Ghost Claw sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time despite the bulk of her tactical gear. She found the master bathroom—massive, luxurious, marble everywhere—and dropped to her knees in front of the sink cabinet.
Under the sink was an extensive collection of medical supplies. Not just basic first aid—actual medical-grade equipment. Trauma bandages, surgical scissors, hemostatic agents, suture kits, IV bags, even what looked like prescription antibiotics.
Either Měi Nán was extremely paranoid or this wasn't his first emergency medical situation.
Ghost Claw grabbed everything she could carry and ran back downstairs.
Měi Nán was already bent over Tòumíng's body, his hands checking pulse points, examining the bullet wounds with surprising clinical precision. His earlier panic had shifted into something more controlled, more focused—the kind of calm that came from practiced emergency response.
Ghost Claw dumped the supplies on the coffee table. "Are you his boyfriend or something? How do you know what to—"
"NOT IMPORTANT!" Měi Nán's voice cut through sharply, his hands already reaching for the hemostatic agents. "What happened to him?! Why does he have THREE BULLET HOLES in his HEAD?!"
Ghost Claw hesitated, trying to figure out how much to reveal. "There was an incident. At an event. Security personnel engaged us. He got shot—"
"You DRAGGED him into this!" Měi Nán's voice rose to a near-scream, his hands shaking as he tore open a package of gauze. "He told me tonight was just a mining auction! Networking! He said it was SAFE! And you—you fucking—"
His anger peaked and then broke, tears starting to stream down his face even as his hands continued working, applying pressure to the shoulder wound, his training overriding his emotional breakdown.
"I'm sorry," Ghost Claw said quietly, the weight of what she'd done finally hitting her. "I didn't think—I needed help and he had abilities that could—"
"ABILITIES?!" Mei Nan's voice cracked. "He's NINETEEN! He's a MINER! He's not supposed to have bullet holes! He's not supposed to be—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his hands freezing over Tòumíng's chest.
The chest that wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing.
"Oh god," Měi Nán whispered, his face going pale. "Oh god, he's not breathing. He's—"
"He's not dead." Cupid's voice emerged from Tòumíng's mouth, weak but audible, making both Měi Nán and Ghost Claw jump. "Well. Technically he IS dead. But also not dead. Quantum superposition. It's complicated."
Měi Nán stared at Tòumíng's mouth, which was moving despite the body showing no other signs of life. "What the fuck—who is—"
"Cupid. I live in his heart. Long story. Not important right now." Cupid paused, trying to organize thoughts through the damaged brain tissue. "Měi Nán. I need you to calm down. I need you focused. Can you do that?"
Měi Nán wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing tears across his face, and nodded shakily. "What do you need?"
"There's a bucket of lard. In the kitchen. The same one you brought last time. I need you to get it. Now."
Měi Nán didn't question it—he'd already seen Tòumíng eat lard for healing before. He ran to the kitchen.
Ghost Claw stood there, processing this conversation. "A bucket of lard? For what?"
"Metabolic Healing," Cupid explained, Tòumíng's voice barely above a whisper. "It's one of his skills. Converts calories into regeneration. But the brain damage is severe. Three bullet impacts. Massive neural trauma. This is going to require more calories than anything we've attempted before."
Měi Nán returned, struggling under the weight of the fifty-pound lard bucket. He set it beside the couch with a heavy thud.
"Is he dead?" Měi Nán asked Cupid directly, his voice small and terrified. "Tell me the truth. Is Tòumíng dead?"
Cupid didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched, heavy and horrible.
Měi Nán's face crumpled, fresh tears starting. "Oh god. Oh god, he's—"
"He's not permanently dead," Cupid said finally. "But his consciousness is offline. The brain damage is too severe for him to maintain awareness. I'm operating the body in emergency mode, but I can't access most of his skills without his consciousness active. It's... complicated."
Ghost Claw finally found her voice. "What's the plan?"
"Rebuilding brain tissue takes enormous energy. We're talking eighty thousand calories minimum to repair the neural damage from three bullet impacts. The skull fractures, the destroyed brain matter, the severed connections—all of it needs to be reconstructed from scratch."
"Eighty thousand calories?!" Měi Nán looked at the lard bucket. "His stomach can't hold that much food! He'll rupture internally before—"
"I know." Cupid cut him off. "So we're going to force-start the healing process with what's currently available in the bucket. I'll activate Metabolic Healing using the lard's caloric content—probably around forty-five thousand calories total. It won't be enough for complete healing, but it'll stabilize the critical damage."
"And then?"
"Then I maintain manual control of pain signals, blocking them from reaching what's left of his conscious brain until the reconstruction is complete. Even partial healing should restore enough neural function for him to wake up and direct the rest of the process himself."
Ghost Claw shook her head in disbelief. "This is insane. You're talking about manually controlling brain signals while regenerating tissue using food as fuel. That's not—that's not medically possible."
"Welcome to Tòumíng's life," Cupid said dryly. "Nothing about him has been medically possible since he died in that dumpster three weeks ago."
Měi Nán was already opening the lard bucket, his hands moving on autopilot despite the tears still running down his face. "Just tell me what to do. I don't care how crazy it sounds. Just save him."
Cupid nodded—or rather, made Tòumíng's head nod in a disturbing puppet-like motion. "I'm going to need to manually operate his mouth and throat to consume the lard. It's going to look disturbing. Don't panic. Just keep feeding it to me until the bucket is empty or I tell you to stop."
"Okay."
Cupid took a deep breath—a strange sight since Tòumíng's chest wasn't moving otherwise—and reached over to the lard bucket. His fingers dipped into the white, greasy substance, scooping out a massive handful.
He brought it to Tòumíng's mouth and paused, looking at the horrified expressions on both Měi Nán and Ghost Claw's faces.
"This is going to be unpleasant to watch," he warned.
Then he shoved the entire handful into Tòumíng's mouth.