"Boss Dong, the warden wishes to meet with you."
Something in the air shifted then.
His voice was steady and calm. It didn't hold an ounce of arrogance typical of other prison guards. The words 'Boss Dong' struck a cord with Yao Ziyang.
'Wait! Isn't that what Dong Yingming's subordinates call him? Is this guy working for Brother Dong? In the novel, it did say he has a lot of connections and was able to make demands. However, even he has to listen to the warden's command, right?'
Dong Yingming didn't look at Chang Xiao but instead was neatly stacking the empty plates and bowls. Once done, he tucks Yao Ziyang back under the covers and pulls out two remotes from the nightstand drawer. His tone was leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. In truth, he simply didn't want to leave Yao Ziyang alone.
"Sorry, Baby Bird. It seems I won't be able to keep you company this morning."
He paused momentarily, he hadn't intended to start with an apology but unconsciously he did. Dong Yingming continued nonetheless while adjusting the pillows behind Yao Ziyang.
"Use this remote to inform the guards outside should you need anything. Use this remote to increase or decrease the rooms temperature. Someone will be coming soon with some new clothes for you. Don't leave the bed unless you absolutely have to. I mean it. Be good. I'll try to be quick."
Dong Yingming places the remotes on top of the stand where Yao Ziyang can easily reach. He then places a gentle kiss onto Yao Ziyang's forehead, and gazes softly at the blushing man. He truly didn't want to leave, however he had some things he needed to speak to the warden about. It just couldn't be helped.
Dong Yingming got up, picked up a black coat that was laid askew on his desk chair and began making his way towards the door. Yao Ziyang felt a pang of loss as he watched Dong Yingming leave the cell. Before traveling over, he had always lived alone in a small room.
When he awoke here, he was again alone in a small room, however Dong Yingming took him away from that. During the times he's been with Dong Yingming, he felt complete and his original cheeky personality would shine through.
Now the room felt colder once he was gone.
The door had closed with barely a sound, but it might as well have slammed. Yao Ziyang lay in bed, propped slightly by the pillow Dong Yingming had adjusted earlier, but now the sheets felt heavier, the shadows longer. His body still ached—low fever humming through his limbs—but the real emptiness settled behind his ribs, dull and pressing.
He stared at the ceiling, the muted light casting soft lines across the delicate neutral paint. Time moved strangely here—slow and sour, like the bitterness of the pill that still cling to his tongue. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered open again. He couldn't fall asleep, not without the quiet rhythm of Dong Yingming's breath nearby, not without the weight of his hand resting gently on his chest like before.
He didn't want to need him like this. But he did.
Now that Dong Yingming had stepped out—to speak with the warden—the silence in the room was too loud. It scratched at the edges of his thoughts. Things he used to ignore or pushed to the back of his mind were now brought forward.
Without Dong Yingming's presence, the walls decorated with art looked more like prison. The empty queen-sized bed felt more like punishment.
He curled in slightly under the red blanket that still smelled like him—cologne and cigarettes and something warm beneath it all. He buried his face into the folds, pressing against the scent like it could fill the space left behind.
His fingers curled, limp, over his stomach.
Listless. Hollow.
He hated how quickly the world lost its color when Dong Yingming wasn't in the room.
…
Dong Yingming walked along the hallways of the 5th floor of First Prison, he lazily placed his long coat atop his shoulders. He had been here for years already and was keenly familiar with every nook and cranny of this facility.
The corridor beside the staircases was dim, cold, and quiet—just far enough from the cameras to allow certain… 'conversations' to take place. Pipes hissed softly overhead, and the floor echoed faintly with every step Dong Yingming took.
He moved with calm authority, a long black coat swaying behind him, flanked by the low hum of power and purpose. Behind him, keeping a respectful distance, walked his undercover subordinate—the prison guard with the sharp tongue and watchful eyes.
They were alone. No inmates. No staff. Just the silence between men who had killed for each other.
