Chapter 202: A Subtle Charm

2022-05-20

By now I’d arrived at the hotel entrance, a faint static humming in my phone. If I so much as said that Zhao Mingkun was with me, I bet Guan Zengbin would be over the moon. But after a long pause, I just couldn’t bring myself to kick Zhao Mingkun when she was down—not when she’d gotten hurt helping me investigate.

“Wu Meng?” Guan Zengbin called out softly again.

I still couldn’t spill the secret about Zhao Mingkun being here, so instead I said, “I was just sorting through my clothes. Once I finish up, I’ll head back.”

“Alright.” Guan Zengbin didn’t sound suspicious and hung up.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and carried the supplies up to the second floor. I pushed open the hotel room door—surprised to find it wasn’t locked from the inside. I didn’t think much of it and walked right in. The room was small, just a single space, with a few bloodstains still visible. But Zhao Mingkun was nowhere to be seen.

My heart skipped a beat. Did she think I’d betray her and sneak out while I was gone? But with those injuries, she could’ve ditched me back in the sewer if she wanted—why wait until now? That thought put me a bit at ease; she must still be here.

I closed the door and finally saw her crouched behind it, gripping a dagger. Her face was deathly pale, slumped weakly against the wall, but her grip on the dagger was anything but weak. When she saw no one else had come in behind me, she dropped her guard and let her hand fall.

Then, suddenly, she leaned into me, her whole body sagging as if her strength had run out.

I asked softly, “You thought I might bring someone?”

“Clearly, you didn’t,” Zhao Mingkun murmured, barely above a whisper.

I helped her onto the bed and said quietly, “I got everything you asked for.”

She didn’t reply, just let me gently untangle the T-shirt wrapped around her torso. The black fabric was completely stained red, the blood sticking it fast to her wound. Steeling myself, I yanked it off quickly.

The motion pulled at the wound, and fresh blood oozed out. We both knew—if I didn’t stitch her up now, she’d bleed out. The wound was deep and long; there was no way her body could heal it naturally. Stitches were her only hope.

But her clothes were in the way, making it impossible to start. I didn’t have time to care about modesty, so I used the spare key to slash her shirt open and tore it in half.

The wound ran from her waist down to her upper thigh, which meant she would have to pull her pants down a bit for me to see the full extent of the injury.

I didn’t say a word, just glanced up at Zhao Mingkun. She caught my meaning, and, unfazed, undid her belt and slid her pants down in one go.

Clearly, she was used to staying fit—her abs were defined. But in that moment, I couldn’t find any beauty in it.

Because her pale skin was covered in scars.

Long, jagged, and ugly scars.

I wondered what kind of life could leave this many scars on a woman not yet thirty.

Now it made sense—the things Zhao Mingkun told me before weren’t lies. Compared to these old wounds, this new one seemed almost trivial. The contrast hit me hard; someone so strikingly beautiful, yet bearing so many wounds. I couldn’t hide my shock.

She gritted her teeth so hard the words nearly slipped out from between them: “Stop staring. When the stitches are done, you can look all you want.”

Pulled from my daze, I asked, “What should I do?”

I’d never done anything like this before—never stitched a wound, and definitely not outside a hospital.

Zhao Mingkun nudged her pants with her foot. “There’s a lighter inside. Sterilize the needle and stitch the wound shut—just keep the stitches far enough apart so it doesn’t hurt too much. Judging from your face, you’ve never sewn anything, have you? But it’s easy. Just get the skin to close, that’s all. Or I’ll be in agony.”

I listened while fishing out the lighter. Under her instructions, I chose a mid-sized needle from the box and held it over the flame.

Hearing her talk, a fierce urge to protect her welled up in me. But facing the bloody wound, I still had no idea where to start.

She continued, “Tear the bandage towel into two strips, soak one in hot water and clean off the blood first.”

I didn’t dare hesitate. As I cleaned her wound with hot water, even though she bit into her lip, little whimpers of pain still escaped. In that moment, I realized Zhao Mingkun wasn’t some untouchable queen—she was flesh and blood, a woman who hurt just like anyone else.

Once the blood was wiped away, the wound looked ghostly pale. I could even see a hint of yellow beneath—the exposed muscle.

My hand holding the needle was shaking. With no anesthetic, every stitch would bite straight into the flesh. She’d have to endure it all.

Lying back, Zhao Mingkun grabbed the pillow and hugged it tight, her other hand gripping the bedsheet with white-knuckle force.

“Use the bright red thread,” she said, managing a lazy little smile at my trembling hands. “People always say red brings good luck. Maybe the wound will heal faster. And don’t worry—think of this as practice. After you get married one day, maybe you’ll be great at sewing clothes.”

She sounded so casual, like the one being stitched up as an experiment wasn’t her. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to comfort me or herself. But we both knew—if I messed this up, it could be fatal.

Swallowing nervously, I picked out the red thread and positioned it over her wound.

She nodded and bit down hard on the pillow, giving me the go-ahead to start.

I closed my eyes, took several deep breaths, and then forced myself to drive the needle into her skin. Instantly, I felt her whole body jerk stiff beneath me. That’s when I knew—I had to get this done fast. The slower I went, the more pain she’d be in.

That realization spurred me on, my hands moving quicker. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever sew up someone’s wound. And I never realized, skin could be pieced together just like cloth.

With every stitch, I could feel her body go more rigid. Her veins seemed ready to burst from the strain. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

Zhao Mingkun clamped her jaw around the pillow but still couldn’t silence the pain, the sound escaping through her nose. Little dots of sweat broke out all over her skin.

It was only a wound about ten centimeters long, yet it felt like the longest distance in the world.

At last, the final stitch slipped into place. When I pulled the needle free, I felt like I’d just finished the hardest job on earth. Exhausted, I collapsed on the bed, breathless. Zhao Mingkun finally let out a long exhale, slumping on the bed, both of us panting.

I could hardly believe it—somehow, it hadn’t even taken a minute.

Zhao Mingkun lay sprawled on the bed, arms and legs wide, while I flopped beside her.

“You know, you really could sew clothes in the future,” she said after inspecting my handiwork. “And, look at that—I survived.”

I stared at her in silence for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. I couldn’t even explain why, but an urge to laugh just bubbled up. I let it out, laughing loud and hard.

She watched me, then let out a giggle of her own. But with her wound freshly stitched, she had to fight to hold back her laughter, afraid the stitches would tear. The way she tried not to laugh only made me laugh even harder.

I laughed until the tears came.

We looked at each other in silence for a long moment. As I gazed into her eyes, I felt a surge of something ineffable—something that belonged only between a man and a woman.