My angel will judge me.

part 18

The morning was quiet.

Too quiet.

The curtains were drawn slightly open, letting in a shaft of pale golden light that cut through the stillness of the room. Dust danced in the air like fading ghosts.Lan Zhan stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering as a dull ache throbbed behind his temples. Every part of his body felt heavy, worn—his limbs like lead, his throat dry.

Then the pain came.

Low in his abdomen, in his spine, in his chest. Sharp, dragging. A reminder.A memory.

He inhaled sharply, but even that small movement made his muscles tighten in protest. He winced and tried to shift—only to find himself swaddled in a blanket, his clothes rumpled, skin cold with sweat.

His fingers curled slightly, trembling as he reached for the edge of the sheet.He remembered.

Wei Ying’s voice—angry, breaking. His eyes—wild, wounded. His hands—both desperate and cruel. And then nothing. Darkness.

Lan Zhan’s lip quivered, just barely.

A sound escaped him—a quiet, broken exhale that wasn’t quite a sob but not silence either.

He sat up slowly, bracing himself against the headboard. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through him, but he endured it.

He always did.Then he looked around.

The room was a mess—clothes scattered, the sheets tangled and stained, the scent of smoke still hanging in the air. The door to the balcony stood ajar, letting in the breeze and the faintest sound of birds.

And then— He saw him.Wei Wuxian.

Asleep—or maybe passed out—on the balcony floor. A broken bottle near his hand. Blood stained his knuckles. A cigarette, long gone cold, rested near his fingertips.

He looked—Destroyed.

Lan Zhan didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He only watched.

The man he had loved once—still loved—had tried to break him last night. And still, something in Lan Zhan’s chest ached not for himself, but for him.

For the pain he saw in every part of Wei Ying’s body.
Lan Zhan tried to stand.

His legs wobbled. His knees buckled. But he reached for the wall, forcing himself up inch by inch. One hand holding the blanket over himself, the other bracing his fall.

And slowly—painfully—he walked toward the balcony.
Toward the ghost of the man he loved.
Toward the beginning of whatever came next.

Wei Wuxian stirred.

His back ached from the way he’d collapsed on the balcony floor, but what really pulled him awake was the sound—faint, careful footsteps behind him.

He turned his head sluggishly, eyes bloodshot, mouth dry.

And then— Lan Zhan.

Standing in the doorway. Pale. Weak. Draped in a blanket, barely upright, barely holding himself together—but standing.

Wei Wuxian’s entire body went still.

The memories of the night came crashing in too fast. Too violently.

He shot to his feet, his jaw clenched tight. His fist twitched beside him, bandaged poorly from the glass.

"You should’ve left," he said hoarsely. "You should’ve—never—come back."