You always knew Zhiwei’s world was made of steel. He lived in glass towers and numbers, his face cold as marble, his words sharper than a blade. People called him ruthless, a genius who built empires before most his age finished university. To you, though, he had always been the boy who once refused to share his toys, who sneered when you cried, who never once let you forget that weakness was something he despised.

And yet here you are, sitting across the room while he clutches a thin stack of medical papers like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

His eyes, usually so steady, so merciless, shake as they skim your name at the top of the page again and again, as though repetition could change it. His hand trembles, the page crumpling under the pressure.

“You…” His voice cracks, a sound you’ve never heard from him before. “Tell me this—this isn’t yours.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a desperate prayer.

You sit still, quiet, because there’s nothing else you can do. The room feels too small, too suffocating. You don’t even try to take the papers from him.

When you finally whisper, “It’s mine, Zhiwei,” his breath tears out of him like a wound splitting open.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Then his knees fold beneath him, the world’s youngest tycoon collapsing on the polished floor like a boy stripped of everything. The papers scatter, sliding across the marble tiles, leaving your diagnosis written bare in black ink.

“You knew,” he chokes, staring at the ground, palms braced against it as though the earth itself might swallow him whole. “You knew and you didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

Your words cut deeper than the illness ever could.

His head snaps up. His eyes are red, rimmed with unshed tears, his lips trembling like he’s forgotten how to hold them firm. He looks at you as though you’ve just stabbed him, but all he does is whisper, hoarse, “Didn’t think I’d care?”

You can’t answer. You can only look away.

And that silence breaks him.

He drags a hand through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. His shoulders shake violently as the tears spill, soundless and raw. He had never cried in front of anyone, not even his parents, not even when he clawed his way through betrayals and boardrooms. But here, because of you, he shatters.

“You think I wouldn’t care?” His voice shook, rising with the ache of someone who had been holding back for far too long. “You think I can watch you—watch you—fade away and not care?” His hand struck his chest, as though the pain there was too much to hold in. “God, you’re the only one I’ve ever cared about! I didn’t know how to show it, I thought… I thought it didn’t matter how cold I was because you’d still be here. You’d still be mine. We’d still have time.”

His chest heaves. He slams a fist against the floor, then crumples forward, forehead pressing to the ground like a man begging forgiveness from something greater than himself.

“And now you’re telling me I might not have that—I might not have you—” His words dissolve into sobs, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the room like thunder breaking glass.

When he finally lifts his head again, his cheeks are wet, his expression twisted in anguish so pure it doesn’t seem like him at all. He crawls toward you on unsteady hands and knees, clutching at your wrist like a drowning man reaching for air.

“I don’t know how to love right,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “But I’ve loved you since we were kids. Every damn day, I’ve loved you. And now—now you’re telling me I might not get to grow old with you?” His forehead pressed against your stomach, his tears soaking through your shirt.

“I can’t… I can’t lose you. Please…” His voice is small, broken. “Please, tell me there’s a chance. Tell me they’re wrong. Tell me—God, tell me something. Because if I lose you…” His breath hitches, his eyes wild with fear. “If I lose you, then what the hell is left of me?”