On the Edge
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. It explores deep emotional connections between two male characters and includes intense moments. This work is pure fiction. Reader discretion is advised.]
The hospital’s cold fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as Yibo rushed down the hallway.
The white corridors blurring past him.
His shirt was still stained with Zhan’s blood.
His own wounds burned, crusted and raw.
But he didn’t feel them.
Couldn’t.
All he could think of was Zhan.
As he turned the corner near the surgical wing, he saw them.
Mrs. Meilin, sitting hunched on a bench outside the operation theater.
Her shoulders trembled silently, hands clutched together as she sobbed.
Her elegant composure shattered.
Mr. Qiao stood near the theater doors.
Arms folded, face tight with worry.
He looked up as soon as he noticed Yibo.
Yibo rushed to Meilin, kneeling in front of her.
“Mom…”
his voice cracked.
“How’s Zhan-ge? Please—tell me.”
She slowly looked up.
Her eyes red, swollen.
“They took him in right away.”
She whispered.
“He already lost a lot of blood…”
“The doctors said they’ll do everything they can to save him.”
Yibo’s heart dropped.
Everything they can?!
It wasn’t a promise.
It was just a prayer.
Before he could say anything, Qiao stepped closer.
Concern etched in every line of his face.
“Bobo…”
He said gently.
“You’re bleeding too. Look at you—you need to get those injuries checked.”
Yibo barely glanced at himself.
“I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere until I know he’s safe.”
Qiao laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
“The surgery will take time, son. If Zhan wakes up, do you think he’d want to see you like this? Worn down and untreated?”
Yibo clenched his jaw.
He didn’t want to leave.
But then Meilin nodded through her tears.
“Qiao-ge is right, Bobo. Please… take care of yourself. Zhan wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to you.”
Yibo looked between them, hesitating for one last second—then gave in with a silent nod.
“Okay.”
He murmured.
Qiao gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze.
“I’ll take you.”
Meilin stayed behind, staring at the red-lit sign above the operation theater door.
As the two men turned to walk away, she whispered softly into the quiet hall:
“Come back to us, Xian… please.”
————————————
The fluorescent lights above had started to blur as the hours dragged on.
Five.
Maybe six.
Yibo sat silently on the edge of the bench.
Arms crossed tight against his bandaged ribs.
His eyes were fixed on the steel door of the operation theatre with utmost desperation.
Meilin, drained and pale, was curled on the bench beside him.
Hands clenched in prayer.
Lips murmuring to someone only she could hear.
Mr. Qiao stood with arms folded near the double doors.
Shoulders stiff, face carved with lines of anxiety and exhaustion.
The quiet was unbearable.
Then—
The doors swung open.
A man in a white coat stepped out, peeling off his gloves.
“Doctor!”
Yibo sprang to his feet, already halfway across the hallway.
“How’s Zhan? Is he okay?”
The doctor blinked at him, slightly hesitant.
“You are…?”
Yibo opened his mouth, but the words tangled in his throat.
What was he supposed to say?
What did he have the right to say?
Before he could answer, Qiao stepped forward firmly.
“He is Wang Yibo.”
He said without pause.
“He’s the husband.”
Yibo turned sharply, surprise flickering in his eyes.
Qiao simply met his gaze and nodded once.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Yibo swallowed hard and looked back at the doctor.
The man gave a brief nod.
“Alright. So, Mr. Wang, the surgery is complete. We removed the bullet and stabilized the wound. He lost a lot of blood, but we’ve managed to control the bleeding.”
Meilin had stood up, hands trembling.
“Is he… out of danger?”
She asked, voice barely audible.
“He’s in observation now. Still critical, but stable.”
The doctor said gently.
“He should regain consciousness in about five to six hours. After that, you’ll be allowed to see him. If his vitals hold steady, we believe he’ll pull through.”
Relief.
Soft. Sudden. Overwhelming.
Yibo exhaled sharply.
His body sagging against the wall as though his bones had been holding tension for years, not hours.
Meilin sank back to the bench, tears slipping silently down her cheeks—but this time, they weren’t of fear.
Qiao placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
For the first time that night, hope didn’t feel like a distant lie.
Zhan had been moved to the ICU.
Yibo stood just outside the glass-panel door.
Eyes locked on the small round window—the only clear part that wasn’t frosted over with privacy film.
Through that narrow circle, he could see him.
Zhan lay there, pale as paper, barely visible under the tangled mass of wires and tubes.
A nasal cannula delivered oxygen to his nose.
An IV line dripped steadily into his arm.
He looked so fragile…. so unlike himself.
Alive.
But still.
