Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 60

Wang's Pov.

Liu stepped into the infirmary like he owned the air in it, a crooked smile already playing on his face.

"You're having visitors soon," he said, voice low but laced with amusement. He glanced toward the hallway, then leaned in. "Pulled off just what you asked. Didn't even break a sweat. The knife was clean too. Got 'em both admitted."

I stood still, my hands still gloved from the last patient. "What happened?"

He shrugged, as if it were nothing more than passing gossip. "I stabbed your boy. Not deep, but enough. His second stabbed himself too, to sell the story. Now they're both in. Third guy's the one who got beat up a while back... I think he used to be a guard. Didn't ask."

Footsteps echoed outside. Heavy. Measured.

Liu straightened. "I'll see you later." He slipped out the back door like a shadow—gone before the guards rounded the corner.

Then they entered.

Two officers pushed open the double doors with the kind of stiffness that said they didn't trust anyone, even the walls. Between them walked three men.

Zhan.

Dre.

And a third figure, bruised and worn, clinging to consciousness—I realized, matching Liu's vague description.

But all I saw—truly saw—was Zhan.

He was more bulky than I remembered. Paler. There were shadows under his eyes, and his face had lost the softness I used to cup in my hands. But it was him. No one else had those eyes—storm-swept and unrelenting. And when they landed on me, everything else in the room dropped away.

He froze.

His lips parted slightly. A sound escaped him, but I couldn't make it out.

I cleared my throat. "They'll need to be checked and cleaned," I said, voice steady despite the fact that my heart was trying to break free from my chest. "Put them in beds 3, 4, and 5. I'll start with the stab wounds."

The guards nodded, muttering something under their breath as they moved.

Zhan never looked away.

Neither did I.

He was here.

Alive.

And for the first time in years, I had him in front of me—and no one could take that away. Not yet.

I was sitting in front of him, fingers stained with antiseptic and the dull smear of dried blood, pretending my hands weren't trembling.

Zhan sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, shirtless. His skin was colder than I expected, like the prison had frozen into him. His muscles were tight, chiseled from years of silent resistance—shoulders strong, arms carved with quiet defiance. Even the way he sat—guarded, composed—told me he hadn't had peace in a long time.

He didn't speak for minutes, just watched me. Watched my hands as I cleaned the cut, the curve of his ribs rising and falling slowly beneath my touch.

I could barely breathe.

Seven years.

Seven years without that face. Without that presence.

I had spent nights curled in grief and obsession, hacking into voids, chasing ghosts, seeing his name in code and shadows. And now he was here—flesh, wounded, breathing. And still, somehow, distant. Like the cold of this place had seeped so deep into him, even seeing me couldn't thaw it.