Wang's Pov.
Liu stepped into the infirmary like he owned the air in it, a crooked smile already playing on his face.
"You're having visitors soon," he said, voice low but laced with amusement. He glanced toward the hallway, then leaned in. "Pulled off just what you asked. Didn't even break a sweat. The knife was clean too. Got 'em both admitted."
I stood still, my hands still gloved from the last patient. "What happened?"
He shrugged, as if it were nothing more than passing gossip. "I stabbed your boy. Not deep, but enough. His second stabbed himself too, to sell the story. Now they're both in. Third guy's the one who got beat up a while back... I think he used to be a guard. Didn't ask."
Footsteps echoed outside. Heavy. Measured.
Liu straightened. "I'll see you later." He slipped out the back door like a shadow—gone before the guards rounded the corner.
Then they entered.
Two officers pushed open the double doors with the kind of stiffness that said they didn't trust anyone, even the walls. Between them walked three men.
Zhan.
Dre.
And a third figure, bruised and worn, clinging to consciousness—I realized, matching Liu's vague description.
But all I saw—truly saw—was Zhan.
He was more bulky than I remembered. Paler. There were shadows under his eyes, and his face had lost the softness I used to cup in my hands. But it was him. No one else had those eyes—storm-swept and unrelenting. And when they landed on me, everything else in the room dropped away.
He froze.
His lips parted slightly. A sound escaped him, but I couldn't make it out.
I cleared my throat. "They'll need to be checked and cleaned," I said, voice steady despite the fact that my heart was trying to break free from my chest. "Put them in beds 3, 4, and 5. I'll start with the stab wounds."
The guards nodded, muttering something under their breath as they moved.
Zhan never looked away.
Neither did I.
He was here.
Alive.
And for the first time in years, I had him in front of me—and no one could take that away. Not yet.
I was sitting in front of him, fingers stained with antiseptic and the dull smear of dried blood, pretending my hands weren't trembling.
Zhan sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, shirtless. His skin was colder than I expected, like the prison had frozen into him. His muscles were tight, chiseled from years of silent resistance—shoulders strong, arms carved with quiet defiance. Even the way he sat—guarded, composed—told me he hadn't had peace in a long time.
He didn't speak for minutes, just watched me. Watched my hands as I cleaned the cut, the curve of his ribs rising and falling slowly beneath my touch.
I could barely breathe.
Seven years.
Seven years without that face. Without that presence.
I had spent nights curled in grief and obsession, hacking into voids, chasing ghosts, seeing his name in code and shadows. And now he was here—flesh, wounded, breathing. And still, somehow, distant. Like the cold of this place had seeped so deep into him, even seeing me couldn't thaw it.
Our eyes met.
"I'm fine," he said, voice clipped. "It's not painful. Do what you gotta do."
And something inside me broke.
I didn't think—I moved.
Before I could talk myself out of it, before doubt could tighten its grip, I leaned in and kissed him.
Soft. Desperate. Terrified.
The taste of disinfectant and cold lips. The salt of skin that had been through too much. My heart leapt to my throat, and for a second the world stilled.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't gentle.
It was years of missing, of mourning, of imagining his mouth in dreams and empty spaces. It was everything I'd held back, poured into one trembling moment.
When I pulled back, his eyes were wide—not angry, not shocked. Just... open.
I whispered, "I looked for you. Every day."
And for the first time since he walked in, he blinked like he might actually believe me.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just looked at me, like he was sifting through seven years of silence and trying to decide if this was real—or just another cruel trick from this place.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. I could feel the warmth of his breath between us, feel the heat of everything unsaid settle heavy in the small space that still separated our chests.
I swallowed. "I didn't stop," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "No matter what anyone said, no matter how many doors slammed shut or how many leads dried up—I never stopped."
He blinked slowly. "You think a kiss fixes seven years?"
"No," I said quickly. "No, Zhan... I don't. I just—" My voice cracked. "I needed to know you were still real. That I didn't make you up to survive the wait."
He let that hang between us. My pulse pounded in my ears. I wasn't sure if I should step away or beg him to hold me.
