Chapter 2: Illness

They plunged together into a frenzy of depravity.

The moment he saw Shen Yi, Shen Muyun remembered that he had a follow-up appointment with the doctor today.

Last night’s dream had left its mark. The word “doctor” sent a quick shiver through him, and he couldn’t help wrapping his arms around himself again.

“What’s wrong?” Shen Yi took half a step forward, blocking the wind from the door. “Too drafty?”

The distance between them closed considerably. Shen Yi’s tall frame cast a long shadow that completely enveloped Shen Muyun, dispelling the unease left by the nightmare.

Feeling somewhat better, Shen Muyun shook his head, his face pale. “Nothing. Just a bit cold.”

Shen Yi’s brow furrowed slightly. His dark green eyes were half-lidded, gazing down with burning intensity and silence.

His features weren’t particularly striking, but they were exceptionally pleasing to the eye—especially his unique eyes: long and narrow, with thick lashes and large, round pupils. When he looked at someone, his focus was absolute. They had caught Shen Muyun’s attention at first glance during the interview, which was precisely why he had so easily secured the assistant position.

Shen Muyun held his gaze for a few seconds, then felt a prickling sensation across his scalp. A strange impulse arose—an urge to lick those pupils. He guiltily looked away.

Shen Yi spoke in a steady, almost robotic cadence, laying out the day’s tasks: “It’s eight-forty now. We need to be at the private clinic by ten. The follow-up should end around eleven-thirty. Lunch at noon. Art symposium at two in the afternoon. Work ends at five, after which I’ll drive you home.”

Shen Muyun was distracted, those beautiful dark green pupils still swimming before his eyes. “Mm.”

Shen Yi: “Go take a shower now.”

Shen Muyun: “Mm—… Mm?”

He looked up at Shen Yi again, confused. “Shower?”

Shen Yi reached out and tucked the damp hair at Shen Muyun’s temple behind his ear, his rough fingertip deliberately brushing across his delicate skin. “Sweat,” he said succinctly.

Shen Muyun blinked, his ears turning slightly red. He stepped aside to invite Shen Yi into the living room to wait, then went back to the bedroom to shower.

As he hurried upstairs, he happened to glance at the vase by the staircase. The glossy glaze reflected the scene behind him:

His taciturn assistant appeared to be watching him with fervent eyes—even raising his right hand to slip the finger that had just brushed his skin into his mouth…

Shen Muyun stopped abruptly and turned around.

—Shen Yi sat on the sofa, head down, scrolling through his phone. No peeking. No finger-licking.

Another illusion, Shen Muyun thought.

He took a deep breath, suppressing his racing heart, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door from the inside.

…

Half an hour later, they left the house.

Shen Muyun didn’t actually have much work. He was a moderately well-known painter with a position at an art school, but due to his health, his teaching schedule was minimal. Most of the time, he stayed home painting. Only when his mental state was relatively stable did he go out to attend exhibitions or handle academic affairs at the school.

Being his assistant was extremely easy—its main purpose was to reassure his mother. Usually, the job simply required functioning as a human alarm clock, calling to remind him to take his medication, get some rest, or go to his follow-up appointments.

Shen Yi didn’t need to accompany him to the check-ups; that wasn’t part of an assistant’s responsibilities.

Shen Muyun opened the car door and slid into the back seat. Out of habit, he wrapped his arms around his knees, curling into the gap between the door and the seat, and muttered listlessly, “Next time, just send me a message. You don’t need to come in when there’s no filming.”

There was a driver up front. Shen Yi sat beside him in the back, watching his defensive posture from the corner of his eye, and said, “Personal assistant.”

Shen Muyun: “?”

“Personal,” Shen Yi repeated, enunciating each word. “Assistant. Your life is my responsibility.”

Shen Muyun: “…”

He was silent for a few seconds, then let out a soft laugh. He didn’t say anything more, just lowered his head and buried his face between his knees.

Perhaps the hallucination on the vase had rattled him, but his already unstable mental state was deteriorating badly.

It was mid-May, and the weather was growing hotter. Yet Shen Muyun wore a thin sweater and still seemed to feel cold, his body trembling slightly.

The driver glanced through the rearview mirror and, seeing his posture, asked considerately, “Should I turn off the air conditioning?”

Shen Muyun didn’t answer.

After a moment, the driver heard indistinct, fragmented syllables escaping from his throat—as if he were chanting some eerie incantation.

The driver shuddered, quickly turned off the AC, and dared not look again, focusing intently on the road ahead.

About eight minutes after they merged onto the highway, the strange sounds from the back seat gradually subsided.