Dong Yingming stopped near a rusted steel support beam, turning his head slightly.
"He's healing."
Dong Yingming said quietly, no name spoken. He didn't need to. They both knew who he meant.
Chang Xiao smirked. Not disrespectful—just sharp-edged, like everything he did.
"Yeah, I noticed. Looked pretty soft tucked in your bed like that. Little thing's got legs for days, too… Bet he's a hell of a mouthful when—"
Crack.
The blow came so fast there was sound before there was pain. Dong Yingming spun and drove his fist into Chang Xiao's jaw with the precision of a man who'd fought more than he spoke. Chang Xiao stumbled back against the wall, blood trailing from his mouth as he caught himself, eyes wide—not with surprise, but with realization.
Dong Yingming didn't shout. He didn't need to.
He stepped forward, calm, towering, a storm wrapped in silk.
"I don't care what role you're playing in this place."
He said, voice low and cold as steel.
"I don't care how long you've served me. If you ever speak about him like that again…"
He grabbed Chang Xiao by the collar and slammed him back into the wall, leaning in close until their foreheads nearly touched.
"I will end you."
He whispered, eyes like ice over fire.
"Slow. With my bare hands. And I'll make you beg before I even let you die."
The air crackled. Chang Xiao didn't speak—blood on his lip, chest heaving, but gaze lowered in understanding. He wasn't afraid. But he knew.
This wasn't about dominance.
This was about something else. Something dangerous.
Dong Yingming let go and turned without another word, smoothing his coat that clung to him like nothing had happened. Chang Xiao stayed still, back against concrete, swallowing the pain and the warning with equal weight.
Behind Dong Yingming's calm steps, his voice echoed once—quiet, final:
"He's mine."
Chang Xiao had no interest in or intention of taking Yao Ziyang for himself. He was merely saying it in jest. How could he have known his boss would take it to heart! He was never like this with the other men he played with.
Something was different this time. However, Chang Xiao was smart enough to know his limits, otherwise he wouldn't have become Dong Yingming's most trusted dog here. He decided to take the warning and never mention Yao Ziyang in front of his boss again.
…
Yao Ziyang lay curled beneath layers of thin sheets and a dark red blanket, his small frame barely making a lump in his fabric cocoon. His breaths were slow, uneven—his chest lifting like it took effort, like even sleep had weight. His sight began to gloss over, in a haze he looked towards the door.
The blanket felt suffocating.
His skin was slick with sweat, but his fingers trembled from the cold. Every breath drew in heat that clung to his throat like smoke, yet his toes were numb, like they'd been soaked in ice. The fever gnawed at him from the inside — a low, smoldering fire beneath his skin — but his limbs shivered uncontrollably, as if trying to outrun winter.
He kicked the blanket off in a fit of panic, his chest heaving. Immediately, the air bit at his skin, sharp and merciless. Goosebumps rose along his arms, and he whimpered, dragging the covers back over himself — too hot, too cold, everything was wrong.
There was no comfort in any position. Lying flat made him dizzy. Curling up made his muscles ache. His throat was dry, lips cracked, but even the thought of water felt distant. His body didn't know what it wanted.
Only that it wanted relief.
And that he wasn't there.
He turned toward the side of the bed where Dong Yingming had laid earlier — where he had wiped a cool cloth on his forehead, whispered in that low, rumbling voice. That part of the mattress still held the faintest dip, like a ghost of his weight.
Yao Ziyang's fingers stretched out blindly, brushing that hollow space. His breath caught.
So hot. So cold. So alone.
His lashes fluttered, clinging together with sweat, and he sank back into the fever's grip — caught in that terrible in-between where sleep wouldn't come and waking was worse.
Struggling against his own exhaustion, he manages to reach his arm over to the nightstand beside him. Hazily, he reaches for the remote in desperation, finally remembering Dong Yingming's instructions before he had left. He succeeds and begins to rapidly push a button, not realizing it wasn't the correct remote.