Though he was propping himself up, his breathing was hot and his face pale.
His recovery took longer each time—confirming my suspicion that this death-and-resurrection ability wouldn't last forever.
I put the ready meal in the microwave and brought him water and fever medicine.
He swallowed the ibuprofen without asking what it was.
"The Green Gang couldn't have military-grade weapons like that. Someone might be trafficking imported firearms to them, or the Green Gang is working directly for foreigners."
His eyes were wet, but his gaze stayed fixed on my face—making me forget every word of the speech I'd prepared about asking him to stay.
I could only manage, dryly: "Victor, you haven't fully recovered yet. Rest a bit more."
His breathing was heavy, his thoughts more chaotic. After finding me, he couldn't bear to wait another moment.
He pulled on his military boots. When he stood, something probing entered his eyes:
"Oliver might not know the full situation. I need to go back now."
I watched the door behind me begin to glow in Victor's pupils.
3.
The Green Gang's ambush, the speeding car, bullets raining from all directions, Victor's blood-soaked body—every scene lay just beyond that door.
My nails dug into my palms. I swallowed every word that might keep him and instead said:
"Opening that door could be dangerous. You should rest more—at least eat first?"
I took the ready meal out of the microwave.
He sat down as I asked and ate in silence.
The silence was suffocating.
I brought out the digital watch and carefully strapped it onto his left wrist:
"This is a watch from my era. See? This little panel is a solar cell. As long as there's sunlight, it charges. A few hours in the sun gives you a full charge, and it'll keep running for seven or eight cloudy days."
He frowned, taking it off to examine it: "This doesn't look like something a grown man should wear."
The black background with a red Iron Man design was indeed not very mature.
"Then let me give your watch back."
I tried to unstrap the men's watch from my wrist: "This watch is too valuable, and you're busy. You need to be able to check the time. You can't be without a watch."
He caught my hand.
Finally, his probing turned into a heavy sigh:
"Not everything that's given can be taken back."
I froze, realizing he'd sensed my hesitation.
The person who'd just promised him daily dates was already reluctant to follow him the next day.
A man as proud as him—he must be angry.
He picked up the digital watch again, studied the back, and read the English: "Water proof."
His tone carried a cold edge of mockery.
"Your era really is something. A little gadget like this—no charging, no winding, and it's waterproof."
His appetite gone, he set down the half-eaten meal, stood, and put the digital watch on himself.
"I'll accept it. If you won't come with me, at least I'll have a little token to remember you by."
My body went rigid. My tongue went numb.
I watched helplessly as he opened my door.
He stood in the doorway, back to me, head slightly turned—as if waiting for my final word.
Beyond the door lay the three-way intersection where he'd been shot, now bustling with traffic.
His gray sweatshirt was incongruous with the world beyond.
My mind raced through countless possibilities.
Follow him back, face that strange and dangerous era together.
Or stay behind with regret, praying for a miracle—praying he'd appear in my home once more through death.
Clearly, I couldn't work this out in time.
Some decisions can only be made on instinct. Whether they're right or wrong, you spend a lifetime verifying.
Instinct told me that beautiful, dangerous world called to me like fire to a moth.
But intuition told me that if I missed this door, I'd miss him forever.
If I didn't fight for what I loved with everything I had, what was the point of living a mediocre life?
I made my decision. I turned to grab the medicine, ready to sprint after him.
But as I turned, a large hand lifted me by the waist and threw me over his shoulder.
His legs were strong and long—even a casual stroll was faster than my jogging.
He was still feverish, but his arms were as strong as ever.
"Wait! I haven't grabbed everything yet!"
I struggled, watching the door close by degrees until it became a brick wall that blended seamlessly with its surroundings.
He strode forward, breathing hard, fingers pressing my kicking legs firmly in place.
I tried to explain myself nicely. He listened to none of it.
Every word that reached his ears was an excuse.
"Call it selfish..."
His voice was hoarse—
"I wanted to let go, but... I can't."
He hated betrayal most. He'd thought I'd follow without hesitation.
And he was most insecure—because he genuinely wanted a safe, stable life for me.
"If you can't decide, let me decide for you. Let me be the villain."
He didn't stop until we reached the nearest military outpost, where he found a car. He pushed my head down and tossed me inside.
He braced one hand on the seat, leaning over me, the other cradling my face, warm thumb stroking my cheek.
My head was upside down, blood rushing, stars in my eyes, throat too tight for words.
Seeing his own behavior as dishonorable, he sought one last excuse:
"You said you'd be my woman. There's no taking that back."
He made a phone call, then got directly into the driver's seat.
He said nothing, one hand on the wheel, the other propped against the window.
He was not a free man. As the Young Marshal, his life was tied to more than just himself.
4.
The silence in the car was deafening.
I steadied my emotions and asked gently: "Where are we going now?"
After a long pause, he answered: "A safe place. An absolutely safe place."
His eyes were cold, sweat still on his temples, but his tone was not weak at all—even mocking.
As if I were a cowardly woman, and he'd finally seen my true nature.
I started to argue.
I bit my lip, but didn't know where to begin.
So I just turned to look out the window.
I mourned the medicine I'd walked over ten kilometers to collect, now abandoned. And I was angry that he wouldn't listen to my explanation.
His emotions were even more complex.
He was probably hating my hesitation.
Hating that the human heart can't withstand testing.
We were each nursing our own grievances—and they had nothing in common.
The car passed the fork toward the Wusongkou docks, then continued north for over a hundred li. The landscape outside could only be described as wild and desolate.
Yet Victor navigated it expertly, turning into an unmarked dirt road, passing through several checkpoints, and entering a heavily guarded compound.
These buildings nestled against rolling hills. The mountains held north-south tunnels, the terrain extremely complex.
I learned later that this place was called Mount Fan. It housed troops and a newly built munitions factory—still in its early stages, but already producing ten thousand rounds of ammunition daily.
Beneath these buildings were bottomless interrogation rooms and dungeons—the stuff of nightmares for spies and traitors.
The car drove directly to the dormitories behind the headquarters.
Victor hauled me out. His grip was iron—he had no intention of slowing down for me.
I trailed behind him like a kite on a string.
Finally, he dropped me in a dormitory room.
"Stay here. Don't go anywhere."
He summoned two patrolling guards and stationed them outside my door.
I stared at the shabby, sparse room, feeling humiliated: "Am I your prisoner now?"
I rushed to the door, but the guards crossed their arms to block me.
He paused, not looking back: "If that's how you want to think of it."
I stomped my foot, so frustrated I was hyperventilating, tears spilling uselessly.
Not because I was truly heartbroken—I'd always cried easily when angry.
But my tear ducts and brain operated independently. Crying didn't stop me from thinking clearly.
The door was half-open. The two guards looked awkward, wanting to close it but not daring.
I turned back into the room.
A bookshelf covered the entire east wall. In front of it sat a peeling desk and a heavy wooden chair.
A thin wooden bed was crammed beneath the south window.
On the west side were the bathroom and shower.
I wiped my tears and went to examine the bookshelf.
Military academy texts, German, English— densely annotated, bookmarks tucked between pages.
When I pulled a book out, a black-and-white photograph fell from the shelf.
It showed a young man at his graduation, standing beside an older youth.
On the back: "Regiment Commander Li Yeyuan congratulates Young Master Victor on his military academy graduation, Shanghai Second Regiment."
I'd heard this name somewhere before but couldn't quite place it. So I called out: "One of you, come in here."