Minghai’s fingers clacked rapidly across the keyboard. She didn’t answer me—not even sparing me a glance.

After a long while, she checked her watch, squinted slightly, and slowly pushed herself up—

Her body swayed sharply sideways. Reflexes kicked in; she gripped the glass coffee table hard. The whole table shuddered. Two bottles toppled. She barely avoided falling.

My heart leapt. I stepped forward urgently. “You good? You okay?”

Minghai frowned silently, bent at the waist, knuckles white against the tabletop. She held the pose, unmoving, for a long moment.

Eventually, she straightened slowly and walked toward the kitchen.

She pulled a box of instant noodles from the cabinet.

I turned, frowning at the table—littered with empty Red Bull cans and bottles.

I stood there a beat, then walked over. Pinching bottles between my fingers, I began clearing them one by one.

A low rumble echoed from the kitchen—the water heater humming to life.

I glanced over. She stood by the heater, waiting. Beside her sat a braised beef flavor noodle box. Head bowed, her long black hair spilled across her face, hiding her features. Only the side frame of her black-rimmed glasses was visible.

I stared, bottles in hand. Realizing I couldn’t hold them all, I set them back down.

“Are you doing this just for money?” I said to Minghai. “How much do you need? Borrow from me. We’re friends—do you think I’d say no?”

The words left my mouth, and I instantly cringed inwardly. *Since meeting Feng Shao, I’ve gotten way too generous with my tone.*

Minghai stayed silent, eyes fixed on the floor, lost in thought.

After an all-nighter, exhaustion dulled her reactions—this was the Minghai I’d known for a month and a half. Every morning: dazed, slumped on the sofa, staring mutely at the coffee table.

The heater’s boil softened to a muffled gurgle. *Click.* The switch popped off.

Silent, she tore the plastic wrapper off the noodle box. Softly: “I hate borrowing money.”

I made a pained face, glancing at the table. “Think about it—pushing yourself like this? All-nighters? Look at your dark circles! Swallow your pride once. Life… sometimes you compromise. It’s normal, right?”

By the end, my voice was practically pleading. *Damn. First time in my life begging someone to borrow my money. Wild.*

Minghai lifted the lid, stiffly tearing the seasoning packet. “I hate compromising with life. And I never have.”

“Besides, it’s a chance to learn something new. Fast cash, low cost… Just a computer, a case of energy drinks, sit in front of the screen all day. Only one downside.”

“What downside?” I asked, speechless.

She shook the packet into the cup. “My blood sugar’s too low. After about 48 hours… I tend to pass out.”

“Waking up usually takes a full day. With heavy workload lately, it really messes with efficiency.”

*You pass out and you’re still worried about efficiency?!*

I rolled my eyes, took a deep breath, shook my head, and resumed clearing bottles. “Enough. Eat, then sleep. Fix your schedule. Work daytime if you must. All-nighters are killing you.”

Minghai stayed silent. Her expression grew distant, eyes slightly unfocused, straining to focus on the noodles.

After a moment, she turned. Seeing me clearing bottles, she walked over. Softly: “Never mind, I’ll—”

*Thud—*

Her body went limp. Mid-sentence, she collapsed—head hitting floor first, like she’d dropped dead.

Bottles slipped from my hands. I lunged, patting her back frantically. “Hey! Oh crap—oh crap! You okay?!”

I patted her back endlessly. Slowly, she gripped my shoulders, sat up dazed. The right lens of her glasses was shattered. Thankfully, only a faint bruise near her eye.

Her fall terrified me. I cupped her face, checking carefully. “How are you? Damn… I told you! Stop pulling all-nighters! Why won’t you—”

She shook her head, using my shoulders to rise. I barely felt her weight—so light. I stood with her, watching warily, ready to catch her again.

Head down, she adjusted her broken glasses. Softly: “Can’t keep this up… Happens often lately. I’ll get a check-up. And new glasses.”

She turned. “Sorry, Lu Ren. Money’s tight… Can I delay this month’s rent?”

I stared, thinking hard. *When did I ever ask for rent?*

After a pause, I pointed at the floor. “You live here. No rent.”

She glanced at me, deep eyes unreadable. “I’ll pay. Just a few days’ delay.”

“Save it. I won’t ask. Ever,” I said firmly.

She said nothing. Removed the broken glasses, tossed them in the kitchen trash. Washed her face at the sink, dried it with her palms, and walked straight to the door.

“Where are you going?” I called from the living room.

Already at the entrance, lacing her shoes: “Hospital.”

Annoyance flickered in my chest. I strode after her, slipped on my shoes, followed her downstairs to hail a taxi—I’d gotten used to this routine. The street below was quiet; we crossed the small road to the main avenue where cabs were easier to find.

At the hospital gate, Minghai reached for her shirt pocket to pay. I gently pushed her hand aside, handed the driver a twenty. She glanced at me, hand frozen mid-air. The driver took it, passed me the change.

Inside, thankfully uncrowded—Saturday mornings were slow. I hurried to the front. The young nurse glanced at the file, then at Minghai beside me, mouse clicking softly. Casually: “Your girlfriend?”

I glanced at Minghai—blank expression, dark eyes unblinking, staring into space. I laughed awkwardly. “Just a friend!”

She scoffed. Monitor glow lit her face. “Not very attentive. Low blood sugar fainting isn’t a joke. Can damage the brain. Might even be fatal.”

*Brain damage?!* I pictured Minghai’s usual daze. *Damn it—did she get hurt?!* “The brain… I don’t know if it’s damaged! Fatal?! Is it treatable?!”

Minghai turned calmly. “No damage.”

The nurse sighed, handed me a form. “Fill contact, name, gender. Blood test upstairs. CT scan. Check liver, extra-pancreatic tumors. If it’s just poor habits—a glucose drip’ll fix it.”

I thanked her profusely, fumbled the form to Minghai. For the first time, helplessness flickered across her calm face as she took it.

Hands on hips, I scanned the quiet lobby. A middle schooler clattered downstairs, cotton ball on arm, friends trailing behind. He burst through the doors, laughing, arms raised: “Hell yeah! No more shots! Internet cafe, guys!”

They swarmed around him, laughing. I watched him hail a cab. They piled in. Drove off.

I looked away, mood sour. Minghai bent over the counter, writing her name stroke by stroke. I stepped closer, muttering low: “How many times… Sleep early. Wake early. Eat meals. All you do is write that damn code. I offer money—you refuse. Is anything more important than your health? Right? Makes sense, yeah?”

She stayed silent, focused. Slender hand held the ballpoint pen—pale, delicate yet knuckled, each stroke deliberate.

I watched. Gaze dropped. First character: *Chu*. Precise. Then *Ming*. Then *Hai*… *Chu Minghai*.

I fell silent.

I knew nothing of calligraphy—my handwriting looked like a dog’s paw dipped in ink, flailing wildly… But these three characters stood tall and slender. Every stroke cast in iron—sharp, piercing, steel-sharp. Just looking sent a blade of resolve straight to my chest.