DSMIS CH77

Chapter 77: Extra 7—Director Shen’s Guilt

The moment Jiang Lin was rushed into the Armed Police Hospital, he was wheeled straight into the trauma resuscitation room. The violent impact made even breathing excruciating, and his throat was thick with the coppery taste of blood. Yet, he hadn’t lost consciousness. His hand fumbled over his clothes, prompting a nearby nurse to lean down:

“What are you looking for?”

“My… phone.”

“You don’t have a phone on you—it must be outside. Don’t worry, your family has already been notified.”

Jiang Lin’s brow knitted slightly. He knew family would be contacted; he was just terrified of terrifying Shen Xing. Before he could squeeze out another syllable, a fresh wave of iron rose in his throat, choking off his words.

Shen Xing took a taxi straight to the Armed Police Hospital. His knees were jelly when he stepped out of the cab, his palms clutching his phone slick with cold sweat. Rushing into the ER, he caught sight of a blood-drenched body being wheeled off an ambulance on a stretcher. It was an image he encountered on a regular basis at work, but seeing it right now sent a bone-chilling dread straight through him. He was terrified that the news waiting for him inside would be something he couldn’t survive.

“Director Shen!”

Spotting him from a distance, Liu Muye sprinted over. Only then did Shen Xing tear his gaze away, staring blankly before recognizing the colleague who had phoned him earlier. His voice came out choked and tight:

“How is he? Where is he?!”

“Inside the resuscitation room. The doctor came out once to say there’s gastrointestinal bleeding—he… Captain Jiang was vomiting blood when they brought him in. Specialists from gastroenterology, orthopedics, and thoracic surgery are all inside consulting right now.”

Shen Xing’s brain went completely numb. Gastrointestinal bleeding meant the blunt-force trauma was severe, likely involving internal organs. And orthopedics—with that arm and leg of his, neither could withstand a violent impact. He had never felt such a desperate urge to kick open the doors of a trauma bay, yet there was nothing to do now but wait.

Shen Xing lost count of how many times he checked his watch. He only remembered that the sky had long turned pitch-black by the time Jiang Lin was wheeled out. The man who had smiled and hand-wrapped dumplings and wontons for him before leaving was now lying unconscious on a gurney, bristling with tubes and wired to telemetry monitors, his eyes shut tight. The sight of those closed lids sent raw panic tearing through Shen Xing’s chest, and without thinking, he threw himself against the edge of the bed.

Looking up at a familiar face among the doctors, his lips parted, but no sound came out.

The consulting orthopedic director, Xu Cun, was an acquaintance of Shen Xing. Over the years, Jiang Lin and Shen Xing’s relationship had ceased being a secret. He stepped forward, clapping a reassuring hand on Shen Xing’s shoulder:

“He lost a considerable amount of blood, but fortunately the bleeding in both his digestive tract and lungs has been arrested. He needs to go to the ICU for two days of observation. You know the situation with his leg better than anyone—come to my office in a bit, and we’ll discuss the details.”

Shen Xing nodded and closed his eyes. In clinical shorthand, phrasing like that meant there was no immediate threat to his life. Half the crushing weight on his chest finally lifted. As long as he’s alive, everything else can be handled. I’m here.

He personally escorted Jiang Lin into the ICU, watching through the viewing window for a long while before following Xu Cun back to his office. The other consulting physicians were still present. Even those he rarely interacted with were familiar faces, and doctors spoke plainly among their own:

“There was diffuse hemorrhage caused by pulmonary contusions, but the volume wasn’t massive, and medical management brought it under control. We just need continuous observation moving forward. His stomach, however, is in poor shape. An emergency gastroscopy revealed an active ulcer. It’s relatively small, but the GI bleed was partly from the physical impact and partly because the impact agitated that ulcer bed. Has he been complaining of stomach pain lately?”

Shen Xing froze. A gastric ulcer? Jiang Lin had indeed been diagnosed with a mild gastric ulcer during a checkup two years ago. Shen Xing had personally supervised his diet and lifestyle afterward, and a follow-up scope had shown complete healing. Jiang Lin’s annual checkup was scheduled for the end of the year—next month, in fact—so his most recent scope from last December had shown a completely clean bill of health.

