Cao Xiaojun struggled through the door and collapsed onto the floor the moment he turned around.
Wu Ximei hurried over, her face paling at the sight of him covered in blood.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing, just a little injury.”
Leaning against the wall, he clutched his leg, trembling uncontrollably, forcing a bitter smile onto his face.
“It’s fine, just a flesh wound.”
Wu Ximei pulled down his pants and saw a deep gash on his right thigh, the skin and flesh torn open, blood soaking through his underwear.
“This—” Her eyes reddened with panic. “What do we do? We need to go to the hospital—”
“No hospitals. We can’t make any more noise,” Cao Xiaojun gripped her hand and shook his head, then slowly tilted his chin toward the table. “Give it to me. I’ll handle it myself.”
Wu Ximei obediently handed him the liquor bottle and pressed an old towel into his hand.
Cao Xiaojun took a deep breath, tipped the bottle, and let the pungent liquor pour over the wound, searing into his flesh.
He bit down on the towel, still gasping from the pain, his body jerking uncontrollably. Trembling, he knocked the back of his head against the wall to distract himself from the agony. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, his waxy face glistening with oil.
After pouring the liquor two or three times, the wound numbed, and the pain gradually dulled. He didn’t know if this would actually disinfect it, but it was all he could do for now.
Grabbing a strip of torn cloth, he wrapped it tightly around the wound, layer after layer, but blood still seeped through.
“It’s fine,” he panted, his lips pale, yet still trying to comfort her, patting Wu Ximei’s hand lightly. “It’s nothing, don’t worry. Just a small injury. It’ll heal in a couple of days.”
Wu Ximei crouched beside him, her lips trembling as she fought back tears. He quickly covered her mouth.
“Shh, don’t wake Tianbao.”
Their frail, sickly son, Cao Tianbao, was fast asleep in the small room next door.
Two days ago, Wu Ximei had secretly brought the child to this unfinished building to reunite with her husband, as planned.
Their escape had been part of the scheme. For half a year, they had carefully scouted for a hideout, gradually moving in daily necessities. This was their temporary refuge. Once the compensation money came through, they would vanish, leaving all their troubles behind.
Naturally, they couldn’t explain the situation to their son, but Tianbao didn’t mind.
All he knew was that his father had returned. He treated their desperate flight as an adventure. As long as his parents were with him, even sleeping in a drafty, unfinished room felt like fun.
Better yet, he didn’t have to go to school or the hospital for days. Every morning, he woke to find his parents by his side, not leaving for work. To him, these days were a blessing. Clutching his Ultraman figure, his chubby lips smacking, he giggled in his sleep.
Wu Ximei stroked his cheek and tucked the blanket around him before returning to the main room to help Cao Xiaojun clean the blood from his leg.
Suddenly, she remembered something. “Why did you call but not say anything?”
Cao Xiaojun froze, patting himself down, but couldn’t find the old phone. His face turned deathly pale.
Wu Ximei also froze, her hand hovering midair.
“You answered?” he asked hoarsely, clinging to a sliver of hope.
“Mm,” she bit her lip and lowered her head. “I thought it was you. I thought something had happened—”Cao Xiaojun slumped his shoulders, covering his face with his hands, his voice muffled.
“He knows. Hearing your voice, he must know. We can’t stay here anymore, can’t stay. We have to leave, quickly—”
Suddenly, he uncovered his face and looked at Wu Ximei.
“What about your end? Did the insurance go smoothly?”
Wu Ximei shook her head, her face sinking even lower.
“They might have figured something out too. When I went today, the insurance company kept stalling, wouldn’t give a straight answer. I think they might have reported it to the police. I got scared and ran—”
She abruptly lifted her head to look at him.
“Xiaojun, what do we do now? If the police suspect us too—”
“Next step…” He pondered, but the words wouldn’t come.
The plan was completely derailed.
He didn’t know what this fake Ni Xiangdong wanted by getting closer to him step by step. All he knew was that as long as this man was alive, the three of them would never have a peaceful day.
This stranger was a blade hanging over their heads, a ghost that wouldn’t leave, the vengeance and curse of the real Ni Xiangdong who had died. He made every remaining day of their lives filled with dread and chills, constantly fearing that the secret buried for over a decade would come to light.