Then finally, his voice—low and coarse, a whisper worn down by years of ash and iron. "I dreamed of you," he said. "In the beginning, every night. Later... not as much. I was afraid if I saw your face again, I'd lose what was left of my mind."
I closed my eyes.
"But now you're here," he added, his voice thinner now. "And I don't know how to feel about it."
I nodded, breath catching. "That's okay. You don't have to know. I just need you alive. And safe. And to get you the hell out of this place."
He tilted his head just slightly, looking down at my trembling hands.
"You're shaking."
"I've been shaking since the moment you walked in," I said with a short, helpless laugh. "This is the first time in seven years I've touched you."
A pause. Then, like a crack in stone, he whispered, "Do it again."
And so, I kissed him again—not out of desperation this time, but with the aching reverence of someone relearning how to breathe.
His hand came up slowly, fingers ghosting the side of my jaw. And for a moment, despite the antiseptic, the guards outside, the blood-stained cot, we weren't in prison.
We were home.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and steady, willing the tension in my body to ease. Zhan had noticed—of course he had. I was rock hard, he was too, but this wasn't the time, wasn't the place. The infirmary walls had ears, and I hadn't waited seven years just to lose him over a reckless moment.
So I cleared my throat, focused on the wound, on the sterile steps that kept my hands moving while my heart screamed. I cleaned Zhan's side, stitched the shallow stab clean and careful, pressed a warm compress against the bruising. He didn't flinch—not once. Still watching me like he was trying to memorize my face again. I gave him painkillers and murmured instructions I wasn't sure he even heard.
Then I stepped away.
My legs almost buckled under the weight of holding it all in. I walked to the other side of the infirmary, the quiet throb of Zhan's presence still burning in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Dre was sitting beside Ezra's bed, one hand loosely wrapped around Ezra's wrist like he needed that anchor to stay steady. Ezra looked weak—pale, thin, but breathing easier than when he walked in. Su had done a damn good job sneaking in medication. He wouldn't have gotten this far without him.
"You two good?" I asked quietly.
Dre looked up, his expression unreadable at first. Then a slow, tired nod.
"He's stronger than he looks," Dre muttered. "Won't stop making sarcastic comments about my cooking when I had nothing to cook."
A small laugh wheezed from Ezra without opening his eyes. "Your cooking is a hate crime."
I couldn't help smiling.
"How's Zhan?" Dre asked, more serious now.
"He'll be okay," I said softly. "Physically. Emotionally..." I let the words trail off. "That might take longer."
Dre nodded like he understood. And I think he did. All of them had carried their pain differently. Ezra bore his in silence, Dre with quiet rage, and Zhan with a storm buried deep beneath frozen skin.
I watched them for a moment—two men clinging to each other in a place that tried every day to strip away what made them human.
I was going to get them all out.
Whatever it took.
"They'll stay the night," I told the guards, keeping my voice professional, and controlled.
They didn't question it. "Su will come and take over," one of them muttered before the doors closed behind them with a heavy metallic clang. Their footsteps echoed down the hall, and then it was quiet again.
The kind of quiet that lets the truth slip out.
I walked to Dre first. He looked exhausted—shoulders tense, lips chapped, eyes sunken. But when I said, "The guards are gone," he stood and hugged me like a brother he hadn't seen in years.
Then I turned, motioned for him to come. "Come on."
He leaned down, gently pressed a kiss to Ezra's temple. "Be right back," he murmured. Ezra didn't respond, but his fingers twitched around Dre's sleeve.
We moved to the far side of the infirmary, to the bed where Zhan lay under dim lights and stiff white sheets. His eyes followed me the whole way.
He sat up straighter as Dre approached, but his gaze stayed on me.
"I owe you the truth," I said, standing at the foot of the bed. My voice felt foreign in my mouth. "After Mia told me you were eloping—then disappeared—something didn't sit right. When I couldn't reach you, I panicked. I traced everything. Nothing led to you. Not a footprint. Not a whisper."
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"My father found out. He called in favors—quiet ones. One of them pointed to this place." I looked between both of them. "He got me in under voluntary service. I've been here for months, laying low. Waiting. Watching."
Dre sat down on the edge of the bed, stunned.