Memories of the weeks leading up to this business trip flooded Shen Xing’s mind. The onset of winter always brought an influx of orthopedic trauma. He had been drowning in overtime all month, coming home late night after night, barely managing two shared dinners with Jiang Lin in an entire week. And he hadn’t noticed a single sign that Jiang Lin was hurting. Shen Xing dragged both hands down his face:

“I didn’t notice… To think I didn’t even notice he was unwell.”

Being surgeons themselves, the doctors in the room understood the punishing intensity of Shen Xing’s daily workload. Neglecting family in the crossfire of hospital duties was an occupational hazard. Xu Cun offered quiet comfort:

“Don’t beat yourself up too much. People these days carry stomach issues to one degree or another. Captain Jiang works under enormous pressure; an occasional flare-up is practically par for the course. Take this hospitalization as an opportunity to nurse him back into shape.”

Both the pulmonary and gastric bleeds were currently within controllable thresholds, managed with pharmacological hemostasis rather than open surgery. His left leg, however, was considerably trickier. Knowing Shen Xing was a top specialist, Xu Cun poured him a cup of water and laid out the imaging and intraoperative stabilization records:

“A fissure fracture in the left leg. On an ordinary patient, a hairline fracture of this grade wouldn’t be particularly concerning, but you know the baseline condition of his left leg. Healing that crack on him will take a very long time. More critically, this impact caused severe trauma to the articular cartilage in his left knee. Look here.”

Xu Cun pointed to a specific section of the scan. Nobody knew Jiang Lin’s leg better than Shen Xing. That emergency salvage surgery years ago had pushed the limits of modern medicine just to preserve basic ambulatory function. His left knee cartilage was already compromised, and last winter he had even suffered an episode of joint effusion. Shen Xing had drained and treated it back then, keeping a hawk’s eye on him ever since; while bad weather made it an ordeal, it had remained within manageable limits. This violent car crash had shattered that fragile, precarious equilibrium.

“He needs an artificial joint replacement.”

Xu Cun nodded:

“Yes. The optimal clinical course is a total knee arthroplasty. It’s just that his current systemic condition isn’t stable enough for an elective joint replacement, so I only performed external immobilization for now. There’s no rush; it can be scheduled once he stabilizes.”

After all, Shen Xing was an orthopedic director himself—a joint replacement was familiar territory.

Shen Xing requested emergency leave and spent the night at the hospital. Xu Cun, who was on night duty, offered his office sofa for him to rest. In reality, Shen Xing acted like an on-duty resident, walking over to the ICU observation window every two hours to review the nursing telemetry charts. Only when the vitals read rock-solid could he manage to doze for a few fitful minutes.

Jiang Lin woke the following morning. Having calculated the timeline of his awakening, Shen Xing was already dressed and waiting outside, slipping through the doors the instant the ward cleared.

Jiang Lin’s condition was stable. Seeing Shen Xing walk in, he even managed a faint smile. But the dry, chapped state of his lips sent a sharp pang through Shen Xing’s heart. He took Jiang Lin’s hand—ice-cold from continuous IV infusions—and felt those stiff fingers slowly tighten in return. That simple squeeze turned Shen Xing’s eyes crimson. He quickly ducked his head, but nothing escaped Captain Jiang’s gaze.

The nasal cannula didn’t impede his speech, but the mucosal irritation from the GI bleed paired with emphysema from the pulmonary contusion left his voice ragged, breathless, and raspy. Even so, an undercurrent of gentle, comforting amusement lingered:

“Don’t go dropping… golden tears. I’m fine.”

Cupping that chilled hand in both of his, Shen Xing’s red-rimmed eyes betrayed him completely:

“Why didn’t you just scare me to death while you were at it?”

The man in the bed blinked at him, looking exactly like he did whenever he coaxed Director Shen after accidentally offending him. He moved to raise his other arm slightly, but Shen Xing pinned it down:

“Don’t move. You have bleeding in your lungs and stomach.”

The corner of Jiang Lin’s mouth twitched into a faint curve:

“Hug.”

