Chapter 24
The first afternoon after Jin Zijin left, the apartment was wrapped in an unprecedented stillness.
The distant hum of the city still drifted in from outside; the heating pipes occasionally gave off a faint click, and the pendulum clock cut time into neat, regular slices.
But without another person’s breathing, footsteps, the rustle of fabric against fabric...
The space seemed stripped of its warm background noise, leaving it especially empty, and especially clear.
Clinical doctors were under tremendous pressure to begin with, and orthopedics and cardiothoracic surgery were even worse.
To keep from being crushed by the weight inside them, everyone had their own release valve.
Some depended on the numbness of nicotine; some were addicted to the lift of caffeine.
Some sought the extremes of physical pleasure or pain; some looked for a sense of control in sweat and confrontation.
One of Wen Yan’s release valves was stone.
She liked making stone knives.
Every Saturday afternoon, she would change into her work clothes and head into the equipment room tucked away in the farthest corner.
The not-so-large room held sturdy workbenches.
Beside them were scattered flint, obsidian, and quartzite of all kinds.
Antler hammers and pressure flakers of different weights and hardnesses lay about; canvas covered the floor to catch the flying chips.
She sat at her workstation and began choosing a suitable core.
She observed the grain, calculated the angle, then raised the antler hammer and struck down with precise restraint.
Pa.
A crisp crack rang out.
A flake split off at once, its edge sharp as a blade, the fracture surface gleaming with the luster of a conchoidal break.
In that moment, it was as if the flash of insight that struck humanity’s ancestors when they first made tools millions of years ago had broken through the darkness and reappeared at her fingertips across the endless span of time.
Pressure, anxiety, the tiny imperfections that had not gone as well as hoped in the operating room, the indescribably complex emotions between people...
All of it turned into flying stone chips with each focused strike, settling like dust.
That Saturday afternoon, she picked up a piece of dark gray flint as usual.
The core was cold and hard, heavy in her palm in a way that felt steady and reassuring.
She put on her goggles and cut-resistant gloves, lifted the antler hammer, and struck.
Pa.
A flake came away; the arc was beautiful.
But it felt wrong.
Her mind couldn’t sink fully into the work the way it usually did.
Her attention was like a drifting feather, constantly slipping elsewhere of its own accord.
Jin Zijin’s face surfaced in her mind, along with those sweet, breathless sounds, each one tugging at her heartstrings.
She struck a few more times; her movements were still standard, and the results were beyond reproach.
But that slow accumulation of calm never came.
Her thoughts were unsettled.
Like hidden currents beneath a tranquil lake.
Thinking that if she kept going, she might smash her hand, Wen Yan stopped.
She set down the antler hammer, took off her gloves, and found her fingertips covered in gray stone dust.
She went to the sink to rinse them; the cold water ran over her skin, carrying away the powder and bringing a trace of clarity.
She looked up at the clock on the wall. Five seventeen in the afternoon.
At this time... Jin Zijin’s flight should have already taken off, the cabin doors closed, the plane taxiing toward the runway, then breaking free of gravity and merging into the vast clouds.
She thought of the “partner likes and dislikes list” Jin Zijin had sent her before leaving; it was still sitting quietly on her phone.
After a moment’s thought, Wen Yan dried her hands, went to the living room, and sat on the sofa bathed in the last glow of sunset.
She unlocked her phone and opened the neatly formatted document.
The light from the screen reflected on her face; her expression was unusually serious, almost with the solemnity of filling out an important form back in school.
She began filling it out one section at a time.
[Basic Information]: name, age, height, blood type... mechanical and exact.
[Food Preferences]: in the “favorite food” section, she paused for a long time.
In the end, she typed: “No particular preference; anything is fine.”
“But I hate scallions, in any form.” After thinking about it, she added: “I have an above-average fondness for mushrooms.”
[Entertainment Preferences]:
Movies: prefers romantic fantasy. The full Disney princess collection, especially Beauty and the Beast. The full Studio Ghibli collection, with Princess Mononoke watched the most times. Tim Burton’s gothic fairy tales, like Corpse Bride.
Reading: occasionally novels, mostly mystery and detective stories, with the occasional foray into sci-fi. Professional literature is part of everyday life.
Exercise: rock climbing, boxing, martial arts, metalworking, making stone knives on weekends.
Other: no particular addiction to video games or social activities. (Does sitting by the window listening to the rain count as a hobby?)
[Daily Habits]: highly regular schedule, within the limits of shift work. No special requirements for sleeping environment; no special requirements for where things are placed.
