He didn't give me time to respond.
One moment I was standing there, staring at him with what I assumed was a perfectly reasonable expression, and the next moment his arm was around my waist again and I was being lifted off the ground like I weighed nothing.
I blinked.
My feet dangled in the air and I discovered that I was sitting on his forearm—actually sitting on it, like a child being carried by a parent. Before I could think of anything to say, he was already moving, walking down the hallway with the kind of easy balance that suggested this wasn't even remotely difficult for him.
I wasn't embarrassed.
That would have required caring what he thought, and I didn't. But I was surprised.
I had known Chenghai was strong—he was head of security, it came with the job—but knowing something intellectually and experiencing it physically were two different things.
He had to be at least twenty years older than me. Maybe more. Old enough that most people would call him middle-aged, though he didn't look it.
There was no softness around the middle, no slowness in his movements, no weakness in his grip.
Instead, he moved like someone half his age—better than most guys my age, actually. The boys I'd gone to school with in my past life had been soft. Weak. They'd spent their time on phones and computers, their bodies neglected, their strength nonexistent.
Chenghai was the opposite. Disciplined. Controlled. The kind of person who treated his body like a weapon that needed maintenance.
It was... practical. Useful, even. If the world was going to end, having someone like him around until he died or was killed wasn't the worst idea.
He carried me down the main staircase without breaking stride. Fifteen steps. His balance didn't shift. His breathing didn't change. His arm stayed perfectly steady under my weight, like I was a bag of groceries instead of a full-grown person.
I could feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flexed just enough to keep me stable but not straining. Efficient. No wasted energy.
I looked down at his arm. The muscles were defined under the fabric of his shirt, the kind of definition that came from years of consistent work, not vanity training.
His forearm was corded with muscle and tendon, his grip firm but not tight. Controlled. Always controlled.
Interesting.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and walked straight to the living room, depositing me on the couch with the kind of precision that suggested he had done this before. Not with me, obviously. But with someone.
I landed on the cushions and immediately reached out, pressing my hand against his forearm before he could pull away.
The muscle was solid under my palm. Dense. I pressed harder, testing the resistance, my fingers digging in slightly, and his arm didn't give at all. I moved my hand up toward his bicep, feeling the shift in muscle structure, the way it tensed under my touch.
He didn't pull away immediately. He just stared at me, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and exasperation.
"Not bad," I said, giving his arm one last squeeze before letting go.
Chenghai pulled his arm back and stared at me like I'd just said something insane. "You're only impressed because you're weak."
I tilted my head, considering that. He wasn't wrong. I was weak.
Physically, at least.
I never bothered with strength training in my past life—there hadn't been time, and by the time I realized it mattered, I was already too far gone. Malnutrition, exhaustion, injuries that never healed properly. My body had been a liability by the end.
This time, I had the advantage of preparation. I had supplies. I had weapons. I had plans. But I didn't want strength, and I didn't want to have to train every day, and apparently Chenghai had noticed.
He was still staring at me, his expression hard. "You need training."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
His jaw tightened. "The world is dangerous. You can't rely on other people to protect you. You need to be able to protect yourself."
I leaned back against the couch, folding my arms. "That sounds like too much work."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." I gestured vaguely toward the window. "Running? Lifting weights? Sweating? That's a lot of effort for something I'm not even sure I need."
He took a step closer, looming over me in that way he probably thought was intimidating. It wasn't. I'd seen worse. I'd been worse. But I let him have his moment.
"You need to be able to protect yourself," he said again, slower this time, like I hadn't understood him the first time.
I gestured toward him with one hand, my expression perfectly neutral. "Isn't that why I have you?"
His eye twitched. Actually twitched. It was almost funny.
"I'm not always going to be there," he said, his voice tight.
"Why not? Isn't that literally your job?"
"My job is to protect your uncle. You're just—"
"Collateral responsibility?" I offered helpfully.
He glared at me. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'efficient.'" I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees. "Think about it logically. If I spend all my time training, I'll be tired. If I'm tired, I'll make mistakes. If I make mistakes, I'll need protection. So really, by not training, I'm saving everyone time."
"That's not—" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly like he was counting to ten. "That's not how any of this works."
"Isn't it, though?"
"No."
"Agree to disagree."
He opened his eyes and stared at me, his expression somewhere between disbelief and resignation. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Probably," I said cheerfully. "But not today."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
There was a beat of silence. He was still standing over me, his arms crossed now, his expression hard. But there was something else there too—something that looked almost like acceptance. Like he'd already resigned himself to the fact that I was going to do whatever I wanted, and all he could do was try to minimize the damage.
Smart man.
"You're a brat," he said finally.
"And you're old," I shot back. "But you're holding up pretty well, so I guess we both have our strengths."
His expression didn't change, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just barely. "I'm not old."
"You're older than me."
"That's not the same thing."
"Semantics." I waved a hand dismissively. "The point is, you're in better shape than most guys my age, which is either very impressive or very sad, depending on how you look at it."
"It's discipline," he said flatly.
"It's obsession."
"It's survival."
I paused at that. He wasn't wrong. In my past life, the people who survived the longest were the ones who'd been disciplined before everything fell apart. The ones who knew how to ration, how to fight, how to endure. The soft ones died first.
But I wasn't going to tell him that.
"Well," I said, standing up and brushing past him toward the hallway, "couch potatoes don't need to run five kilometers. Unless they're running out of snacks. Then there would be no way to keep us from beating everyone in a 5K race."
He caught my arm as I passed, his grip firm but not painful. "I'm serious about the training."
I looked down at his hand, then back up at his face. "And I'm serious about the snacks."
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let go, shaking his head slowly. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably," I said again, pulling my arm free. "But at least you'll die in great shape."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I just turned and walked away, my footsteps light on the hardwood floor.
I could feel his stare burning into my back, could practically hear the argument he was building in his head. But he didn't follow me. He didn't call after me. He just stood there, silent and furious, while I walked away.
The frustration from earlier was still there, cold and sharp in my chest. The hospital plan was ruined. I'd have to come up with something else. Something that didn't involve Chenghai catching me in the act and deciding I was suicidal.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now, I had other things to think about. Medical supplies were still a gap. A dangerous gap. And gaps got people killed.
I turned the corner into the hallway and heard Chenghai's voice behind me, low and muttered, like he was talking to himself.
"I'm going to regret protecting that girl."
I almost smiled.
He had no idea.