Wang's Pov.
It's been a year.
A full year of waking up with Zhan's name in my mouth, and going to sleep with it echoing in my ribs.
At first, I thought it was a prank. A misunderstanding. Maybe he dropped his phone, missed his flight, and ended up on some last-minute trip with Dre. He was on a video call with Mia—laughing, saying something ridiculous like "I'm eloping with Wang"—and then gone. Just like that.
The kind of silence that tastes wrong.
The kind that lingers.
I went to the airport, filed missing person reports, and called every number I could find. Nothing. No surveillance footage. No records of a boarding pass. Like he vanished in the space between frames. Like the world had a glitch, and he fell through.
My brother and Cheng told me to move on, but how do you move on from someone who still feels like they're breathing in your chest?
I keep dreaming he's cold. That he's shivering somewhere, barefoot, asking why I haven't come for him. I wake up drenched in sweat, hand reaching for someone who isn't there.
I don't know where he is.
But I know he's not dead. I'd feel it if he was.
Some string inside me would snap, and it hasn't. Not yet.
So I wait.
I work, I train. I dig. I stay angry.
Because if I ever find out who took him, who buried him in silence—
I won't ask for answers.
I'll burn down the whole world just to see him warm again.
I hacked everything I could.
Airline databases. Border patrol logs. CCTV networks across the world and airports. I even tapped into private security systems—parking garages, hotel lobbies, traffic cams—anything that might have caught a glimpse of him that day.
Nothing.
No timestamp. No blurry footage. No record of him ever walking through that gate, ever boarding a flight, ever existing past that final video call.
It was like the world deleted him.
I remember staring at my screen at 3:17 a.m., eyes bloodshot, every line of code starting to blur, heart pounding so loud I couldn't hear my thoughts. It didn't make sense. He wasn't clever about hiding. That was never Zhan. If anything, he was too loud, too bold, too damn visible. A spotlight in a crowd.
But now?
Not even a shadow.
I tried tracing Dre too. No luck. His socials went cold on the same day. His phone pinged once—somewhere near the airport—then nothing. Like the signal had been swallowed. Like they'd both stepped off the grid into some black hole that didn't want to be found.
I thought maybe they were running. Maybe they screwed someone over. Maybe they were lying to me.
But that's not it.
Zhan would never disappear without a word—not to me. Not if he had a choice.
I knew then what I hadn't wanted to admit: this wasn't a coincidence.
This was orchestrated.
Someone took them. Someone with reach. Someone who knows how to erase footprints before the ground's even cooled.
And I don't know who they are.
Yet.
But I swear, on every line of code, on every breath I still take—
I'm going to find him.
Even if I have to tear through firewalls, governments, and ghosts to do it.
But when I did. Even the government firewalls gave me nothing.
I broke through layers meant to keep out foreign operatives, professional mercenaries, and people way more dangerous than me. I've never considered myself a hacker in the textbook sense—just obsessed, sharp, and furious enough to get into places I wasn't supposed to.
But Zhan?
He wasn't in any of them.
No arrest record. No immigration log. No hospital admission. No death certificate. No aliases. Nothing.
It's like he never existed.
I cross-referenced flight manifests with facial recognition software I shouldn't even have access to. I pinged international watchlists, cross-checked private prison contracts, and even combed through sealed extradition files. I traced fake passport entries, underground detainment rumors, and black site funding.
Not a single whisper of him.
And that's when it hit me:
Zhan wasn't off-grid.
He had been erased.
Not just hidden. Not just disappeared.
Erased—with surgical precision.
Whoever did this had access to systems I didn't know existed. The kind of silence you can't buy. The kind you order.
Which means someone powerful wanted him gone—and had the resources to make it absolute.
I stared at my screen, fingers frozen over the keys, heart pounding against a ribcage that suddenly felt too small. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Because I realized something worse than not knowing where he was.
Someone out there decided he shouldn't be found.
They didn't just take him.
They buried him in code, in absence, in silence.
And they did it clean.
But they made one mistake.
They left me behind.
And if they thought I'd let that go—
If they thought grief could dull me—
They've underestimated the wrong man.
I don't care if it takes the rest of my life.
I will find Zhan.
