A hospital bed is the cruelest instrument of torture—it interrogates your will and makes you forget time.
Marcus Shaw didn't know how long he'd been lying there. When he woke, he felt pinned to the board, pain crashing over him like a tidal wave with nowhere to hide.
The CT scan showed his fourth and fifth ribs on the right side were fractured, causing moderate diaphragmatic damage. The pain was unbearable; only painkillers offered any relief.
But as soon as the medication wore off, the pain hatched fresh, and he had to tough it out until he couldn't take any more, then get another injection.
Nora kept vigil by his bedside, disheveled, not sleeping a wink all night.
When the news came that Viktor Dunn had died despite emergency efforts, the doctor had just finished fitting Marcus Shaw's traction brace.
Marcus Shaw screamed and tried to get out of bed, desperate to see Vik one last time. But no one had to stop him—the moment he moved, the pain was overwhelming. He couldn't even sit up.
Beyond the knife wound to Vik's intestines, the bullet had struck his lung. By the time he reached the hospital, he'd lost so much blood that he seemed to be soaking in it, the entire stretcher soaked through.
Marcus Shaw could do nothing but lie in bed and weep. But there was phlegm in his throat, his breathing was shallow, and every sob sent a knife of pain through his side. He couldn't even cry properly.
He regretted asking Vik to come support him.
Vik, unable to wait for backup, worried that Marcus Shaw might be overpowered alone, insisted on tracking him down first. If he'd arrived just a bit later, maybe he wouldn't have died.
Guilt pressed down on Marcus Shaw like an invisible stone slab, pinning him, suffocating him.
He kept replaying Vik's words through blood-stained lips—how hard he'd tried to sound upbeat, while his eyes brimmed with fear and helplessness. That hand, bigger than Marcus Shaw's, gripping tight, as if unwilling to let go of this world.
And his final words, echoing over and over: "That bullet—I've paid you back."
That bullet—I've paid you back.
It had happened when Viktor Dunn had just joined the force. The two of them were ordered to arrest a group of drug users.
They'd burst through the door to find two men and one woman floating on their highs, six eyes glazed. While subduing them, Marcus Shaw made a tactical error in their positioning. One of the men suddenly went berserk, grabbed a knife—and lunged at Vik's neck.
In that split second, Marcus Shaw drew his gun and fired, hitting the man square in the forehead.
Only afterward did he realize: it was a plastic knife. A children's toy, harmless.
The incident resulted in disciplinary action. Though the situation had been urgent and it was difficult to assess the weapon, the organization ruled that Marcus Shaw could have taken more appropriate measures. Opening fire was deemed serious negligence.
The promotion to First-Class Inspector he'd been on track for was torn away. Instead, he was demoted to Second-Class Officer—a rank even below the newly minted Viktor Dunn.
The branch office set up a special remediation team, negotiating multiple times with the victim's family and ultimately paying a large settlement. Through mediation and pleading, Marcus Shaw was allowed to stay on under observation—but he would never be issued a firearm again.
Viktor Dunn felt he owed Marcus Shaw a tremendous debt. From then on, he was diligent and devoted, making himself Marcus Shaw's loyal sidekick.
Little did anyone expect that this time, Viktor Dunn would repay that debt in full—and then some.
But Marcus Shaw would rather he'd kept on owing, kept following him around, loud and full of nonsense, oblivious to social cues, inappropriate at every turn.
The day of Viktor Dunn's funeral, the sun shone bright—cloudless, the sky like a vast mirror, making the heart feel wide open.
Marcus Shaw could barely get out of bed, but he bore the pain and insisted they help him into his police uniform. He was wheeled into the ceremony.
On the headstone, Viktor Dunn wore his uniform and cap, those small eyes—still seeming to smile.
Marcus Shaw didn't cry. He gave a solemn salute.
Viktor Dunn's mother said, "The girl Vik was seeing—she wanted to come today too, but I told her no. I said, forget him. You should start a new life."
Marcus Shaw was silent for a long while. Then he said, "From now on, treat me as your son. I won't let Woody die for nothing."
---
The second blow followed hard on the first.
The knife wound to his father's leg hadn't hit an artery, but during the various examinations, they discovered advanced liver cancer—already metastasized.
Marcus Shaw remembered his father had never been able to quit drinking. He'd had episodes of diarrhea, fatigue, and chest pains. Marcus Shaw had tried repeatedly to take him to the hospital, but his father avoided doctors, always saying he was fine, sneaking drinks on the sly.
The family and doctors had kept the diagnosis from him, but he seemed to have guessed it himself. His spirit flagged, and his body deteriorated rapidly—over 150 pounds down to skin and bones. He should have been discharged before Marcus Shaw, but by the time Marcus Shaw could stand again, his father was running a fever that wouldn't break, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Until one day, he suddenly grew lucid and wanted to speak with Marcus Shaw.
Marcus Shaw took his father's hand and listened as he said with unusual clarity: "Stop blaming your mother."
"Dad, have some soup."
His father waved his hand. "Leave it. There's something I need to tell you."
Marcus Shaw let him continue. "Your mother was the eldest daughter in her family. Her father died young. She and her mother relied on each other, raising several younger siblings. She loved singing and dancing since she was little—when she was fourteen, a good opportunity came along. But for the family's sake, after weighing everything, she chose to give it up and started working very young."
His father paused to catch his breath. "A girl her age, using galvanized steel to make buckets and watering cans—bending and hammering, her hands covered in cuts, her fingers bruised and scraped. Her whole first half of life, she lived for others. It was only after she married me that she slowly allowed herself to do the things she'd never had the chance to do. In the end, she was just making up for her own lost youth. She didn't do anything wrong."
