Song Lianwei
“Bang bang bang~”
A flurry of urgent knocks shattered the tense silence, snapping Xu Ruizhi out of his conflicted daze.
Damn it, just like in those TV dramas and novels—something always pops up at the worst possible moment, Xu Ruizhi grumbled inwardly, seething with frustration.
Luckily, his mom was a heavy sleeper and didn’t stir right away, or he’d have been in deep trouble. He quickly slipped her black lace thong back on, dressed himself, and draped a bath towel over her. As he did, he couldn’t resist giving her soft, heaving breasts a firm squeeze, savoring the plush, springy feel before finally pulling his hand away with a satisfied smirk.
“Mom, someone’s at the door,” he whispered, gently shaking her arm.
“Who is it?” Yang Zhurou’s sleepy voice murmured in his ear. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy as she gazed at him. She’d been dreaming—dreaming of a man pinning her down, a thrill she’d never known before. It had her moaning in her sleep. Her first time had only brought the sharp pain of deflowering, no chance to savor the pleasure. But this dream had given her a tantalizing taste.
And… the man in the dream felt so familiar. Like her own son, Xu Ruizhi!
No way… Yang Zhurou’s heart jolted. She checked her lower body—no irregularities. She exhaled in relief.
But something was off.
She glanced at the bath towel wrapped around her. It had been on for hours, yet it felt like someone had lifted it. Her back and hips still held a lingering warmth, and there was a damp spot on her skin. If it wasn’t a dream, then it had to be her precious son!
If not for the knocking, he probably would have… Yang Zhurou’s dreamy gaze sharpened into clarity, a mix of shame, anger, and secret delight swirling in her chest.
“Dunno. I’ll go check. Who knocks this late at night anyway?”
Xu Ruizhi, oblivious to her shift in expression, grumbled as he stood. He flicked on the light and headed out of the room, sauntering toward the front door. Better see who it was first.
“Creak~”
He swung the door open to find a young man outside—decent-looking, casual clothes, looking frantic.
“Qian Ming, bro—what’s up so late?”
Xu Ruizhi asked, puzzled. Qian Ming was one of the guys from the village chasing his mom—mid-twenties, a total simp. Despite her constant rejections, he kept at it, showering her with favors. She stayed ice-cold toward him. Calling him “bro” was Xu Ruizhi’s subtle jab: We’re peers, my mom’s your auntie—so quit dreaming, toad.
“It’s bad! Your Aunt Song took sleeping pills and tried to kill herself!” Qian Ming stared at him anxiously, blurting it out.
“What?!”
Xu Ruizhi’s mind went blank with a thunderous roar, eyes bulging. He grabbed Qian Ming’s shoulders, face flushing as he demanded, “Say that again? Why would Aunt Song do that? I chatted with her a few days ago—she seemed fine!”
“No idea. Her colleague found her and called 120. She probably knows the details. Song’s still in the ER—told me to get you and your mom there fast!”
Qian Ming said urgently.
“Then let’s—” Xu Ruizhi started, turning to bolt, but before he could finish, Yang Zhurou rushed out from the bedroom.
“I heard—Lianwei tried to kill herself?”
Yang Zhurou’s eyes reddened instantly as she stared at Qian Ming. Song Lianwei was her best friend, her confidante—they shared everything.
Song Lianwei had grown up poor. At six, a brutal fever left her comatose for days, bankrupting her already struggling family. Her dad sold blood to cover the bills, but poor hygiene led to AIDS. He died a year later.
Her mom caught it too, caring for her another five or six years before passing.
Song Lianwei’s childhood was hell. Classmates called her a jinx—killed her dad, then her mom. Rumors flew she carried AIDS too, despite tests proving otherwise. Everyone shunned her as a walking curse.
That’s when Yang Zhurou stepped in—no judgment, just friendship. They became inseparable.
After Xu Ruizhi was born, Song Lianwei doted on him, pouring all her love into the boy. When his dad died in a crash, she helped Yang Zhurou raise him, the three leaning on each other.
“Zhuru… Auntie!”
Qian Ming’s eyes lit up at his crush. He’d chased her forever without luck, and her making him call her “auntie” stung. Seeing her now filled him with giddy excitement.