Unable to resist, the driver glanced back again and saw that the new assistant had somehow pulled Shen Muyun into a gentle embrace. His large hand moved back and forth across his back and waist—a gesture laden with unmistakable, unspoken meaning.

And Shen Muyun was no longer trembling. He just leaned heavily against Shen Yi, head bowed, as if he had fallen asleep.

…

When he woke, Shen Muyun found himself lying in Shen Yi’s arms.

The car had long since stopped in the familiar parking lot. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Only the two of them remained inside.

Shen Yi held him motionlessly, his arms encircling him. His body was cold, his heartbeat extremely slow. The skin where they touched was so smooth it conjured images of a serpent after shedding its skin. His dark green eyes stared fixedly at Shen Muyun, as if trying to suck in not just his soul.

A nameless fear rose in Shen Muyun, like a beast’s gaze fixed on his back. He sat up abruptly, retreating quickly to the corner of the seat, his voice unsteady: “Did I… fall asleep?”

Shen Yi looked away. “Mm.”

The conversation ended there. Shen Yi got out first and held the door open for Shen Muyun. “Boss, I’ll wait for you here.”

Shen Muyun nodded and walked toward the elevator alone.

He could feel Shen Yi’s gaze fixed on him without moving. But when he stepped into the elevator and turned around, the spot by the car was empty—Shen Yi, who had been standing there moments ago, was gone.

…Had he gotten back in the car?

The private parking garage was so quiet he could only hear his own breathing. Shen Muyun squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again, trying to see if anyone was inside the car. But the elevator doors had already closed silently and begun their smooth ascent.

He must have gotten back in, Shen Muyun thought with a slow sigh.

…

This private clinic had only three floors. Every visit was eerily silent; there were almost no nurses or other patients in sight. The decor didn’t resemble a medical facility at all—more like one of those private beauty salons that specialized in fleecing the gullible.

If it weren’t for the fact that someone he knew had been cured of a difficult illness here and had strongly praised Director Shen Jia’s medical skills, Shen Muyun would never have come to a place like this for treatment.

The elevator stopped on the third floor. He walked to the familiar consultation room, knocked, and heard a gentle, magnetic voice from inside say, “Come in.”

Because of his dream, Shen Muyun felt a heavy pressure about this place.

He hesitated for a long moment before gripping the door handle. But the person inside had clearly grown impatient—the door swung open just before he could pull it.

Shen Muyun’s vision was suddenly blocked. A mysterious, subtle fragrance filled his nostrils instantly. Someone embraced him entirely, pressing their cheek enthusiastically against his, and whispered beside his ear with a smile, “Long time no see, Yunyun. How has your health been?”

Shen Muyun absolutely hated physical contact, yet he didn’t feel repelled by Shen Jia’s embrace—perhaps because the perfume was pleasant.

He returned the embrace perfunctorily and said, “Good morning, Dr. Shen.”

Shen Jia released him quickly, gripping his shoulders as he looked him up and down.

“Hm… you don’t look well,” Shen Jia observed as he examined him. “Low blood temperature, sluggish metabolism. Your skin is giving off a…” He twitched his nostrils. “…tart scent—like a melancholy, pitiful grape.”

Shen Muyun: “…”

Shen Jia smiled.

He was refined and handsome, with lovely dark brown hair and sharp features that carried no hint of aggression. Especially when he smiled, the curve of his lips—like Shen Yi’s beautiful dark green eyes—could easily capture Shen Muyun’s attention.

His lips were full and sensual, with fine lip lines and a rosy hue full of vitality—a pale rose color that made one instinctively imagine their soft, warm texture.

As he smiled, he bent down to bring himself closer to Shen Muyun, whose gaze involuntarily drifted to the corner of his mouth.

“Worried about your illness? Yunyun, I have good news. I contacted my mentor in Country A and asked him to analyze your blood sample. The results came in this morning.” Shen Jia said with a smile. “Come, sit down, and I’ll explain it to you slowly.”

Shen Muyun was somewhat distracted. He glanced at Shen Jia’s smiling lips, then at the familiar furnishings around him. Uncomfortable, he sat down in the velvet armchair, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the examination table not far away.

…In last night’s dream, he had lain on that examination table.

Shen Jia’s beautiful lips had landed on his chest in the dream, their touch as soft as he had imagined—but devoid of any warmth, like a corpse crawling out of a freezer.

And his heart had been revived by that kiss. The tall, handsome Dr. Shen had soon transformed into some boneless cold-blooded creature, coiling around him layer by layer, using the tip of its tail to control his breathing, caressing every inch of his body, pulling him into a frenzy of depravity…

“Yunyun?”