As Tianbao grew day by day, what if one day he learned that the man he had always called “Dad” was actually his father’s killer?
He didn’t dare think about it. Wu Ximei was his wife, Cao Tianbao was his son. Even if he had to descend into hell alone, he would protect them.
They could have ended it all—just a little more, if he hadn’t hesitated then, if he had struck harder. But…
“No matter what, if the police are suspicious, we have to run first. Escape to another place,” he said to Wu Ximei. “Don’t worry about the money. I’ll figure it out. Just pack what’s essential. The day after tomorrow—no, the night after that—we’ll leave. Get out of here, go somewhere else, change our names, start over.”
She looked at him, lips trembling, the words on the tip of her tongue swallowed back, leaving only one syllable.
“Mm.”
It sounded like both an answer and a sigh.
Suddenly, she remembered he hadn’t eaten. Now that he was injured, he must be cold and weak.
Wu Ximei turned her head, searching around, wanting to cook something for him. But this temporary shelter was nothing like home. After rummaging, she only found half a bag of dried noodles.
She set up a small pot, lit a fire, and poured in all the water left in the plastic bucket.
This place had no water or electricity. The little they had was what she had secretly fetched from a puddle near the construction site at dusk, using a rope to lower a small bucket and draw it up bit by bit.
Bubbles rose as the water boiled, steam fogging up her eyes.
Behind her, Xiaojun’s voice grew faint. She hurried to check on him. Thankfully, his chest still rose and fell—probably just exhausted, he had fallen asleep. Moving quietly, she placed a pillow under his head and draped a blanket over him.
When she returned, she found the noodles in the pot had turned mushy, swollen and soft, breaking apart at the slightest touch.
She tried to scoop them into a bowl with chopsticks, but they kept breaking—pick up one strand, it snapped; try again, another snapped.
As the already meager noodles turned into a pot of mush, Wu Ximei grew more frantic. Her face felt damp, and she wiped it with her sleeve, only to realize it wasn’t sweat—it was her own tears, streaming down.Tears streamed uncontrollably, falling into the pot.
In the distance, a few firecrackers went off, their sudden explosions shattering the quiet night.
With the minor New Year approaching, there were always those who couldn't resist sneaking out in the dead of night, fueled by alcohol, to set off fireworks in the dark.
Wu Ximei was tilting the pot to pour its contents into a bowl when the sudden noise startled her. Her hand trembled, and the entire pot overturned onto the floor. The noodle soup slithered like agile snakes, spreading in all directions.
She frantically tried to gather the spilled liquid with her hands, but the scalding broth burned her fingertips red. Wincing in pain, she let go, and the soup scattered again, impossible to hold.
Cao Xiaojun woke up, leaning against the wall, watching her kneel there, futilely scooping at the spilled liquid, her face etched with sorrow.
He quietly moved closer, standing silently behind her.
"What—how did I—"
She turned to look at him, forcing a smile onto her face, but it was a smile laced with grief and tears.
"Look at me, so clumsy—I can't even do this simple thing right—"
Cao Xiaojun didn't speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, his bloodstained hands brushing through her disheveled bangs.
"Xiaojun, I—"
"I'm here. It's okay," he murmured, resting his chin on the back of her head. "Even if the sky falls, I'll hold it up for you. Nothing will happen. I promise, you'll be fine."
Wu Ximei turned and buried herself in his embrace, shaking her head desperately, her muffled sobs barely audible.
"Xiaojun, I want to be a good person too. I want to live an ordinary life. Why—why won't Heaven let me go? What sin did I commit to have to kill for survival?"
She bit down hard on the back of her hand, not daring to cry out loud, her thin body trembling violently.
"How did we—" she choked out between sobs, "how did we end up like this?"
Cao Xiaojun didn't answer. He held her tighter, staring blankly at the shadows on the wall.
The overturned night lamp cast their silhouettes onto the gray wall opposite, magnified and distorted. The two figures, entwined in a tight embrace, merged into a single, monstrous shadow—huge, twisted, like a faceless creature.
Even without a mirror, he could imagine what he looked like now: hair streaked with gray, face covered in grime, the eyes of a middle-aged man—bloodshot, weary, and indifferent.
As he listened to Wu Ximei's wails, he kept asking himself the same question in his heart:
How did a life that was once so good end up like this?
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