Captain Jiang rarely acted spoiled like this, and seeing him lying frail and bedridden broke what little remained of Shen Xing’s composure. Carefully steering clear of the maze of monitoring cables, he leaned down and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into the crook of Jiang Lin’s neck with an involuntary nuzzle. The raw vulnerability broke Jiang Lin’s heart. He slowly raised his hand, resting it in Shen Xing’s hair:

“I’m alright. It doesn’t hurt.”

A muffled, ferocious growl drifted from his neck:

“Don’t you dare lie to a doctor.”

A low, breathy chuckle dispersed into the quiet room:

“Understood.”

Thanks to Shen Xing’s relentless care over the past few years, Jiang Lin’s old coagulation deficiencies had improved drastically, allowing the internal bleeding to be brought under control far smoother than expected. After two days in the ICU, he was stepped down to a general ward, and the majority of his tubes were removed. However, the fracture and joint trauma in his leg were bone-deep injuries that couldn’t mend overnight, leaving him reliant on a wheelchair whenever he left the bed.

Shen Xing could tell from the knitted brows every time Jiang Lin transferred into the chair just how much he loathed being in one. But there was no alternative. Shen Xing had already taken three days of emergency leave, and Jiang Lin knew how demanding his hospital schedule was. Tugging at the sleeve of the man peeling a jelly orange by his bedside, Jiang Lin asked:

“Director Shen, can I transfer to your hospital? In the orthopedics ward, maybe?”

Shen Xing looked up. He had already planned to transfer Jiang Lin over for easier care, but his tongue refused to soften:

“Beds in our department are tight right now.”

Jiang Lin stroked his thumb over Shen Xing’s wrist. Severe blood loss compounded by daytime IV drips had left his fingertips persistently chilled:

“Not even for someone pulling strings through the back door?”

Shen Xing let out a cool hmph, popping a slice of the peeled orange straight into Jiang Lin’s mouth, watching him with an arched brow:

“Orthopedic beds are packed, but I checked with Gastroenterology—they have plenty of vacancies. What do you think, Captain Jiang? Shouldn’t you get that stomach sorted out first?”

Jiang Lin had hidden his chronic stomach pain from him, and he had spent the last few days dreading the moment Director Shen would bring the hammer down. Now that three or four days had passed without Shen Xing settling scores, he had just begun to let his guard down… As he frantically scrambled for the right words to apologize, his fingers were gently hooked by the man before him.

Shen Xing lowered his head, pressing his lips together:

“It’s not your fault either. I was too busy. You were hurting, and I didn’t even notice.”

Jiang Lin was stoic to a fault; he swallowed whatever pain came his way. With Shen Xing working round the clock that month, coming home late and occasionally disappearing into 48-hour hospital shifts, he would collapse into bed the second he walked through the door. Jiang Lin had kept his mouth shut simply because his heart ached for Shen Xing’s exhaustion.

Seeing Shen Xing shoulder the blame sent a wave of genuine panic through Jiang Lin. He hadn’t wanted Shen Xing to worry, but he wanted even less for Shen Xing to drown in guilt and self-reproach. The crash had already scared the life out of him; Jiang Lin couldn’t bear to see him frown, let alone look this dejected. He gave Shen Xing’s hand a gentle tug, pulling him closer:

“It’s on me. I was playing tough. I thought it was just a regular bout of chronic gastritis that would blow over in a couple of days, so I didn’t say anything. I won’t do it again. Really, never again.”

Shen Xing looked up at him:

“How long had it been flaring? Was it hurting that badly even before you left for the trip?”

The soft, tender ache in his tone hurt Jiang Lin far more than any angry interrogation. Cupping Shen Xing’s cheek, he nuzzled against his face:

“It really didn’t hurt much at home. It was during that week out of town—my leg flared up, so I took some painkillers. Between that, the all-nighters, and skipping meals, the gastritis kicked in. At home, it really wasn’t that bad.”

The gentle indulgence drained from Director Shen’s voice in an instant, replaced by sharp, cold realization:

“You doubled your dose of painkillers, didn’t you?”

Jiang Lin: “…”