And when I do,
I'll burn down whatever system tried to forget him.
After months of dead ends, ghosts in code, and silence where Zhan's name should be, my mind did something I had tried to avoid.
It went to my parents.
I never wanted to believe it. Never seriously considered that my blood could be tied to something this cruel. But desperation has a way of tearing off blindfolds.
My father? No. He's always been distant, yes—buttoned-up, honor-bound, the type to shake your hand instead of hug you—but he wouldn't do something like this. Not to me. Not to Zhan. Not after he saw how we looked at each other at the airport.
But my mother?
I never trusted her after what she did to us. After the threats. After she spat Zhan's name like it was poison. After she told me love was a phase, and that I was an embarrassment.
So I trailed her.
I cloned her phone. I listened to her encrypted calls. I read her emails. I hacked her calendar and sat outside her sleek office in the rain while she sipped wine and smiled like she didn't help dismantle my entire world.
She never mentioned Zhan.
But she didn't have to. The timing. The silence. The people she met behind tinted glass and closed doors. It felt like she knew. Like she helped.
I was building a case, gathering every shred of indirect proof I could when my phone lit up.
Dad.
I hesitated before answering. He rarely called. And when he did, it was always with that clipped voice like he was speaking to a stranger. But today, his tone was different. Urgent. Quiet. Like he didn't want anyone to overhear.
"Pack a bag," he said.
"What?"
"I registered you under a program. Voluntary support. Health and sanitation rotation."
My heart thudded. "Where?"
There was a pause. Then, softly—
"Mount Wanshan Correctional Facility."
Silence.
He didn't say anything else.
He didn't have to.
Because that was the name I'd seen once—just once—buried in a corrupted folder I'd found weeks ago. The one location I couldn't access. The one blackout site with no names, no faces, just numbers.
And now I was going in.
Not as a hacker.
Not as a son.
But as a ghost walking through fire—
to find the only person who ever made me feel alive.
When I linked up with my dad, I didn't need to ask questions.
He was already standing by the curb, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street like someone who'd spent a lifetime calculating risks. The city moved around us—cars honking, people hurrying—but between us, there was only quiet understanding.
"Your mom doesn't know about this," he said without preamble, voice low like he was telling me where he buried a body. "And she won't."
I gave a small nod. That was all he needed.
"I called in favors," he continued, still not looking at me. "Every old friend, every man who owes me a drink or a debt. Some of them weren't happy, but they remembered who I am." He looked at me then—just for a second.
He handed me the official documents: a laminated badge with my medical credentials, a staff clearance envelope, and the volunteer program story. It was perfect. Precise. Like everything he touched.
"Mount Wanshan Correctional Facility," he said like the name alone tasted bitter.
He leaned in and gave me something I never expected from him: a tight, fierce hug. His arms wrapped around me like he knew it might be the last time.
"Have it checked out," he muttered close to my ear, slipping something into the inside of my jacket.
I felt the small square of paper, warm from his hand. He stepped back and gave me a rare smile—half proud, half pained.
"Good thing you're a doctor," he said, grinning slightly.
Then he turned, opened the back door of his waiting car, and slid inside. The driver pulled away without a word, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with the weight of the world in my chest.
I reached into my jacket and unfolded the slip.
A number.
No name. No context.
Just a number.
But I already knew—this was going to lead me somewhere deep.
And maybe, finally, to Zhan.
The slip of paper felt heavier than it should. I stared at it, the ink pressed neatly into the fibers:
0317.07.WC
It wasn't a phone number. Not a bank code. It had the shape of something institutional—maybe a file number, maybe an ID. But that suffix—WC—hit me immediately.
Wen Chao.
I memorized the number, then tore the paper in half and slipped it into two different pockets. If someone found one half, they'd get nothing. Old habit. Old paranoia.
Now I was walking into the lion's mouth.
That night, I returned to my apartment and cleared everything. Burner laptop. Encrypted notes. Drives destroyed.
The next morning, I put on the uniform: crisp white coat, name tag, and standard-issue black boots. Doctor Wang, a volunteer trauma medic, was assigned to a high-altitude isolation rotation.
Destination: Mount Wanshan Correctional Facility.