[Taboos]: none.
[Things I Hope the Other Person Will Do for Me]
She stared at this section for even longer.
The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.
She wanted to write “nothing,” but after tilting her head and thinking it over, she typed another line: “Be honest in our communication. Also, if you’re willing, maybe occasionally watch those ‘childish’ animated movies with me.”
[I Am Willing to Do for the Other Person]...
The sun slowly sank westward; the skyline outside the window shifted from gold to orange-red, then into a quiet blue-purple.
The living room lights weren’t on, and the light gradually dimmed until the phone screen became the only source of illumination, lighting her lowered profile and slightly trembling lashes.
Time slipped by unnoticed as she concentrated on writing.
When she finally finished the last punctuation mark and hit save, the windows outside were already dotted with lights.
A strange sense of fullness spread through her.
This list was like a silent self-revelation, laying out the corners she didn’t even always scrutinize herself beneath another person’s gaze.
It felt a little naked, yet oddly reassuring.
Just then, her phone vibrated.
A new WeChat message popped up, from Jin Zijin.
Wen Yan tapped it open.
It was a screenshot of the list, but it had already been filled in densely.
Color coding, grading symbols, and the occasional emoji... it was lively, like an elaborately drawn mind map.
Wen Yan enlarged the image and slowly scrolled.
Jin Zijin’s interests were indeed astonishingly broad:
· Skiing (alpine; prefers powder snow; a regular in Zermatt, Switzerland).
· Diving (holds an AOW certification; loves night dives in the Maldives).
· Horseback riding (dressage; owns a Dutch Warmblood named Stardust).
· Collecting vintage watches (prefers Patek Philippe and Jaeger-LeCoultre; mid-20th-century models).
· Art exhibitions (contemporary and modern art; occasionally experimental installations).
· Classical music (Mahler and Shostakovich).
· Wine tasting (but low tolerance; noted: “likes a slight buzz, hates blackouts”).
· Even “occasionally enjoys assembling complex LEGO sets, like the Millennium Falcon, to relax.”
Wen Yan read through line by line, and a soft smile gradually warmed her eyes.
She could almost imagine Jin Zijin on the plane, staring at her phone screen and thinking carefully, her fingers typing rapidly; perhaps her brows were faintly furrowed, perhaps she bit her lower lip now and then, perhaps when she thought of some favorite pastime, her eyes would brighten a little.
Her gaze finally landed on the [Dreams/Goals] section.
There was only one line there, simple and powerful, with no embellishment whatsoever:
“Become a leader in the next transformation of AI medical applications.”
Not “hope to,” not “strive to,” but “become.”
Ambition laid bare, goals clear, carrying that unmistakable certainty unique to her.
What a bold thing to say.
What a brilliant edge.
Like the “my dream” essays written in a teenager’s handwriting, pure and blazing, recklessly unaware of the size of the world; yet dazzling all the same.
Wen Yan looked at that line, and looked again, then lowered her head and laughed softly despite herself.
She opened the chat box and typed: “Did you arrive?”
The reply was a video call request.
Wen Yan accepted.
The screen lit up, showing Jin Zijin’s face.
The background seemed to be a hotel room; the lighting was soft. She looked spirited and bright, with only a trace of fatigue at the corners of her eyes.
“Just landed; I’m at the hotel,” Jin Zijin said through the receiver. Her voice had a slight electronic texture compared to speaking face-to-face, but it was still clear. “You saw the list?”
“Mm.” Wen Yan nodded. “Very rich.”
“Of course.” Jin Zijin lifted her chin smugly, then leaned closer to the screen, eyes widening a little. “What about you? Finished filling yours out? Show me.”
“Finished.” Wen Yan paused. “I’ll show you when you come back?”
“Why?” Jin Zijin raised an eyebrow. “Send it now.”
“...” Wen Yan’s ears warmed; rare for her, she looked a little awkward. “There are some things I haven’t finished writing yet.”
Jin Zijin stared at the faintly red cheeks on the screen, then suddenly laughed and stopped pressing. “Fine. Then did you miss me?”
The question was direct, but her gaze held Wen Yan tightly through the screen.
Wen Yan met her eyes without flinching. The neon lights outside the window flowed quietly across her face.
“Mm,” she said softly, each word clear. “A little.”
——————
The happy weekend was shattered by reality the moment Monday arrived.
That day, she had eight surgeries.
From the first thread of daylight in the morning until the sun slanted low in the west.
