That night, after an afternoon of dealing with Zhou Chenghai and his new friend, I decided to cook dinner.
It wasn't something I did often since the housekeeper normally handled the meals, and Zhenlan rarely ate at home anyway. But the kitchen was quiet, the house was still, and I wanted something to do with my hands that didn't involve planning for the end of the world.
I pulled vegetables from the refrigerator—carrots, onions, garlic, ginger. Simple ingredients for a simple stir-fry. The cutting board sat on the counter, the knife beside it, blade catching the overhead light.
I started with the carrots, the knife moved smoothly through the flesh, each slice clean and even. The rhythm was meditative—cut, slide, cut, slide. The pile of orange discs grew steadily beside the board.
Then the onion.
I peeled away the papery skin and cut it in half, the sharp scent rising immediately. My eyes didn't water. They never did anymore. I'd cried enough in my past life that my body seemed to have forgotten how.
The knife came down.
My hand slipped.
The blade bit deep into the meat of my palm, just below my thumb. The cut was clean, precise—the kind of wound that came from a very sharp knife moving very fast. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick, spilling over my skin and dripping onto the cutting board.
I stopped moving and the knife clattered onto the counter.
I held my hand up, watching the blood run down my wrist in thin rivulets, pooling at the base of my palm before dripping onto the floor. The wound was deep. I could see the layers of skin, the pale flash of something beneath that might have been tendon or fat or muscle.
It was hard to tell through the blood.
But it hurt like a bitch.
Not unbearably, but enough that I registered it as significant. A dull, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. The kind of pain that would get worse before it got better.
I considered whether it was worth dealing with.
The bleeding was heavy, but not arterial. I could wrap it, apply pressure, wait for it to clot. It would take time, but it would stop eventually. Or I could ignore it entirely and let my body handle it on its own.
Pain was temporary and scars were just marks of experience.
I tilted my hand, watching the blood drip faster.
"Rouxi."
Zhenlan's voice came from behind me, sharp and sudden.
I turned to look at him. He stood in the doorway, still dressed in his work clothes—dark slacks, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tie loosened but not removed. His expression shifted the moment he saw my hand.
Panic.
Pure, unfiltered panic.
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, his hand closing around my wrist before I could react. "What did you do?"
"I slipped."
"You're bleeding."
"I know."
He pulled me toward the sink, turning on the water with his free hand. The stream was cold, almost painfully so, and he shoved my hand under it without asking. Blood swirled down the drain, mixing with the water, turning it pink.
"Hold still," he said, his voice tight.
I wasn't moving.
He grabbed a clean dish towel from the counter and pressed it against the wound, his grip firm enough to hurt. I didn't flinch. The pressure was necessary—I understood that logically—but it didn't change the fact that it made the throbbing worse.
"How deep is it?" he asked.
"Deep enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He pulled the towel away to look, and his expression darkened. The blood was still flowing, soaking through the fabric faster than he could apply pressure. He pressed down harder, his jaw tight.
"We're going to the hospital right now."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You need stitches."
"It'll stop bleeding eventually."
"Rouxi." He said my name like a warning. "We're going. Now."
I didn't argue. There was no point. When Zhenlan made a decision like this, he didn't back down. And honestly, a hospital visit wasn't the worst idea. Medical supplies were still on my list, and I hadn't figured out a good way to acquire them in bulk without raising suspicion.
This was an opportunity.
He kept the towel pressed against my hand as he led me to the car, his other hand on my back like he thought I might collapse at any moment. I didn't. I walked steadily, calmly, my breathing even. The pain was there, but it was manageable. Distant.
He opened the passenger door and practically pushed me inside, then circled around to the driver's seat. The engine started with a low rumble, and he pulled out of the driveway faster than necessary.
"You're not in shock," he said, glancing at me. "You should be in shock. You are bleeding and you aren't freaking out. You should be in shock."
"But I'm not."
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because you just cut your hand open and you're acting like it's nothing."
I looked down at the towel wrapped around my palm. The fabric was completely soaked now, the dark red color of my blood spreading across the white cotton. "It's not nothing. Seriously. It's just a small cut. It's just not worth panicking over."
He made a sound that might have been frustration or disbelief. "You're bleeding heavily. That's worth panicking over."
"Not really."
He didn't respond. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. I watched him from the corner of my eye, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced at my hand.
He was genuinely worried.
It was... strange.
Not unpleasant, exactly, but unfamiliar.
In my past life, no one had worried about me like this. Injuries were common, expected. You dealt with them and moved on. There was no time for panic, no energy for concern.
But Zhenlan was panicking.
For me.
And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.