On the early morning streets of Haicheng, the taxi glided steadily through the sea breeze, which carried a lingering hint of salt.
Inside the car, it was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. The cramped space was entirely dominated by a low-pressure front named "Silas Shen."
Silas sat by the window, his usually straight back tensed like a bowstring drawn to its limit. He stared out at the palm trees retreating rapidly into the distance, his cold profile appearing exceptionally sharp in the morning light. He had changed into a high-collared white shirt, the buttons fastened meticulously to the very top—not only to hide the marks on his neck but also to rebuild that wall of "logic."
Meanwhile, Hunter Huo—the "little tyrant" who usually walked as if he owned the Beijing University campus—was currently huddled in the opposite corner of the backseat.
He stole a glance, letting his eyes linger on Silas's icy profile for a second before snapping them back as if scorched. The sleeve of his once-snow-white shirt was rolled up, revealing that dark red, jagged wound, which emitted a lingering scent of dried blood in the narrow cabin.
Hunter pursed his lips, wanting to say something to break the deadlock.
"Professor, actually, it doesn't really hurt that much. My recovery rate as a top-tier Alpha is—"
"Shut up."
Silas didn't even turn his head. His cold voice was like an ice blade, cutting off Hunter's unfinished sentence.
Hunter pulled his neck in, staring at his toes with a hint of grievance. In truth, he wanted to say that if it happened again, he would still throw himself in front of that blade without hesitation. Because compared to having his arm sliced open, he found it even more unbearable for that filthy knife to touch even a single thread of Silas's clothing.
But he knew that Professor Shen was currently in a fit of rage. That anger didn't stem from being marked; it was a deeper, heart-trembling kind of—lingering fear.
The Emergency Room of Haicheng First Hospital.
The ER in the morning always carried a pungent smell of Lysol. The cold blue benches and stark white lights made one feel inexplicably irritable.
"Who's injured?" The doctor on duty was an elderly man whose gaze behind his reading glasses was as sharp as a scalpel.
"Him." Silas finally turned around, pointing at Hunter behind him. His voice was cool and concise. "Laceration by a blunt object, depth approximately 0.5 to 1 cm, length around 12 cm. It has been over eight hours since the injury without treatment. Redness, swelling, and early signs of inflammation are already present."
The old doctor looked up at Silas, then at Hunter, letting out a dry chuckle. "Sounding quite professional. A colleague?"
Silas didn't respond, but his fingers at his side unconsciously gripped the hem of his shirt.
The old doctor pulled Hunter's arm toward him, his movements far from gentle. As the dried scabs were soaked in saline and peeled away bit by bit, the wound—which had already begun to crust over—once again seeped fresh, crimson blood.
Hunter hissed as he inhaled a sharp breath of cold air, but he gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound. He even took this opportunity to steal a glance at Silas's reaction.
He saw Silas's hands—hands that always held a scalpel with the steadiness of a mountain—currently clutching his shirt hem with such force that his knuckles had turned a translucent, sickly white.
"You kid, you've got some nerve!" the old doctor shouted as he cleaned the surrounding swelling with iodine. "This is suffering you brought on yourself! Do you have any idea how deep this is? The humidity by the sea is high. If you don't treat this promptly, it will infect! Were you planning to wait until it rotted and filled with pus so you could come here for an incision and drainage?"
Hunter kept his head down like a submissive little bride, murmuring obediently, "Yes, doctor, you're right."
"Now you know to be afraid? If you had come a day later and it caused sepsis, did you even want to keep this arm?" The old doctor got angrier as he spoke, his hand applying more pressure. "Young people these days... just because you're Alphas, you use your bodies as capital to act cool. Let's see how cool you are when you're a cripple!"
Hunter was so thoroughly scolded that his neck almost disappeared into his chest. He didn't dare talk back, and he certainly didn't dare look at Silas.
He could feel Silas's gaze on him. It was no longer icy; it carried a nearly fractured, scorching intensity.
"Doctor," Silas suddenly spoke, his voice somewhat raspy. "Does he... need stitches?"
"Of course he needs stitches! How else is it going to close?" The old doctor gave Hunter a disgruntled glare. "He also needs a tetanus shot and three days of IV antibiotics. Absolutely no water on this wound for the next few days, got it?"
Silas closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The emotions he had suppressed all morning finally reached the breaking point upon hearing the words "sepsis" and "stitches."
The old doctor got up to prepare the suture kit, leaving the two of them alone in the small ER cubicle for a moment.
"Hunter Huo."
Silas walked over slowly and stood by the hospital bed, looking down at the youth with messy blonde hair and a pale face. His voice was very soft, yet it carried an intimidating pressure that made one's heart skip a beat.
Hunter stammered as he looked up. "Professor, I..."
"Is this the 'reward' you wanted?" Silas pointed at the bloody wound, his eyes flickering with a thin, angry flush. "Trading half your life for a temporary mark—does Young Master Huo find this a profitable deal?"
"No, that's not what I meant..." Hunter panicked. He tried to reach out to grab Silas's hand, but his left arm was pinned down, making him unable to move.
"You think this is romantic? You think I'll be moved to tears because you were injured?" Silas leaned down slightly, his hands bracing the edge of the bed, trapping Hunter within his own aura. "Listen to me clearly, Hunter Huo. If you can't even manage to protect yourself, what makes you think you have the ability to stand by my side?"
At that moment, Silas's cool, fir-scented pheromones were tinged with a bitterness called "panic."
Hunter looked at the face inches away from his own. He saw the slight tremor in Silas's eyelashes; he saw the heartache and self-reproach hidden deep within his eyes that could no longer be concealed.
As it turned out, his Professor wasn't angry at him—he was scared half to death.
Hunter's heart gave a violent throb, and the satisfaction of being cared for instantly washed away the sharp pain in his arm. Using his right hand, he grew bold and gently hooked Silas's pinky finger resting on the edge of the bed.
"Professor, I'm sorry I made you worry." Hunter's voice softened into a wheedling tone. "Next time... next time I'll definitely disinfect myself before I mark you, okay?"
"You're actually thinking about a next time?" Silas was so angry he wanted to fling the hand away, but the moment he touched the boy's burning palm, his strength dissolved into powerlessness.
He hung his head dejectedly, resting his forehead against Hunter's uninjured shoulder.
"Hunter Huo, you are a lunatic." Silas's voice was very low, audible only to the two of them. "You asked for this... I've never seen a student as stupid as you in my entire life."
Hunter smiled. Even though his arm was about to meet the suture needle, he felt this moment was sweeter than eating a hundred pink cotton candies.