The prison is hidden deep in the northern mountains, past roads that barely exist on any map. Wind howls across cliffs, and the air thins so quickly, you can feel it scraping your lungs raw.
I boarded the transport jeep with three other volunteers and one quiet guard who barely looked up from his clipboard. No one asked questions. That was part of the design.
But as the vehicle began its winding climb up the ice-dusted road, I clenched the number in my pocket and stared out through the fog-smeared glass.
I didn't know what I was walking into.
Didn't know if Zhan was there.
But I was finally close.
Close enough to breathe the same air.
And if anyone tried to stand in my way now—Wen Chao, Wen Mao, my mother, God Himself— I would cut through them like smoke through steel.
The further we climbed, the less the world felt real.
Trees became ghosts—skeletal pines cloaked in frost, their branches bowing beneath the weight of the cold. The road narrowed into a jagged line along a cliffside, and the air inside the vehicle thinned with every mile. One of the other volunteers passed out halfway up. No one panicked. The guard didn't even flinch. They just handed me a medkit and nodded.
"Doctor, right?"
I worked in silence, hands steady, heart screaming.
We arrived at Mount Wanshan Correctional Facility just before dusk. The sun bled red behind the peaks, casting long shadows over the stark gray walls of the prison. It looked more like a fortress than a prison—angled concrete, watchtowers that blinked slowly like bored sentinels, and a gate that seemed carved out of the mountain itself.
The moment I stepped through the threshold, my breath caught—not from the cold, but from the weight.
This place wasn't built for justice.
It was built for forgetting.
Inside, the air smelled of bleach, damp stone, and something harder to place—like loss soaked into the walls. The main security coordinator, a wiry man with a clipped voice and dead eyes, handed me a rotation schedule and a silent warning with his stare.
"No questions. No off-schedule movement. You are not here to change anything. You are here to maintain stability."
"Understood," I said.
But I didn't mean it.
Later that night, in the room they gave me—bare, cold, a cot and a sink and nothing else.
My hands trembled.
The next morning came fast and unforgiving. The cold slapped me awake before the knock even hit the door. I dressed quickly—white coat over two layers, stethoscope around my neck, gloves tucked into my waistband. The medic lead, a stern woman named Cho, met me in the corridor with sunken eyes and a clipboard that looked heavier than it should be.
"They lined up before sunrise," she muttered. "Noisy ones get sent back to cells. We take the ones who can barely stand."
Outside the infirmary, the hallway buzzed with murmurs. Pale men, hunched over, shivering. Some held their stomachs. Others scratched at scabbed skin or coughed so violently I thought they'd crack a rib. The guards herded them like cattle, barking names and orders without care.
"Thank God doctors came," one prisoner whispered hoarsely as I passed.
I didn't look at him, but my jaw tightened.
Two weeks in, and we hadn't even seen half of the prisoners. The medical rotation was a joke—understaffed, under-resourced, and deliberately delayed. I'd already filed for additional supplies and demanded a proper infirmary renovation. Whether anyone would respond was another matter.
So we did what we could.
We treated those with sepsis. With infected wounds. With fevers that had lasted too long. With bones broken in ways that told me violence lived in the walls here.
The worst part?
They didn't flinch when we touched them.
They were used to pain.
They weren't used to kindness.
By midday, my gloves were soaked in sweat and blood. I paused only once—to think of the number.
0317.07.WC.
I scanned the intake sheets, the room logs, the cell block roster pinned above the medicine cabinet.
I scanned the intake sheets, the room logs, and the cell block roster pinned above the medicine cabinet.
Wing C. Level 3. Block 17. Cell 07.
He was here.
Zhan was here.
I kept working.
Because if I broke now, they'd see it.
But beneath my calm, my pulse was thundering.
By the third month, everything had changed. Not the prison—not the cold stone halls or the gray uniforms or the sound of fists meeting flesh echoing through the walls like it belonged here. That remained constant. But something inside the infirmary shifted. Something in the air.
It started when my father—and his circle of old friends with deep wallets and clean reputations—donated.
Voluntary, officially.
Unofficially, it was a miracle.
They gave more than we asked for—triple what we filed. Enough to replace the rusted bed frames, secure a full shipment of antibiotics, new diagnostics equipment, and even a dental unit. They didn't ask for recognition. My father made sure of that.
