Chapter 197
She turned to leave, but Luo Ren called out to her.
“Mu Dai, stay and lie down with me for a while.”
Lie down? On the… hospital bed?
He said, “I can’t really sort things out right now, and I honestly don’t feel very good. But when I’m hurting, I still want the person closest to me to stay by my side.”
Mu Dai stood by the bed for a few seconds, then nodded.
She silently took off her coat and boots, carefully lifted the blanket, and lay down beside him. Luo Ren’s arm rested behind her. She tilted her head away slightly and asked, “Won’t I press on you?”
“No.”
Once she lay down, feeling the weight against her arm, she strangely felt at ease.
Mu Dai gently rested against him, curling her body, staying as close as she could without crowding him. The breath she’d been holding finally slipped out. Luo Ren struggled a little to turn his head, and his cheek—separated by her hair—lightly touched hers.
He said, “Little Pocket isn’t someone else. She’s not a girl I’d send you away to mourn. She’s like the blood that flowed out of me—painful, yes, but my life is still here.”
He understood. He knew. He even tried to turn around to comfort her.
Mu Dai’s eyes burned. She edged a little closer, feeling his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, burying her face in the snow-white hospital sheets that carried that distinct hospital smell.
She whispered, “Luo Ren, I’m not sad. I’m still whole. I don’t feel like I lost anything. This time, I just used what makes me different, sacrificed a piece to save the whole, and fought Leopard head-on.”
“But I know you must be hurting. So don’t be the always-composed Luo Xiaodao right now. You don’t have to hide it. I’m here with you.”
Luo Ren was silent for a long time.
Then he laughed softly, tightened his arm, and murmured, “Come a little closer.”
Mu Dai turned slightly. Luo Ren suddenly clamped a hand around her waist, buried his face into her neck, and bit down hard.
She shuddered in pain, clenched her teeth, about to ask, So you really are angry?—but the bite softened into lingering kisses before he finally let go.
She froze for a moment, then suddenly remembered that night in Fog Town, when he’d lost control before—when he’d demanded her fiercely.
She smiled, as if she’d glimpsed a hidden side of him, one he never showed the world.
Lowering her head to his ear, she whispered, “The old Luo Xiaodao wasn’t like this.”
Back then, he’d been patient and gentle, guiding her, leading her. Even his kisses were like a nocturne—measured, graceful, never missing a step.
“That’s because the girl back then was delicate, fragile, and cried easily. If I lost control, I was afraid I’d scare her.”
“And now?”
“Now we’re evenly matched. No need to hold back.”
He liked caring for gentle girls. He was willing to be courteous, to shield them like an umbrella, to protect them carefully.
But deep down—like a warrior yearning for the right battlefield—he longed for an equal: someone to love fiercely, to collide with, to conquer and be conquered by, to bite and mix blood and bone, chew it all up and swallow it whole, with gunfire raging at the edges and thunder cracking overhead.
Maybe this, too, was a hidden part of him.
He laughed out loud, then couldn’t stop coughing because of his weakness—but inside, he felt utterly satisfied.
News of Luo Ren waking up spread quickly. Over the next two days, almost everyone staggered their visits, taking turns coming to the hospital.
When the Fortune-Teller heard, he immediately asked in the group chat:
“So does this mean we can head to Fog Town to keep investigating the vicious slips? Seven times seven!”
The message made people break out in a sweat. No one understood why he was always so enthusiastic about thankless, exhausting work.
Luo Ren wanted to move forward too, but Mu Dai insisted he rest for at least three to five more days.
As usual, she split her time between the bar and Phoenix House. Every day she went to the hospital, bringing him soup she’d simmered herself, carefully ladling it into a clay bowl and stirring to cool it down.
Luo Ren asked, “You made this?”
“Yep.”
“You know how to?”
“I learned.”
The patient bulletin board downstairs was full of tonic soup recipes—and there were plenty of video tutorials online.
Cao Yanhua chimed in sarcastically, “Little Master, don’t add too much salt. Though even if it tastes awful, Brother Luo will still praise it and drink it with tears in his eyes.”
That’s how it goes in TV dramas.
Mu Dai sneered. “Do I look stupid? I taste it myself before taking it off the stove.”
When they left, Cao Yanhua grabbed the thermos and darted into the elevator. Mu Dai, hands in her pockets, took the stairs at an unhurried pace.
After just a few steps, someone called her name.
It was Aoki.
Mu Dai stopped.
Aoki walked up, then awkwardly stepped back two paces. His face flushed bright red. Suddenly, he bent deeply at the waist and bowed.
“I’m very sorry. I looked down on you before and said many rude things.”
Oh? Why the sudden change?
Mu Dai thought for a moment and understood. She’d deliberately dragged things out, never explaining herself to Aoki—but Luo Ren wouldn’t have stayed silent.
She smiled. “It’s nothing.”
She turned, pushed open the door, and headed downstairs, feeling she’d handled things perfectly—graceful and detached. Inevitably, she felt a little pleased with herself, her steps light, smiling the whole way down.
The Fortune-Teller arrived two nights later. Same as ever—curly hair, cotton thread wrapped around his glasses, a nonwoven tote slung over his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. He even carried a bag of apples into the bar.
He handed them over grandly, like he was gifting millions.
“Congratulations on Little Radish’s safe recovery.”
The bar was busy. Mu Dai was at the counter waiting for Yi Wan San to mix drinks. Cao Yanhua brought the Fortune-Teller inside and clearly despised the apples—each one misshapen, small, pale, and dull.
Still, he said politely, “That’s very kind of you, Mister.”
“Not at all. Clearance sale. Basically free. I just grabbed a bag.”
…
Mu Dai stayed busy. While delivering drinks, she noticed the Fortune-Teller happily showing a notebook to Cao Yanhua in the corner. After a while, Yi Wan San joined them.
Curious, she asked Cao Yanhua when he came back, “What’s written in that notebook?”
“He says he’s writing a book—Records of the Strange: The Seven Vicious Slips—and showed us the opening.”
“How is it?”
Cao Yanhua smacked his lips as if recalling it, then shook his head. “Writing’s bad. Obscure. Not engaging. No logic.”
Really?
Feeling sorry for the Fortune-Teller, Mu Dai finally found a moment to go say hello—only for him to speak first.
“Little Pocket, so this is your tattoo?”
“Yeah.”
She looked down at it. She was wearing a low neckline today; most of the tattoo was exposed. For some reason, the more she looked at it, the more she liked it.
The Fortune-Teller disagreed. “I heard it’s for Luo Xiaodao? Then why didn’t you tattoo a little radish instead—bright red, with a big green top? That’d look great.”
Mu Dai stared at him for a long moment, then said slowly, clearly, “If you like it so much, you get one.”
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