Bones, plates, screws, drills, blood, sweat, the cold and blinding brightness of the surgical lights, the regular or piercing beeping of the monitors...
The world was compressed into the narrow confines of the operating room; she was like a precisely calibrated surgical machine, calm, efficient, and tireless.
Only in the gaps between two surgeries, when she leaned against the wall and quickly swallowed a few mouthfuls of nutritional paste, would a flicker of Wen Yan’s own absent-mindedness pass through her eyes.
Why had she chosen this specialty in the first place?
To challenge life?
What was she thinking—this was way too self-destructive!
Near the end of the workday, the emergency phone rang.
A car accident; multiple fractures with internal injuries; emergency surgery needed.
So the end of work was postponed indefinitely.
The surgical lights came on again.
This time, she stood there until noon the next day.
After more than thirty hours of continuous high-intensity work, even she, this “monster of stamina,” had a hint of heaviness in her steps when she left the operating room.
She took off her surgical gown, removed her cap and mask, revealing a face that was pale but still calm underneath.
Wen Yan splashed cold water hard over her face, trying to wash away the fatigue that had sunk into her bones.
Dr. Zhang Sheng from the same department passed by and asked casually, “Wen Yan, the cafeteria has some new dishes for lunch. Want to go together?”
“No.” Wen Yan shook her head, her voice a little hoarse. “I’m going home to rest.”
She changed back into her own clothes, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the doctors’ lounge.
Just as she reached near the nurse station, she heard a series of soft gasps from all around.
“Wow...”
“Oh my God, what is this..."
Wen Yan looked up.
Before the nurse station, she didn’t know when, but five or six tall women in matching dark suits had appeared, their bearing capable and cool.
They looked like university lecturers from society, completely out of place among the white coats and hospital gowns.
In front of each of them was a small silver cart, neatly stacked with deep-red, delicate gift boxes tied with golden ribbons.
The boxes were piled like a mountain, nearly blocking half the corridor.
Wen Yan immediately spotted the hot-stamped logo on the side of the boxes: a star.
The Hengxing Group logo; simple, yet designed with flair.
She paused, then walked over.
The woman at the front, her expression stern, stepped forward half a pace and nodded slightly in a respectful posture. “Madam, good afternoon.”
The address made the murmurs around them rise just a little.
Wen Yan’s expression remained calm as still water. She only asked, “Did Zijin send you?”
“Yes.” The bodyguard was concise. “President Jin said you were on a night shift and that driving while fatigued isn’t safe; she instructed us to pick you up and take you home no matter what.”
“At the same time, she asked us to distribute these wedding candies to your colleagues on your behalf.”
Wen Yan was stunned.
How did she know she’d worked overnight?
And that it had been a full night shift?
From last night until noon today, she had been so busy she barely touched her phone; the few replies she managed were spaced far apart and so brief they were almost perfunctory.
Seeing that she remained silent, the bodyguard asked again in a low voice, “Madam, may we begin distribution now?”
Wen Yan came back to herself and nodded. “Thank you for the trouble.”
After receiving the instruction, the bodyguard stepped back and lifted her right hand, making a clean gesture in the air.
As if a switch had been flipped, the other bodyguards moved in perfect unison, picking up the gift boxes and turning toward the doctors, nurses, and curious family members who had gradually gathered around them.
Their voices were not loud, but they were steady and clear, carrying the polished sense of ceremony that came from training:
“Hello, this is the wedding candy from Dr. Wen Yan and our President Jin’s marriage. Please accept this small token and share in their happiness.”
“A little sweetness; we hope you’ll accept it.”
The boxes were taken from one pair of hands to another; thank-yous, congratulations, and curious questions mingled together in a low murmur.
The red gift boxes flowed through the white hospital corridor like a sudden current of warmth that didn’t quite belong there.
Standing in the middle of the crowd, watching the orderly yet inexplicable spectacle, Wen Yan helplessly shook her head.
Honestly.
Such an obvious declaration of possession, and in such a public way.
How could she be this domineering?
In the distance, Zhang Sheng stood at the lounge door and took it all in.
The smile on his face slowly stiffened; his fingers clenched unconsciously at his side, knuckles whitening slightly.
——————
On the way back, Wen Yan sat in the back seat of the bodyguard’s car.
The cabin was so quiet that only the engine’s low rumble and the faint whisper of the air vents could be heard. She closed her eyes to rest, her expression tired.
Her phone vibrated; Jin Zijin’s call came in.