And he made sure my mother knew nothing.
For that alone, I was grateful.
With the new supplies, people began to heal. Not just survive. Heal.
Color returned to sunken cheeks. Infections were treated, not ignored. We reset broken bones properly. Taught a few prisoners basic wound care. Some of them started volunteering to help clean or organize supplies.
They weren't asking for redemption. They just wanted to be treated like people.
Even the guards—at least a few softened their gaze when they passed us.
We met the warden eventually. A tall, pale man with a voice like ice cracking. His name was Director Gao. He walked like a politician but watched like a predator. He smiled when he toured the new infirmary and nodded in approval, but something about him was off.
Too calm.
Too proud of a place built to devour dignity.
And despite everything we built, every step forward, the violence never stopped.
Men still came in with busted lips, blackened eyes, and broken knuckles every morning. Some refused to say what happened. Others said nothing at all. A few looked at the guards like ghosts were behind the uniforms.
And I realized: this place was designed to wound, not just hold.
But I also knew this—
Zhan was still here. I could feel it in my bones. I couldn't afford to ask the wrong person the right question.
Every step here was calculated, and every word weighed. One slip, one look too long, and the whole thing would collapse. So I kept my head down, worked hard, and earned trust the slow way.
And made a friend—if you could call him that.
Wen Su. Mid-thirties, lean, twitchy in a way that said he'd seen too much and never slept it off. He worked security rotation mostly around the medical wing, and after a few weeks, we started exchanging nods. Then words. Then cigarettes during after-hours sweeps.
He wasn't the worst of them. He didn't bark orders or crack skulls for fun. Maybe that's why I chose him.
One evening, while we were watching the last few patients shuffle back to their cells, I asked it casually, like I didn't care much either way.
"Won't people from the max wing come eventually?"
He raised an eyebrow as I'd just mentioned ghosts.
"Not unless they're near-dead."
"Near-dead?" I echoed.
"They're dangerous," he said, almost offhandedly. "Killed the last two doctors who tried to help them. Reason no one volunteers too long."
I forced a small, surprised nod. "Oh... I see."
Wen Su blew smoke into the cold air. "Some of 'em been down there years. Bodies failing. Minds worse. But if you go near that wing without clearance, even by accident?" He looked me dead in the eye. "You won't make it back."
I nodded slowly. "But what if they just... need a checkup? Some illnesses run in the blood, you know. Hereditary stuff."
"You'd have to talk to the warden for that," he said, flicking his cigarette to the floor, and stepping on it. "It's not your call."
Then he walked off, the sound of his boots sharp on the concrete.
I stood there for a while, alone, watching smoke curl into the freezing sky.
Max wing.
Zhan.
Still alive, maybe. Still hidden.
And if no one was allowed in unless someone was dying—
Then maybe it was time someone got sick enough to send up a signal.
It took a few more weeks, a few late-night conversations, and a calculated trail of small kindnesses before the kitchen guy opened up. His name was Liu Fan—mid-40s, built like he once played rugby, now always sweating and smelling like spice and engine oil.
He smuggled drugs in, carefully tucked into spice packets or sealed inside empty soup canisters. He sold mostly to guards and inmates with deep enough connections. It wasn't surprising—but it was useful.
"Do you need money?" I asked one day as he came in to treat his burns.
He scoffed like I'd insulted him. "Why do you think I sell drugs in a prison?" he hissed, looking over his shoulder.
"Why do you need money?" I pressed.
He hesitated. Something about the way I said it made him stop pretending.
"My daughter," he muttered. "She's sick. She's with my mother—an old woman, barely able to take care of herself, but better than me in here. She comes every Saturday to visit, pick up money for medicine."
"What's wrong with her?"
He exhaled hard, like letting it out would cost him more than the words. "Lupus. The systemic kind. The immune system's eating her alive. Skin rashes, kidneys failing on and off. She's sixteen. She used to be a dancer, you know?" His voice cracked for half a second before he masked it with a cough. "Needs meds to keep it under control. Immunosuppressants. They're expensive."
I nodded slowly.
"I'll make you a deal," I said, keeping my tone steady. "Give me your mom's number. I'll send it to my father. He'll take care of your daughter."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why would you do that?"