Marcus Shaw said nothing. His father continued: "To be honest, I'm ashamed. She didn't have it easy with me, either... I wanted children, but she was diagnosed as infertile."
Marcus Shaw felt as if he'd been struck by lightning, staring at his father.
"Yes. You and Danny—both adopted. My parents pressured me to divorce her. I refused. Eventually, we discussed it and chose this path."
Marcus Shaw began to tremble. Without realizing it, he'd jarred his injured ribs, and a lance of pain shot through his side.
"At the time, my parents had already pulled strings to figure out the adoption process. Your mother knew I loved kids, and in the end, she agreed. We adopted you first—you were barely over a year old, so thin, not even twenty pounds. The whole family was overjoyed, fumbling over each other, running in circles. But not long after, I was reassigned to Guangzhou on a big project—no one else could go, they needed me to oversee it. That assignment lasted more than nine years. When you were five, your grandparents worried you'd be lonely, so they arranged for Danny to be adopted too."
Marcus Shaw hazily recalled that there'd been a stretch when his mother seemed to disappear—she'd said she was going far away to take care of his father. When she returned, she was carrying a baby brother.
As he was thinking, his father's hand began to tremble: "I always thought the four of us would be happy together. But then one day, your mother suddenly told me that both of your existences were a humiliation to her—a constant reminder that she was a barren hen, an incomplete woman, unqualified to be a mother..."
At this, his father began coughing—hacking, terrifying sounds, as though some organ might come flying out, his whole frame threatening to shake apart. Marcus Shaw, in pain, tried to get up and call a doctor, but the withered hand clasped his, motioning him to sit.
After a long while, his father finally calmed. The eyes, sunken into their sockets, looked as though iodine had been dripped into them—murky, bottomless.
He looked at Marcus Shaw with tenderness: "It's my fault. I never considered what was in her heart. I made her suffer alongside me. I adopted both of you, but then I chased money, neglected you all, left the household to her alone. I was a failure—both as a husband and as a father." And then he was coughing again.
Marcus Shaw started coughing too, reaching out to stroke his father's chest. He thought his father looked like an exhausted old ox—gentle, docile, fed on memories but still ruminating on a lifetime of regrets.
"You can be angry with me, hate me even. But when I'm gone, don't abandon your mother. Even though there's no blood relation—she has only you for a son."
Marcus Shaw's eyes swam with tears, but he didn't speak.
His father went on: "Your mother—she grew up stubborn and quick-tempered. She never learned how to express affection. When Danny died, she was grieving too. She'd hide by herself and pore through your old photo albums. I caught her at it more than once. But I knew her nature, so I never raised it—I pretended I didn't notice. She's spent her whole life masking herself, swallowing every hardship. Just like you. Several times I tried to tell you, but you'd always cut me off. The moment never seemed right."
Marcus Shaw sniffed, turned his face away, and quickly wiped his eyes.
"Blame me. Never blame your mother."
Marcus Shaw finally spoke: "No—I stopped blaming you long ago. But I... I never knew about Mother..."
His father gripped his son's hand, his voice trembling: "Good, good. As long as you don't blame her. No matter what, we're still a family."
Marcus Shaw gripped his father's hand and nodded again and again.
Just then, Helen Shaw opened the door and came in, red-eyed, her face questioning. Marcus Shaw dried his tears, and his father gave his hand another squeeze.
"Mom, you didn't sleep at all last night. Go home and rest. I can stay here."
His mother froze, as if she'd misheard. After a long moment, she recovered and said quickly, "I'm fine, I'm fine. I'll just sit and nap for a bit."
Silence filled the room. Then she added: "You... you shouldn't tire yourself out either."
That midnight, Arthur Shaw stopped breathing.
When Marcus Shaw found out, he couldn't keep his footing. He fell and rebroke a rib, landing back in a hospital bed.
Helen Shaw went entirely numb. She stood in the doorway, unable to speak.
Nora offered a few words of comfort, then rushed out sobbing to handle the paperwork.
Marcus Shaw pulled the blanket over his head—like a little white hill, trembling with each sob.
Helen Shaw hesitated, then walked over, reached through the blanket to touch his head, and said through her tears: "If you need to cry, then cry. Go on, child, don't be afraid." She gently pulled the blanket back.
Marcus Shaw's face was flushed crimson. His father's death had cracked open the dam of his emotions.
His voice cracking, he said: "It's my fault. I didn't protect Danny, and I didn't protect Dad. It was always just me and Danny. Once, when I had appendicitis, he cried and said he didn't know what he'd do without me. But he never knew—I needed him more than he needed me. He gave my life meaning. Otherwise, I always felt like nobody in this family needed me..."
His mother gently patted him: "That's not true. That's not true. It's my fault."
Marcus Shaw went on: "After he died, I'd dream about him. Playing basketball together. Him asking me to help with little things, then smiling and saying, 'Marcus Shaw, you're amazing—you're the best brother in the world.' I always wanted to be that good, but I still couldn't protect him. I couldn't protect Woody. And now Dad... but I really tried."
His mother gathered him in her arms: "You did well. I've always known. When I was young, I was like you—always trying to be strong, thinking nothing in the world could bring me down. But when you can't hold on anymore, you have to set things down for a moment and catch your breath. It's okay. Really, it's okay..."
Marcus Shaw clung to his mother's arm and felt as if he'd contracted a terrible cold, then swallowed a huge bowl of scalding ginger soup. The block of ice inside him melted in an instant, draining out through his tear ducts, through his pores—leaving him exhausted to the bone, yet somehow profoundly relieved.
As if from a distance, he heard his mother add: "You're a good brother, a good police officer. And I believe you can be a good son, a good husband, even a good father—Nora is pregnant. Over three months. She found out a few days ago but didn't dare tell you... Remember, it's not just Danny who needs you. We all do."