“Did they pick you up?” Her voice came through from the other end, with a bit of noise in the background, as though she were in some open space.
“Mm.” Wen Yan looked out at the street scenery flashing past. “How did you know I was on a night shift? And that it was a full night shift?”
A very faint snort of laughter came from the other end, carrying a touch of easy, knowing mischief. “You reply with an average delay of more than two hours, and your replies never exceed five words.”
“If it weren’t a night shift so busy you couldn’t touch the ground, what else could it be?”
It sounded like straightforward deduction; but unless you understood this profession, there was no way to know these tiny details.
Wen Yan felt as if warm water had flowed through her heart; the hard shell wrapped around her fatigue quietly softened by a piece.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I told you, you don’t have to keep saying thank you.” Jin Zijin sounded somewhat busy, her speech a little quicker than usual. “How are you? Tired? The car will take you straight to the underground garage; go upstairs and sleep well.”
“Not too bad.” Wen Yan paused, hearing vague voices calling from the other side. “You’re busy?”
“Mm, a small impromptu meeting.” Jin Zijin’s voice lowered a little. “I’ll deal with it first; you rest?”
“Okay.” Wen Yan agreed.
Normally, the conversation should have ended there, and they would have hung up.
But today, perhaps fatigue had weakened her defenses; perhaps the quiet of the car had magnified some hidden longing.
Just before Jin Zijin was about to say goodbye, Wen Yan suddenly spoke; her voice was softer than usual, gentler too:
“...Could you not hang up yet?”
The other end fell silent for a moment.
“Hm?” Jin Zijin seemed not to have heard clearly, or perhaps not to have reacted yet.
Wen Yan tightened her grip on the phone; her fingertips pressed slightly harder as she repeated herself, with a touch of cautious pleading: “I want to hear your voice. Is that okay?”
There was a clear pause on Jin Zijin’s end.
A few seconds later, the sound of her turning and walking away came through the receiver, as she found a relatively quiet corner.
Jin Zijin’s voice sounded again, much softer than before, with a trace of indulgent helplessness. “Fine.”
The call stayed connected.
Wen Yan held the phone to her ear and listened to the faint sounds from the other end: footsteps, a door opening, the scrape of a chair being dragged... and Jin Zijin’s voice after switching into work mode.
Clear, calm, methodical.
Wen Yan’s wavering heart finally seemed to settle into place, becoming incomparably peaceful.
——————
The bodyguard drove her to the apartment garage, said their respectful goodbyes, and left.
Wen Yan went upstairs alone, opened the door, and stepped into the silent apartment.
She didn’t turn on the lights; instead, she went straight into the bathroom by the daylight spilling in from outside.
Hot water washed over her exhausted body, carrying away the smell of operating room disinfectant and the fatigue that had soaked deep into her bones.
She dried her hair, changed into clean sleepwear, and lay down in the bed that still held a faint citrus scent.
Her phone remained by her pillow; from the receiver, Jin Zijin’s meeting voice continued to come through, occasionally mixed with the rustle of papers turning or her brief, forceful instructions.
Wen Yan closed her eyes.
Her body was utterly exhausted, yet her spirit had oddly relaxed.
Those cold surgical instruments, the complicated anatomy, the numbers on the monitors... gradually blurred and receded.
In her ears, only that familiar voice remained, crossing mountains and seas, anchoring her world steadily through the thin wires.
Sleep rose gently like a tide.
Her breathing gradually lengthened.
On the other end, the meeting that had lasted more than two hours finally seemed to be drawing to a close.
Jin Zijin gave her summary and announced the meeting over.
Footsteps and parting remarks followed, then a stretch of relative silence.
A few seconds later, Jin Zijin’s voice sounded again, soft, as if afraid of disturbing something:
“Wen Yan?”
No reply.
Only the steady, deep sound of breathing came through the receiver.
Jin Zijin waited a little longer and confirmed that the other person had really fallen asleep.
She didn’t hang up right away; instead, she took the phone and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window in the hotel room.
The sunlight in Nancheng was brilliant, dazzling beyond measure.
Listening to the regular breathing through the receiver, her heartbeat stirred for no apparent reason.
After a long while, she finally spoke very softly and pressed the red end-call button: “Good night.”
————————
Dr. Wen: Who was the one who chose this major back then? Huh? Me?
Oh, then never mind [splits open]
Twelve o’clock means twelve oh five; the scheduled queue needs time to spit things out. If you usually check at this time, it should be fine.