"I'll ask for a favor," I said. "Not now. But when your daughter visits you—soon—you'll owe me one."
He stared at me for a long time. Not speaking. Just calculating.
Then he reached into his pocket, scribbled a number onto a scrap of carton torn from a seasoning box, and handed it to me with greasy fingers.
"If you lie," he said, "I'll poison your whole infirmary."
"If I lie," I replied, slipping the number into my coat, "you won't need to."
We shook on it—quietly, in the shadows.
And just like that, the first thread was tied.
Zhan... I'm coming.
Six weeks passed like a dream carved through concrete.
The infirmary ran smoother than ever. Fewer emergencies, more organized records, and the whispers about me began shifting—from "new doctor" to "the one who listens." Still, I moved carefully. No questions about Max. No careless glances at rosters. I waited. Calculated.
And then—he walked in.
Liu Fan.
It was midday, and the sun pushing weak light through the narrow window behind my desk. I was writing up a request for more IV lines when the door creaked open and he stepped in.
He looked different.
The sweat-stained, hunched-over cook I knew was gone. Instead, he stood straighter, eyes wide and glistening, face caught between a grin and tears that refused to fall. His hands were shaking—not with fear, but something deeper. Gratitude, maybe. Relief.
"My daughter..." he started, voice rough. "She had the surgery. Real hospital. The best."
I stood slowly, heart pausing. "Yeah?"
"Your father," Liu said, emotion bursting out of every word, "paid for everything. Everything. The medication. The surgery. He even bought my mother and daughter a two-bedroom apartment—fully furnished. Sent my daughter thousands of dollars for college. He said it was from a good man's son.'"
I swallowed hard.
He stared at me then, eyes narrowing, voice dropping.
"Who are you?"
I glanced down and tapped the plastic badge clipped to my coat pocket.
"I'm Doctor Wang," I said with a half-smile. "Says so right there."
Liu blinked. Then he laughed, a wet, broken sound, and wiped his eyes roughly.
"You need anything—anything—you come to me." He leaned closer, voice low and lethal. "You need someone gone? Hurt? Hidden? Just the word, Doc."
I held his gaze.
I sat behind my desk, the steel-gray light of late afternoon pouring in like judgment. My fingers were tight around my phone as I pulled up a single image of Zhan.
Zhan.
Frozen in that photo. Laughing, eyes creased, unaware his entire world would be dismantled in months.
I turned the screen toward Liu Fan.
"This guy," I said quietly. "This guy stole my watch."
He stared at the screen. Long and slow. Then gave a slow exhale.
Seven years.
Seven years since the "Celestia Phantom" vanished from my life—the diamond wristwatch that wasn't just a timepiece, but an inheritance. One-of-a-kind, gifted to me on my 21st birthday by my grandfather. Worth a million dollars even then. Elegant, cold, and impossibly precise.
It disappeared in Tokyo. And it haunted me ever since.
Until now.
"I've seen him around. Don't know his name. Looks different now. But his face?" Liu tapped his temple. "Didn't change."
My pulse stumbled in my chest. "You've seen him?"
"Yeah. Once a week, when Max gets yard time. He's always with another guy. Quiet. Doesn't speak. Just... walks."
Shock flooded my veins like someone opened a faucet inside me.
He's here.
Zhan is here.
"Good," I said, forcing the tremor out of my voice. "I need a favor."
Liu's brows lifted.
"I don't want you to kill him," I said slowly. "Just stab him. Deep enough to send him here. And when you do..." ,"tell his second—Wang—says hi."
Liu's grin was wide and sharp. "He'll be in the yard today. I can do it."
"That's the one place I can't see," I murmured. "But I'll trust you."
Liu nodded and turned, leaving the room with a smile and a promise on his tongue.
The moment the door closed, the silence fell heavy.
It wasn't victory I felt.
It wasn't rage either.
It was something colder—like I had swallowed a shard of the past and let it cut me open from the inside. My heartbeat slowed, but my chest felt full—bloated with anticipation, guilt, and memories.
I told myself it was just strategy. Just a plan.
But part of me whispered:
You're about to hurt the one person you swore to protect.
And the worst part?
I didn't even know why anymore.