Yang Zhurou had changed into a white knit sweater and black shorts, hair cascading over her chest and shoulders—a sultry vibe. Qian Ming’s heart raced, face burning as his dream girl stood before him.
“Mom, Aunt Song’s in the ER. Let’s go,” Xu Ruizhi said, glancing at her.
“Right—let’s move.”
Yang Zhurou nodded briskly, grabbing his wrist and hurrying outside.
……
In the city center private hospital, lights blazed everywhere, the air thick with disinfectant.
“Nurse—how’s Song Lianwei?”
Yang Zhurou and Xu Ruizhi burst in, spotting a nurse on a bench outside the ER. Yang Zhurou asked frantically.
“She’s still critical…” The nurse pulled off her mask, glancing at Yang Zhurou, but was called back inside before finishing.
“You’re here?”
A figure emerged—a youthful, pretty face in her twenties, blue-gray OL suit sharp and stylish, though worry etched her features.
“You’re… Lianwei’s colleague?” Yang Zhurou asked the striking young woman.
“Yes. Hi—I’m Dr. Song’s assistant, Ye Sitong. I used her phone to call you during the rescue, but it went straight to voicemail. Ran into a Qian Ming—he said you’re from the same village, so I had him get you.”
Ye Sitong explained to Yang Zhurou.
“Thank you. If you hadn’t called the ambulance… sigh.” Yang Zhurou’s face fell, gratitude heavy in her voice.
“No need.”
Ye Sitong waved it off. “I was just there for some research papers. Walked in to find her collapsed, empty sleeping pill bottle nearby. Panicked and called 120.”
Her expression shifted as she rummaged in her bag, pulling out a paper for Yang Zhurou. “This is Dr. Song’s inheritance agreement—I saw it on the table. Take a look.”
Yang Zhurou took the will and read. Song Lianwei’s entire estate—over four million, including a Beijing penthouse within the Fifth Ring—went to her and Xu Ruizhi.
“Dr. Song was so frugal. Never splurged, even on a yearly salary pushing half a million. Post-PhD, her stellar grades earned national grants and scholarships, landing her a spot in the Tech Ministry. They even gave her an apartment for her contributions—salary bump coming soon too.”
Ye Sitong said as Yang Zhurou finished.
“Sigh, such a hard life.”
Yang Zhurou sighed. She knew Song Lianwei’s unyielding pride—from childhood hardships, she’d gritted through everything, never bowing to anyone. That’s how she’d risen so far.
Then the ER doors swung open.
“Family for the patient?”
The masked doctor emerged, addressing Yang Zhurou.
“That’s me. How is she, doctor? Tell me straight.”
Yang Zhurou rushed forward.
“Good thing you got her here fast—no immediate life threat. Still unconscious, though. You can see her now; we’ll move her to ICU soon.”
The doctor said wearily.
“When will she wake?”
Yang Zhurou pressed, relieved.
“Hard to say—days if lucky, two weeks worst case. Heavy dose, but timely rescue saved her. She needs rest. Stay with her in the room. I’ll go.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
Yang Zhurou nodded gratefully. The doctor left.
Xu Ruizhi, Yang Zhurou, and Ye Sitong approached the bed, gazing at the comatose Song Lianwei.
Her face was pale, thin lips, long lashes, high nose—porcelain skin on a mature, glamorous visage. Steady and capable, she evoked a rosebud on the verge of bloom, delicate and alluring. Her hair fanned across the pillow, stirring pity.
Song Lianwei, thirty—just a year younger than Yang Zhurou, her junior high classmate. Outside their bond, she’d been quiet, self-reliant, top of her class, teachers’ favorite.
“Sitong-jie, why would Aunt Song suddenly try suicide?”
Xu Ruizhi asked Ye Sitong, puzzled. She seemed unbreakable—what could push her?
“Not sure. She’s been stressed lately, but handled worse before without flinching.”
Ye Sitong hesitated. “But… I heard rumors about Dr. Song.”
“Rumors?”
Xu Ruizhi blinked. “What kind?”
“Over a month ago, she had a boyfriend—spotted by a colleague.”
“Where?”
“Nearby hotel. Colleague said Dr. Song looked shocked to see the guy. Heard her say, ‘What are you doing here?’ They argued. He snapped, ‘Why won’t you give it to me?’ She replied, ‘We’ve only known each other a month—it’s too soon. I won’t throw away my life lightly. I’m not super traditional, but I won’t be reckless. Don’t push me.’”