I swallowed, the hardest part still to say. "I'm sorry about Liu. I asked him to stab you, Zhan. I needed you here. Where I could reach you. It was the only way. I didn't want you dead—I just... needed to see you."
Zhan stared at me. No anger. No forgiveness either. Just understanding—worn and brittle.
"No offense," I whispered.
"None taken," he replied quietly. "I'd have done worse."
Then the question came, low and sharp from the silence. "Why are we here?"
I hesitated for a breath, then met his eyes. "Prisoner exchange."
Dre leaned forward, confused. "Exchange for who?"
"You're doing time for the Wen boys," I said, the weight of those words slamming into the sterile air.
Zhan blinked. "Wen Chao and Wen Mao."
I nodded. "Your names were pulled to disappear. Easy targets. No family screaming in public, no politicians asking questions. Just... gone. Buried in the system, in a prison built to keep secrets."
Dre cursed under his breath, rubbing his face.
I looked at both of them, voice firm now. "We're getting out. It won't be quick. Or easy. But I have people. I have a plan. And now... I have you."
Zhan's eyes met mine again. "Then let's burn it all down."
And for the first time since I stepped into this hell, I smiled.
I took out my phone and unlocked it with trembling fingers.
Zhan was sitting upright now, still pale, still stitched—but alive in a way I hadn't seen in years. Something had changed in his eyes since I told him the truth. Maybe it was hope. Or maybe just the weight of knowing he wasn't forgotten.
"Here," I said quietly, handing him the phone.
He stared at it for a moment, like he didn't quite believe it was real. Then he took it, fingers brushing mine. He didn't ask who I called. He didn't need to. The screen was already ringing.
Mia answered.
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. "Hey, Mia."
"Zhan?" Her voice cracked.
A sob burst through the speaker. "Oh my God—Zhan. Zhan! Where are you? We thought you were—God, I thought I'd never hear you again!"
He swallowed hard. "I'm okay. Not great, but okay. I'm... safe. Kind of."
"You're alive," she whispered.
"I'll be home soon," he said, voice steady. "But there are some things I have to do first."
Then I watched as he spoke to his grandmother—her voice soft and trembling with joy—and Ji Li. The room felt warmer for a moment. Like the outside world had finally cracked through the concrete.
Then it was Dre's turn.
He laughed for the first time in what felt like forever, talking with Mia and Ji Li. "You're still bad at jokes," he told Ji. "But damn, I missed hearing them."
After the call, I took my phone back and stepped away for a moment. My fingers hovered over the screen, then typed out the message I'd been waiting months to send.
I found Zhan.
Within seconds, my father replied:
—Good. It begins now.
I stared at the screen, heart hammering.
Whatever this prison thought it was—whatever power the Wen brothers had—we were about to dismantle it. Piece by piece.
Because now, we weren't just surviving.
We were coming home.
The next day, I did something drastic.
Desperation has a way of sharpening the mind, and I had been preparing for this—just in case.
I accessed the controlled cabinet under the guise of organizing inventory and pulled out three small vials of a fast-acting compound: Metropine Hydrochloride. It's a rarely used medication, originally developed to regulate heart rhythm in post-surgical trauma patients, but in high doses or when mixed with mild stimulants... it triggers acute cardiac dysrhythmia symptoms—racing heart, cold sweats, shortness of breath, chest tightness. Not lethal, but terrifying enough that the average infirmary wouldn't be equipped to handle it.
And it mimics the early signs of a heart attack or stroke without leaving long-term damage if handled quickly and dosed precisely.
I crushed micro-tablets, diluted them, and mixed each dose carefully—enough to induce a controlled episode in each of them, staggered by fifteen minutes. Not all at once, that would look suspicious. But enough for the prison staff to see a trend: something was wrong, something the prison infirmary couldn't treat.
I walked in that morning with calm hands and a heart ready to gamble everything.
Zhan was first.
I handed him a water bottle laced with the solution and nodded subtly. He trusted me. Ten minutes later, he dropped the cup he was holding and gripped his chest.
"Dizzy," he gasped, breath shallow. "Can't... breathe..."
Panic spread fast. Alarms were pressed. Orders barked.
Ezra went down second—his reaction more severe. He collapsed mid-step with visible tremors in his hands and a blue tinge at the edges of his lips.
