The ward had everything a patient could ask for.
A hundred TV channels flickering with color, glossy magazines fanned out like a bouquet, even a few comic books placed beside the bed.
Meals arrived on time, light and delicate, cooked with the precision of a nutritionist's prayer.
And the nurses—bright-eyed, gentle, almost tender.
Yet for Lin Wan, every touch of perfection reeked of control.
The softness of the sheets, the smell of disinfectant, the quiet click of the door handle—
All of it belonged to him.
Chen Jin's shadow lingered in every corner,
And each day he came to "check on her,"
Smiling as though affection were a virtue.
He wasn't there to care for her.
He came to admire his work.
She was his captive trophy, his broken prey kept alive behind glass—
A reminder of his own power, a monument to his cruelty.
The Lantern Festival arrived in silence.
That morning, she called Aunt Wang and lied.
"I have to work overtime tonight," she said lightly.
"Don't forget to eat some tangyuan," the older woman reminded her.
When the call ended, Lin Wan sat staring at her phone.
Her chest felt hollow, as though guilt had hollowed her from within.
Later, someone brought her a porcelain bowl filled with round, white dumplings.
"Mr. Chen said, You must finish them," the man recited woodenly.
She looked at the clock—nine-thirty.
A night of reunion, of lanterns and laughter.
She took the spoon and obeyed.
The sweetness stuck to her throat; she couldn't taste anything at all.
Days blurred into one another.
The doctor said her leg had begun to heal.
The bone was knitted together.
She could leave soon—
But Chen Jin decided otherwise.
"Stay a few more days," he said,
And she didn't argue.
She no longer wasted words on walls.
That night, he came again.
It was late; the lights had dimmed.
He sat on the sofa with his laptop, typing as if the ward were his office.
The clock struck ten.
The nurse left quietly.
Lin Wan lay in bed, turned her face to the wall,
And covered her eyes with a towel to block the light.
Sleep came the way fainting comes—out of exhaustion, not peace.
Then—
A shift in the air.
The faint scent of smoke and cologne.
Warm breath too close to her skin.
Her eyes flew open.
He was standing beside her bed,
His tall frame eclipsing the light.
His hand rested against her cheek, palm fever-hot.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, voice sharp, trembling.
No answer.
His fingers slid down to her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone.
She caught his wrist. "Don't touch me."
"Touching my own woman," he said lazily, "who's going to stop me?"
Her throat tightened. "Who said I'm yours?"
He smiled, the kind of smile that chilled the air.
"Isn't that something we can test?"
Before she could react, he leaned closer.
The air fractured—
His shadow falling across her face,
His voice soft and venomous near her ear:
Careful, little one. Your leg's fragile. If you break it again,
I won't bother fixing it twice.
Her pulse stumbled.
She wanted to scream, to shove him away,
But the moment split—
His hand pressing down, her body resisting,
The sheets twisting like vines around a trapped animal.
The scent of disinfectant turned metallic.
Her breath came short and shallow.
Her mind screamed stop,
But her body froze,
Caught between fury and despair,
Between pain and disbelief.
And still, the night went on—
Measured in the rhythm of breath,
In the shiver of light on the white walls,
In the sound of her own heartbreak, one muted beat at a time.
When it was over, silence spread through the room like smoke.
The lamp burned dimly in the corner, its glow reflecting off the sheen of sweat on his skin.
Chen Jin leaned back, breathing hard.
For a brief moment, there was triumph in his eyes—
And something else, something darker, like a hunger that fed on its own shame.
He reached out and brushed the strands of hair clinging to her temple.
"Still alive?" he murmured,
Half amusement, half mockery.
Lin Wan lay motionless.
Her face was pale, her lips colorless.
She didn't cry.
Didn't plead.
Didn't even look at him.
He should have felt satisfied.
But what he felt instead was… anger.
Her quietness was unbearable.
That stillness, that refusal to break—
It stripped him of victory.
"You could at least pretend to enjoy it," he said, his tone sharp with wounded pride.
She turned her face away. "Are you done now?"
He froze.
Then a faint, crooked smile touched his lips.
"Not yet. I want to see your face when you finally stop pretending."
But she didn't move, didn't speak.
Only tears slid down silently from the corner of her eyes—
Not a sob, not a sound, just two perfect drops dissolving into the pillow.
And somehow that silenced him.
He watched her for a long time.
What he saw was not defeat,
But something colder—
A woman who had already stopped fighting because there was nothing left to lose.
The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
So he stood, adjusted his shirt, and left without another word.
The next morning, Nurse Tian came in carrying a small bouquet of lilies.
The faint sweetness of the flowers filled the air.
She arranged them in the vase by the window, then hesitated before taking something from her pocket—
A small white box of pills.
"This is from Mr. Chen," she said softly, setting it on the table.
Lin Wan's eyes fell on the box.
For a long moment, she just stared at it.
Her fingers trembled when she picked it up.
Her eyes glistened—not from fear, but from something far more fragile.
Tian felt her chest tighten.
She had seen this brand before,
Knew what it was for,
Knew what kind of man sent it.
No matter how many times she told herself not to judge, she couldn't help it.
She mumbled a few words,
Then quietly left the room.
When the door clicked shut,
Lin Wan unscrewed the cap,
Took a glass of water,
And swallowed the pills.
The taste was bitter,
But the bitterness was strangely comforting—
Like the punishment she had chosen for herself.
She remembered the night before.
When he had stood on the bed afterward,
Fetching a towel, wiping her skin with a tenderness that made her sick.
"You didn't use protection," she had said coldly.
He had paused,
Looked at her expressionless face,
And said, almost carelessly,
"I'll send you something tomorrow."
Now that "something" was here,
A white box sitting beside her hand like a scar.
She had thought she was ready for this.
But the tears came anyway.
For the humiliation,
for the emptiness,
For the realization that even her body's future now depended on his will.
If her life were a tree,
Then he was the saw that kept cutting it down—
Each time she tried to grow back,
Each time she dared to believe she could survive.
And yet, somewhere deep inside,
The roots still clung to the soil,
Quietly, stubbornly refusing to die.