Ye Sitong recounted it all.
“He stormed off furious.”
She paused. “Colleague said they didn’t act like a couple. He tried to kiss and hold her; she refused: ‘I’m not ready yet. Wait till I am.’”
“Sigh.”
Yang Zhurou sighed. “That’s Lianwei—stubborn as they come. Bet this ties into her attempt.”
“No clue, but the guy died in a car crash—rich kid, racing off a cliff. Totaled. Maybe that’s why…”
Ye Sitong said softly to Yang Zhurou.
“Aunt Song over him? No way—he’s not worthy.”
Xu Ruizhi shook his head in disbelief. Aunt Song was perfect—elegant, beautiful, gentle with him. Suicide over some punk? A jealous spark ignited; subconsciously, he’d claimed her as his own, possessive love budding unnoticed.
“Beats me why she’d fall for that type.”
Ye Sitong shrugged helplessly.
Yang Zhurou stayed silent, brow furrowed, eyes on Song Lianwei, lost in thought.
“Anyway, not the time. Let’s care for her till she wakes—then ask.”
Finally, Yang Zhurou said quietly.
Xu Ruizhi pondered deeper. Aunt Song’s poised strength masked deep loneliness and fragility no one else grasped.
When he’d first heard her story, he knew he’d crumble in her shoes—self-destruct or turn thug.
The tougher she seemed, the more her heart ached. She needed a man to cherish her, heal those childhood wounds. It might take years… or a lifetime.
……
Around 1 a.m., Ye Sitong’s phone rang—family urging her home. She resisted, but whatever they said paled her face. She grabbed her bag obediently, promising to return early tomorrow.
Soon after she left, Yang Zhurou yawned.
Seeing her exhaustion, Xu Ruizhi’s heart ached. “Mom, rest. I’ll watch Aunt Song.”
“No! School tomorrow. I’ll call Qian Ming to drive you.”
Yang Zhurou shot it down. He was growing up—unsuitable to tend a young woman alone.
“No need!”
Xu Ruizhi refused flat-out. He loathed Qian Ming. Better stay than let that creep drive him—and risk leaving mom alone. On the way here, he’d shooed Qian Ming off. If he drove them home, the simp might linger. Mom’s earlier hunger worried him—what tricks might Qian Ming pull? Drugs? He wouldn’t sleep anyway.
“I’ve got a plan. Wait here.”
Xu Ruizhi flashed a sly grin, slipping out to the lobby. Empty save a dozing duty nurse. He approached. “Nurse-sis? Nurse-sis…”
“Mm… huh? What’s up?”
She rubbed her eyes blearily, yawning hugely.
“Uh, sis—for Room 17 on the third floor, just Song Lianwei there? No other patients?”
“Lemme check.”
She scanned records. “Oh, 17? Yeah, solo.”
“Thanks! Mom’s tired watching her—any empty bed next door for a few nights?”
“Well…” She pondered. “Sure, beds free. But if patients need it, you’re out.”
“Got it—thanks, sis!”
“No prob.” She waved, conking out again.
Back in the room, Yang Zhurou rose from her chair. “Ruizhi, where’d you go?”
“Sorted a bed with the nurse—right here.” He flopped onto the empty bed left of Song Lianwei’s.
“You little rascal—smart thinking.”
Yang Zhurou laughed, touched. He was maturing, handling things thoughtfully.
“Of course.” He grinned proudly. “Mom, nap time. You’ve been up all night—beat.”
“You first. I’m fine.” She waved.
“Tomorrow’s more caregiving—you’ll crash. Rest.” He tugged her down beside him.
She relented, lying close, eyes closing.
Normally, Xu Ruizhi would revel in cuddling mom, but tonight, no spark.
Arms around Yang Zhurou, breathing her scent, he drifted off.
……
In his dream, Xu Ruizhi wandered a vast, empty void—alien, silent, utterly alone.
Suddenly, a golden light swirled before him, expanding, growing brighter.
It sharpened into a book, ancient script on the cover—profound, oppressive.
He knew the words, though he’d never seen them.
“Huangdi… Neijing!”
Xu Ruizhi stared, voicing the title slowly.