“These wounds look like bullet grazes,” Lu Ke thought, worry tightening in his chest like a drawn bowstring.

He swabbed the blonde girl’s cuts with alcohol, ice-fire biting her skin; even unconscious, her brows twitched like wind rippling a pond.

“Need to clean her up,” he muttered, anxiety pricking him like thorns.

He sprinted to the bathroom, tore open fresh medical gauze, dipped it in water like morning dew, and returned to wipe away the clotted red.

“Feels like she rolled through a blood pool,” he grumbled, staring at the hill of crimson-stained gauze like autumn leaves piled high.

He only dared clean what lay outside her clothes, desire checked by a cool blade of reason.

As the red was lifted, milk-pale skin surfaced like moonlight breaking through clouds.

“What a little enchantress,” he sighed, the compliment floating like incense.

Standing, he finally saw the girl in full: porcelain-doll skin, features carved fine as jade, a petite frame like a fledgling, a serene face made for sleep.

Her lips were soft as cherry petals; he swallowed the impulse like a pebble dropped in a well.

Her right hand bore a seam, as if something slept inside, like a seed under bark.

With her bleeding stilled, Lu Ke opened the cabinet and brought out a worn bottle, its surface etched with delicate patterns like vines.

He unstoppered it; a light fragrance rose like spring mist, twined with the earthy bite of herbal medicine.

“Didn’t think I’d use you, and not on myself,” he joked, his voice drifting like a lazy breeze, then set the cap back.

Memory warmed him like a hearth. “Grandpa, didn’t you promise me a big gift? What’s this little bottle?”

On his seventh birthday, Grandpa had laughed like a bell and pressed the unknown bottle into his hands.

“This beats a race car by miles,” Grandpa said, palm heavy and kind on his head, white beard flowing like snow.

“Grandpa only bullies kids,” Lu Ke had pouted, but love softened him like rain on dust.

“Yeah… Grandpa loved me most,” he breathed now, holding the antique bottle like a keepsake star.

His family had been physicians for generations, roots sunk deep like old pines; ancestors left treasures like hidden springs.

This little bottle was one of them, an heirloom bright as a lamp in winter.

“At auction, this trauma salve would fetch tens of millions,” he smirked, the challenge sparking like flint. “Today, earn your name.”

He poured the powder into a decoction pot, added guiding herbs like threads of scent, hands steady as a craftsman’s.

“Blending medicine? I was born for it,” he murmured, confidence smooth as oil.

After a patient simmer, the salve thickened, glossy as wet clay; dawn slid in like a blade of gold.

“Can’t toss the bottle,” he said, setting it on the cabinet, value resting there like a coiled dragon.

“Finish up and sleep,” he yawned, weariness rolling over him like tide.

He set the pot and bandages beside the still-unconscious blonde, spread salve over each savage cut like balm on scorched earth, and bound them tight as linen armor.

“That’ll do,” he exhaled, sweat cooling like rain.

He glanced at her face, bandages wrapping her like snow, golden hair spilling like wheat, and finally collapsed on the other end of the sofa.

Sleep took him like a soft undertow.

—

“Mm…” Xiao Qianxue’s lashes trembled, a dull ache fading like fog off a lake.

“A stranger’s ceiling,” she thought, the words soft as dust motes.

She tried to move; her limbs felt bound like reeds in ice. Panic fluttered, then settled like a caged sparrow.

She looked down. Ragged clothes clung to her; the rest was wound tight in white bandages like mummy-wrappings.

“This is…” she breathed, mind knitting fragments like torn paper mended.

She turned. On the coffee table lay messy bandages like shed skins, a used basin, and a trash can overflowing with blood-soaked gauze like red flags.

“Met a good person,” she whispered, relief warm as tea.

She pushed herself up; a sudden snore jolted her like thunder.

She turned. A college kid sprawled on the far side of the sofa, posture collapsed like a felled tree.

“He’s… the man from last night?” Memory flickered, shard-bright; a glance was enough to confirm the face.

She loosened a layer of bandage; the raw wound underneath was already sprouting pale new skin like shoots after rain.

Startled, she wrapped it back, careful hands moving like weaving.

“What medicine—so miraculous!” the Little Loli bent over the pot, inhaling the scent like a curious cat.

She didn’t really understand, but it smelled like rare, hard-won herbs, mountain-dark and clean.

She stood. Blood speckles stained the sofa like red petals. “Ah… I dirtied his couch,” she murmured, guilt twisting like a ribbon.

A small bottle on the cabinet caught her eye, glinting like a relic.

She walked over, lifted it carefully, touch light as a moth’s wing.

“Very old,” she said, the weight speaking like history.

It carried the same fragrance as the salve, so she set it back, precise as a ritual.

“He really went all in. Kind big brother,” she smiled, warmth spreading like sunlight.

“It’s nearly afternoon,” she noted, eyes on the wall clock like a bright coin. “Shower first—my skin feels sticky.”

She darted through the room, agile as a swallow, searching for what she needed.

“New towel, new shirt… new underwear?” She fished out a sealed box of men’s briefs, smallest size, and her laugh chimed like glass.

“Haven’t worn these in ages,” she teased herself, humor light as foam.

Bathroom door, open, in, close, lock; movements crisp as beads on a string.

The Little Loli peeled off clothes and bandages; the medicine had soaked in like rain into earth.

Her internal wounds felt eased, the ache at her abdomen dimming like a waning moon—a good omen.

“You’re still here. Thank goodness,” she murmured, slipping a small electronic screen from the back of her pants, a life-line to Joanna bright as a star in a pocket sky.

She tossed the ruined clothes into the trash, fabric landing like tired leaves.

She looked at her right hand. The wrinkles remained like old bark, but the Blood God’s Eye had clamped shut, leaving only a slit like a sealed seam.

“No idea why, but without the eye is fine,” she said, relief unfurling like a banner. “Less hassle with people.”

Steam billowed, white as cloud, and the bathroom drifted into mist.