By midnight, a violent fever began to take hold of Ning's broken body. Her skin turned a translucent, waxy white, and her breath came in short, rattling gasps that tore through the silence of the warehouse. Xuan didn't leave her side to find medicine; his extreme level of jealousy wouldn't allow him to step past the rusted door, fearing that the moment he left, a "savior" would materialize from the shadows to snatch her back. "Don't leave me, Xuan... the water is so cold," she deluded, her eyes rolling back as she gripped his shirt with a strength born of pure terror. Xuan rocked her back and forth, his own tears—hot and thick with a possessive misery—falling onto her burning forehead. "I'm not leaving! I'll burn this city before I let them find us!" he roared at the empty rafters. The misunderstanding of her illness tore at his sanity; he saw her shivering not as a physical reaction to the river, but as a subconscious yearning for the warmth of the hospital, for the safety of the Wei family's "mercy." He began to kiss her face with a manic intensity, trying to breathe his own heat into her lungs. "You're mine! Even the fever belongs to me!" he hissed, his face a mask of extreme anger and devotion. Ning's extreme level of cryingness subsided into a low, broken moan as she drifted into an unconsciousness where only Xuan's voice existed. He sat there in the dark, a predatory ghost guarding a dying queen, ready to kill anyone—doctor or devil—who dared to interrupt their private apocalypse.