Dre was last, just as the guards were trying to stabilize Zhan and radio for backup. He groaned, fell to his knees, and vomited beside the bed. His pulse shot past safe levels.
It was chaos. Beautiful, carefully calculated chaos.
And I just kept shouting over the confusion: "These aren't regular symptoms! They need a real hospital or they'll die!"
Now the real plan could begin.
I didn't expect the van. Not that fast. Not that road.
The guards rushed in like thunder, shouting into radios, one of my colleagues pressing a defibrillator to Ezra's chest. The warden gave the final command: "Get them out. Now."
No time for stretchers. Just strength and panic.
Within five minutes, all three were loaded into the prison transport van retrofitted for emergencies. I climbed in the back, slipping on gloves, pretending to monitor vitals—heart rate monitors beeping wildly, pupils dilated, symptoms textbook perfect.
The vehicle roared to life.
I expected the climb down the snaking mountain roads—the sharp bends, the agonizing delay. But as we took a sharp left behind the main guard towers, the terrain changed.
"What road is this?" I asked the driver.
"Emergency route," he said, eyes on the icy path. "Service crews and water tanks use it. Gravel base, not public. Cuts drive time in half."
My chest tightened. "How long?"
"Fifteen minutes, if they stay alive."
I looked down at Zhan—sweat pooling at his temples, lips pale but not blue. Just as planned. Ezra was still convulsing lightly, and Dre was ghost-white, gripping the side of the stretcher. All part of the show.
I pulled out my phone in the chaos and sent my father a text:
—They're en route. Phase Two begins now.
No reply, but I didn't need one.
By the time we hit flat land, we'd crossed into town limits. The hospital appeared through a wall of snow like a lighthouse in fog—cold and modern, but full of life. The guards jumped out first, shouting for help.
"Code Red—three inmates in cardiac trauma!"
Nurses poured out with gurneys and I helped lift Zhan out first, brushing my fingers along his cheek. His eyes fluttered open for a second.
"We're out," I whispered.
He blinked slowly. Hope flickered there. Or maybe relief.
We made it in 15 minutes.
But now came the part no medication could control:
What happens when the world outside starts asking why three men with no sentences, no records, and no names had been locked in silence for years?
And why the man who got them out... was just a doctor.
The private wing was silent, muffled by reinforced walls and thick carpeting. Top floor, no neighbors, no questions. My father had arranged it all—discreet, cash-first, no names. Just a doctor with three critical patients and a well-funded private ward in a hospital that never asked the wrong questions.
Room 8A. Triple suite. They lay in three beds, side by side, monitors beeping a slow, steady rhythm. No more emergencies. No more alarms.
Just them. Just us.
I closed the door behind me, pulled the blinds shut, and reached into my coat pocket.
Three small syringes. Clear. Precise. The antidote.
Neutrophenine-A. A stabilizer that works fast—reverses all synthetic tachycardia symptoms, flushes out the Metropine compounds. Within fifteen minutes they'd be upright, maybe dizzy, but stable. Conscious.
Alive.
I moved first to Zhan. He was always the stillest, even in sleep. A fortress in human form. I leaned down, pressing my hand against the curve of his arm, and injected the serum slowly. His lashes fluttered almost instantly. He frowned, shifted, and breathed deeper.
Then Dre. His face was tight with pain even in unconsciousness, as if the weight of everything still sat heavy in his chest. I whispered, "You're safe," before sliding the needle in. His hands twitched. A grunt escaped his lips.
Ezra last. His body was weaker, slower to react. I took my time, held his wrist after the injection until I felt the pulse even out beneath my fingers. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open just yet.
I stepped back, breath held, watching them.
10 Minutes passed.
Then—Zhan groaned, head turning. Dre blinked and coughed. Ezra stirred, barely audible.
I stood there, heart racing, eyes burning.
"You're okay," I whispered, voice shaking now. "You're really okay."
Zhan's eyes found mine first—groggy but sharp. "Wang?"
I smiled and nodded. "We made it."
He didn't speak. Just lifted one hand weakly toward me, and I didn't hesitate—I took it in mine and squeezed.
They were alive. They were here.
And we were not going back.