn’t recover them? What would she do if anything happened to Ruan Zhengdong’s belongings? Her face went pale.
She realized she hadn’t even gotten Silk’s new phone number. How could she contact her now?
The officer, seeing her panic, suggested gently, “Call your family to pick you up. You’re really shaken.”
Unable to reach Ruan Zhengdong directly, she dialed Xu Shifeng’s number. It was off. She tried his secretary—he had flown to Shanghai for an urgent case just thirty minutes ago. Just as she prepared to call Zhou Jing’an, her phone rang. She answered quickly.
“Good timing! Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital… I’m fine.”
A few seconds later, Silk’s voice came through, trembling and full of concern: “Are you alright, Jiaqi? You scared me so much!”
“And Ding Ding?” Jiaqi asked.
“We’re fine. The British driver’s license—I couldn’t drive your car, it’s left-hand drive. The cars behind were blocked, and the driver was about to get angry, but luckily, Meng Heping drove by and helped park the car.”
Jiaqi froze slightly. Silk’s tone was so certain, so unhesitant.
As soon as the nurse finished bandaging her, Meng Heping arrived with Silk.
Seeing the gauze on Jiaqi’s ears, Silk gasped, “Why are you hurt like this?”
Jiaqi smiled weakly, trying to reassure her: “Just a scratch from a knife. The doctor said no stitches were needed, so don’t worry.”
Meng Heping discussed with the doctor and the police, then returned, saying calmly, “Everything’s signed. We can leave.”
He was dressed in shades of gray—suit, shirt, tie—but his presence wasn’t flashy. The hospital’s warmth made him remove his coat, draping it over his arm as he spoke quietly to the attending doctor.
Jiaqi signed the papers, and Meng Heping said, “Let’s go.”
Once in the car, Jiaqi whispered, “That… Meng Heping?”
He kept his eyes on the radar screen while reversing. “I’ll park the car in the supermarket lot near that intersection. Don’t worry—your car has GPS; it won’t get lost.”
Jiaqi felt guilty. Silk squeezed her hand, whispering, “I’m sorry for panicking.”
Jiaqi shook her head. “I was reckless… left you and Ding Ding behind.”
Meng Heping remained silent throughout the ride. Jiaqi tried to appear relaxed and said to Silk, “I’m starving—it’s already eight. Let’s still go to that little restaurant outside the west gate. Meng, please take us to the parking lot; I’ll drive back myself.”
They sat in the back seat. Through the rearview mirror, Jiaqi could see only the lower half of Meng Heping’s face. He seemed slimmer than she imagined, his chin tight, his posture stiff.
She noticed the blood spots on her coat, the gauze on her ears and arm—embarrassing reminders of the chaos—and realized it wasn’t appropriate to go eat like this. “Let’s drop you and Ding Ding home first. I’m really sorry for today.”
Silk reassured her, “You’re fine, that’s what matters.”
Suddenly, Jiaqi’s phone rang—it was Ruan Zhengdong.
“How are you? Have you eaten yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she replied hesitantly.
He laughed softly. “You had a rough day, but don’t worry.”
Jiaqi felt adrift, unsure how to respond.
“I fell in the bathroom and couldn’t get up for a while. Fortunately, a nurse helped me…” he joked lightly.
Jiaqi didn’t even notice the humor—she just asked, “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Just a scratch on my knee. Slipped, got confused, nothing serious,” he said.
She requested, “When you come tonight, bring me some food—the wontons you made last time.”
“I might be late tonight… grocery shopping first. I’ll bring it tomorrow instead,” she said, embarrassed.
Ruan Zhengdong paused, then said slowly, “It’s fine.”
Jiaqi hung up. Silk leaned closer, whispering, “Maybach?”
Jiaqi nodded, exhausted.
When they arrived at Silk’s house, she hugged Ding Ding. The child was already asleep. Meng Heping had already gotten out and wrapped his coat around the little one. Silk thanked him repeatedly—he always looked out for his friends with careful, silent attention.
Jiaqi realized that without him, today could have been far worse. The night wind cut sharply outside, white breath rising with every exhale. Silk reminded her softly, “Call tomorrow. Take care of your wounds. Change the dressing at the hospital.”
