“Miss Song, this way.”  

Speaking in a hushed tone to Song Zhining, afraid of being spotted by the paparazzi and anti-fans blocking the front entrance, Su Jing led her on a detour. They entered through the underground parking lot at the back of the complex before taking the elevator up.  

“After the incident, I’ve been using this route. So far, the paparazzi and anti-fans don’t know about it.”  

If they found out, this path would be blocked too, making it even harder for him to visit Xingyi.  

After all, he was Shen Xingyi’s assistant—something they were well aware of.   

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor. Su Jing led Song Zhining to Unit 702. Standing at the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if conflicted. Despite usually ringing the doorbell when Shen Xingyi was home, this time, he chose to use the spare key.  

“This key was given to me by Brother Shen.”  

The key felt heavy in his hand—a symbol of Shen Xingyi’s trust in him.  

With a soft click, the door opened.  

Su Jing stepped inside first, followed by Song Zhining.  

The apartment wasn’t large. From the entrance, the living room was immediately visible. Su Jing glanced around but didn’t see Shen Xingyi there. His eyes searched further before landing on the kitchen.  

But when he saw what was happening inside, his pupils constricted in horror.  

Tomatoes and noodles were scattered across the floor, along with shards of a broken plate. A figure stood with his side to them, a knife in one hand, the other raised as if about to bring it down.  

“Brother Shen, don’t do anything foolish!”  

Su Jing rushed forward and snatched the knife from Shen Xingyi’s grip.  

Shen Xingyi blinked, as if only just regaining awareness. When he lifted his face, his eyes met Song Zhining’s gaze behind Su Jing.  

His features looked as if they had been meticulously sculpted by Nuwa herself—delicate yet ethereal, with a purity untouched by worldly concerns. His fair skin seemed to glow with a pristine radiance, and his soft, fluffy golden hair only added to his angelic, docile appearance. There was an innate grace and beauty about him, as if he carried an otherworldly aura of serenity and perfection.  

Song Zhining thought that if there was one word to describe Shen Xingyi, it would be “an angel who had lost his way to the mortal world.”  

Seeming to realize belatedly that someone had entered, he recognized Su Jing. The corners of his lips, naturally soft and gentle, curved into a pale, tender smile as he spoke in a quiet voice, “Xiao Jing, why are you here?”  

But when his gaze landed on Song Zhining, perhaps because she was a stranger—or perhaps because of the trauma from being harassed by anti-fans and paparazzi—he took a slow step back, his entire body tensing like a startled cat.  

He appeared to be smiling, but Song Zhining could clearly see the unspeakable fragility hidden beneath. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, a few delicate rays falling across his face, as if etching faint scratches onto his nearly translucent, porcelain-like skin. He looked as fragile as glass on the verge of shattering.  

In this moment, the angel who had lost his way to the mortal world seemed broken and vulnerable, his beauty intertwined with pain. He seemed lost, searching in vain for his own salvation and peace.

Su Jing pulled Shen Xingyi to sit on the sofa while introducing Song Zhining.  

He reached to roll up Shen Xingyi’s sleeve to check, but Shen Xingyi pressed his hand down to stop him. He was painfully thin, his white shirt hanging loosely over his frame. The exposed wrist was delicate, almost skeletal.  

“Xiao Jing, you’ve misunderstood. I wasn’t doing anything foolish.”  

Su Jing’s eyes reddened instantly, tears falling one after another. When he looked up again, his face was already streaked with tears. “Brother Shen, how long are you going to keep hiding this from me? Do you still see me as your brother? You clearly have depression—you’re hallucinating and self-harming. Why didn’t you tell me?”  

“And now you’re still trying to hide it. If—if I had been even a second later, would you have left me forever?”  

“Xiao Jing, don’t cry…” Shen Xingyi, preoccupied with comforting Su Jing, finally relented and let him pull his hand away. The scars were immediately visible—several faint lines on both forearms. Some were old, already healing into ugly marks, while others were fresher, not yet fully closed, with traces of blood still seeping out.  

“Brother Shen, if you still consider me your brother, don’t hide things from me anymore…”  

……  

After a long silence, Song Zhining sat quietly on the sofa at a distance while Su Jing, still crying, carefully disinfected Shen Xingyi’s wounds with iodine. Under Su Jing’s pleading, Shen Xingyi finally began to explain his condition.  

Shen Xingyi did indeed have depression—though he hadn’t seen a doctor, he had diagnosed himself.  

Loss of appetite, insomnia, persistent melancholy… At first, Shen Xingyi hadn’t paid much attention. But then came the hallucinations and auditory delusions, followed by the first instance of self-harm. Only then did he realize he might be suffering from depression.  

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Su Jing demanded, his face still wet with tears.  

Shen Xingyi fell silent. Why hadn’t he spoken up? Perhaps because he didn’t want to worry Su Jing, the only person who still cared for him like a brother. Or perhaps because, trapped in the quagmire of his own mind, he had felt powerless—too exhausted to struggle, resigned to sinking deeper, thinking it might be better to just let himself drown.  

This year, the weariness had seeped into his bones, into his very soul. He… was barely holding on anymore.

Today, thinking of Xiao Jing, he had finally mustered the will to pull himself together. Having not eaten for two straight days, he decided to make himself a bowl of tomato and egg noodles in the kitchen. But at that moment, hallucinations and auditory delusions struck again—suddenly, it felt like the room was filled with people attacking him, cursing him, each one screaming: “Shen Xingyi, someone like you doesn’t deserve to live. You should just die.”

Struggling in vain, he eventually ended up in the state Su Jing and Song Zhining had walked in on.  

“…Xiao Jing, I’m sorry. I made you worry.” Shen Xingyi reached out, took a tissue, and gently wiped the tears from Su Jing’s face. “Don’t cry.”  

Su Jing grabbed the tissue and roughly wiped his own face before standing up, putting away the first aid kit. “I won’t cry. Brother Shen, the truth is, it’s not just me who still believes in you. Miss Song Zhining and her friends—they’ve gathered some evidence. Once we release it, we can clear your name.”  

“Assistant Su, why don’t you show Brother Shen the evidence? I’ll go make him a fresh bowl of noodles,” Song Zhining suggested.  

She felt that, at this moment, Shen Xingyi would feel safest with Su Jing. And considering he hadn’t eaten in two days, even if he had no appetite, he still needed to force something down to replenish his energy.  

“Alright, Miss Song. Make extra—the three of us can eat together.”  

“Got it.”  

……  

Shen Xingyi, who had initially held no hope, stood frozen after reviewing all the evidence.  

He hadn’t expected the proof to be so thorough. Su Jing was right—if released properly, this would indeed restore his reputation.  

But Shen Xingyi also knew just how difficult it must have been to obtain these materials.  

Only someone who truly cared about him would go to such lengths, fighting for him like this.  

His eyes lifted, landing on the girl walking out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of noodles. His vision blurred, his heart softening into something fragile. So there were still people who believed in him—people who had quietly worked to help him.  

At that moment, Shen Xingyi—who had been powerless, sinking in the mire—suddenly felt strength pouring back into him.