Shen Muyun snapped back to reality and looked across the desk.

Shen Jia was watching him attentively. His features were clear, his limbs distinct—undoubtedly a member of the human species.

“You seem dazed,” Shen Jia said. “Were you listening to me?”

Shen Muyun took a deep breath, stiffly and quietly lowering his gaze to glance at the place where the burning, uncontrollable heat had subsided.

Good. I’m wearing casual pants today.

He shifted carefully in his chair, forcing the wild images out of his mind, and asked hoarsely, “Sorry—what were you saying?”

Shen Jia pushed the documents on his desk toward Shen Muyun. “I said, you won’t survive the year.”

Shen Muyun froze.

His brain hadn’t yet recovered from the fantasies. He just stared dully at Shen Jia’s lips. “…What?”

Shen Jia was still smiling as he gently announced his death sentence: “It’s May now. You probably won’t make it past this year. The livid spots are only the first step. Over the next seven months, your internal organs, your skin, your bones… will decay and dissolve like chocolate in high heat, little by little, until you turn into liquid.”

Shen Muyun took a few seconds to process this.

He showed no emotional reaction. Instead, he laughed—a sense of finality, like a shoe finally dropping. Calmly, he asked, “What’s the name of this disease?”

Shen Jia: “It doesn’t have one. You’re the first case in the world. Maybe we could name it after you… Let me think. How about Yun Syndrome?”

Shen Muyun: “…”

He laughed again, leaning back in his chair, his body relaxing. “Doctor, right now you sound like a health-supplement scammer.”

Shen Jia stared at his smile without blinking, his own smile deepening as he prepared to continue his explanation. But then Shen Muyun spoke again, softly:

“Still, I believe your diagnosis.”

Shen Jia paused slightly.

Under the desk, his trembling hands—quivering with excitement—stopped and curled into fists, puzzled. He had rehearsed today’s scene countless times in his mind. He was eager to see tears stream down his fragile beloved’s face, so he could take the poor dear into his arms, kiss his cheeks, soothe him with gentle words, present his treatment plan, and thus win his heart.

But Shen Muyun seemed utterly unmoved by the news.

“You believe my diagnosis?” he asked, puzzled.

Shen Muyun’s expression was dreamy, his gaze distant, as if he were looking through Shen Jia at something else.

Ever since his terminal diagnosis, his memory had become unreliable. He kept recalling bloody scenes, never sure whether they were hallucinations.

He hesitated for a few seconds, unsure whether to share these wild thoughts with his primary physician. But in the end, seduced by Shen Jia’s smile, he murmured softly, “Yes, I believe you. For the past twenty years, I’ve always felt that I died somewhere long ago… that something invisible has been sustaining my heart, allowing me to walk among the living like a normal person.”

“For twenty whole years. Maybe it’s burned through its fuel. Maybe its parts have gradually worn out. That’s why my heart is slowly stopping, and my body is losing its vitality, piece by piece.”

At this, he took a deep breath and blinked rapidly, trying to pull himself out of the cold sensation.

“You see, even you don’t know what this disease is called. Maybe it’s not a disease at all—but something like… sorcery. And I’m not sick. It’s just that, as the sorcery fades, I’m gradually revealing what I truly am.”

As he spoke, Shen Muyun stared at his own trembling fingertips, so he failed to notice: Shen Jia was gazing at him with a deep and dangerous look.

A long silence followed.

“Dr. Shen,” Shen Muyun looked up again, his tone serious, summoning the courage to ask the question that had been buried in his heart for so long:

“Could this illness mean that—I was always a corpse to begin with?”

“…”

Silence.

The two locked eyes, a current of darkness flowing between their gazes.

After a long moment, Shen Jia suddenly broke into an exaggerated smile. He rose from his chair, walked around the desk to Shen Muyun, and gently pressed his right hand against his left chest.

Unlike in the dream, in reality, the heart was beating—slow and strong.

Shen Muyun grew nervous, afraid that Shen Jia would say, “You’re a lunatic; you should see a psychiatrist.”

But Shen Jia didn’t.

He bent down, folding his nearly six-foot-three frame to ninety degrees, and pressed his soft lips against Shen Muyun’s chest—then, just as in the dream, lightly kissed the spot where the red mole lay, through the fabric.

No “serpent tail.” No fog. No dream.

The doctor was still the doctor. The heart was still the heart.

After the kiss, Shen Jia looked into Shen Muyun’s tear-streaked eyes and said with a smile, “Don’t be afraid, Yunyun. I will cure you. I’ll make your heart beat as lively as a newborn puppy’s.”

“…Beat forever and ever.”