The door closed behind them, leaving the small space warm. Meng Heping asked quietly, “Where do you live?”
She reported her address.
He didn’t speak as he turned the car back onto the main road. The city at night was alive, glowing rivers of light flowing endlessly through the streets. Their car was just a tiny pair of sparks, weaving silently through the urban glow, disappearing and reappearing in the arc of the avenue.
Jiaqi felt a flush of embarrassment. The atmosphere in the car was heavy, stifling. When they stopped at a red light, she gazed out the window, lost in thought, until he suddenly asked, “Can I smoke?”
She nodded quickly, remembering she was in the back seat. “Yes.”
He picked up a cigarette, struck a match several times in vain, and finally, irritated, rubbed it in his hands. The light changed, the car shifted gears, and they slipped back into the flow of traffic—silent all the way.
Finally, they reached her apartment. Jiaqi exhaled unconsciously. “Thank you… for today.”
He turned off the engine. “I’ll take you up.”
Before she could protest, he opened the door, took her handbag, and walked ahead without another word. His strides were long, determined—she had to quicken her pace to keep up, still panting when they entered the elevator. He gripped her bag so tightly that his knuckles whitened. She didn’t dare guess what he was thinking; her own heart pounded in protest.
“Is Jiangxi okay?” she asked, attempting small talk.
He glanced at her. “Yes.” Then silence again.
The elevator chimed at her floor. She stepped into the empty corridor, trying to smile. “Thank you again… for sending me back, for everything today.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, returning her handbag. He pulled out the car keys. “Do you want this, or shall I park it at the hospital for you?”
She barely noticed his lips moving, the low hum of his voice almost drowned by her own thoughts. She leaned in, trying to catch his words, but the sound swelled around her like a tide. Darkness overtook her vision. Her legs gave way.
When she opened her eyes, the lights above were dazzling, the room a blur. She was lying flat on the sofa. Meng Heping was close by, half-squatting, half-kneeling, his clothes dusted with fine silver grains. She lowered her eyes, ashamed, and struggled to sit up.
He handed her a glass of boiling water, his voice gentle. “I didn’t find sugar.”
She sipped, feeling the warmth seep in. Exhausted, embarrassed, she wandered into the kitchen, noticing the salt scattered across the counter—leftovers of his hurried movements. She carefully opened the cabinet, retrieved the sugar bowl, and sweetened her water under the soft glow of the orange lamp she had installed herself.
The memory of nights past surged through her—orange light, buzzing air conditioner, shadows on the walls, the quiet care of someone she trusted.
“You added four spoonfuls of sugar,” he said quietly, finally breaking the silence.
The cup in her hands trembled; sugar dissolved into the water, collapsing like fleeting memories. His eyes held a small, dim flame.
She felt dizzy again as his warm breath brushed her face, and then his lips met hers.
Time seemed to stop. She grabbed him instinctively, unable to breathe properly, lost in the memory of everything beautiful and painful she had tried to forget.
The cup toppled, warm water spilling over her ankles, bringing her back to reality. She pushed him away, heart racing. He remained still, silent.
Finally, he spoke, distant and calm: “I’m sorry, Jiaqi.”
The weight of unspoken emotions pressed on her chest. She had thought countless times about being in his arms, crying, letting it all out—but the chasm between them was insurmountable. She could only watch, powerless.
He left.
The remaining grains of salt on the cabinet glimmered like snow under the soft lamp. Jiaqi gently touched them, tasting the salty remnants. She noticed footprints on the floor—traces of his haste—and painstakingly cleaned them, each movement deliberate, stubborn, and tender.
Once the kitchen was restored, she called Ruan Zhengdong. He hadn’t slept yet, his voice tinged with surprise.
“Zhengdong?” she whispered.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
She recounted everything—robbery, her scratches, the hospital, the fear—but reassured him, “I’m fine. Shallow cuts, no stitches needed. Don’t worry.”
There was silence on the line, then he said softly, “Jiaqi…”
She hummed, and he added, “Why are you crying again?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. Somehow, he always knew.
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