Too still.
Yibo clenched his jaw, hand pressed to the glass door.
‘Just open your eyes… please.’
‘Look at me, Zhan-ge.’
‘I’m right here. We made it. We survived.’
‘Say something. Anything.’
‘Yell at me. Hit me. Just… don’t lie there like that.’
Footsteps approached softly from behind.
“Bobo.”
Mr. Qiao said, voice low.
“What’s the plan now? Is the warehouse… taken care of?”
Yibo didn’t turn.
He kept staring at Zhan as he spoke.
“Yes, Uncle.”
He murmured.
“It’s done. Nobody should suspect anything. It’ll look like a fire accident.”
Qiao nodded solemnly.
Yibo turned to Mr. Qiao.
Voice sharper now.
“You’ll need to see whoever you have to. Pay them whatever they ask. No questions. No favors owed. Just money.”
His voice dropped lower.
“But make sure—absolutely make sure—it’s nothing but a fire accident. Not a trace of anything else. Especially not Zhan’s name. He cannot be dragged into this.”
“I understand.”
Qiao replied with a firm nod.
“Don’t worry, Bobo. I’ve already started pulling strings. Silencing channels. Shifting focus. You just rest your head on that boy now. I’ll handle the rest.”
Exhaustion in his eyes, but determination too.
“I wanted to make sure Wang Zheng never get justice for his death. He didn’t deserve it.”
A pause.
“I’m the only heir left now. I’ll carry the weight of this fallout. Let the world believe what they want. But Zhan—he stays clean.”
Qiao placed a hand on Yibo’s shoulder.
“You’re doing right, Bobo.”
From the bench nearby, Meilin’s voice floated softly.
“You keep that grieving face on in front of the world. Play your part, Bobo.”
Yibo exhaled.
“I will. Until the funeral is over, I’ll be the devastated son. The one who lost everything overnight.”
He looked at Mr. Qiao, voice steady.
“Uncle… all those files, the evidence you kept hidden all these years—what will you do with them now?”
Mr. Qiao gave a faint smile.
“They’ve served their purpose. It’s time to let them go.”
“If those files still exist, they’ll always be a threat to you, Bobo. Wang Zheng built that trap for you—and we can’t undo it now.”
He paused.
“I’ll destroy them.”
Yibo nodded.
The weight of old battles finally lifting from their chests.
He looked through the window again.
Zhan was still motionless, machines breathing for him.
“Let him wake up first.”
Yibo whispered.
“Then we’ll decide the rest.”
——————————————————
It took nearly a week for Zhan to fully regain consciousness.
The wound had been deep.
The blood loss—critical.
His body had fought hard, and so had they.
For seven days, Yibo, Meilin, and Mr. Qiao took turns staying by his side.
Watching the rhythmic beep of monitors, praying for the smallest movement, the faintest flicker of life behind his closed eyes.
Outside that hospital room, Yibo was the picture of grief.
He wore the mask of a shattered son, mourning the sudden death of a father he claimed to still respect.
At the funeral, he wept in public.
Accepted condolences with bowed head and trembling lips.
He delivered a solemn eulogy, never once letting the truth slip through his practiced sorrow.
To the police, he was composed.
Dutiful.
He told them his father had died in a tragic accident—an unfortunate fire sparked by old equipment.
And when they offered to dig deeper, Yibo refused.
“I don’t want him dissected, judged, or dragged any further.”
He’d said.
“Let him rest. Let us grieve.”
Behind the scenes, Mr. Qiao ensured the files were closed.
Money changed hands.
Loose ends disappeared.
No one asked any more questions.
And so, the world moved on.
But Yibo didn’t.
He stayed.
That night, a full week since the gunshot, he sat slumped on the small hospital couch beside Zhan’s bed.
His head tilted back.
One arm stretched behind his neck.
His eyes shut—not in sleep, but in a tired daze.
Then—
A sound.
A faint whisper.
“…Bo… bo…”
Yibo’s eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright, turning toward the bed.
Zhan was awake.
His eyelids fluttered weakly.
His lips were dry.
But he was looking at him.
“Zhan-ge…”
Yibo choked out, stumbling to his feet and rushing to his side.
He grabbed Zhan’s hand, holding it tight.
“You’re awake. Finally… you wake up…”
Zhan blinked slowly, his voice hoarse.
“Bo…bo…”
Yibo nodded quickly, smiling through the tears threatening to fall.
“It’s all over.”
He whispered, brushing Zhan’s hair gently from his forehead.
“It’s all done. We won. Remember?”
Zhan’s lips curved faintly upward.
He nodded.
Yibo leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.
“I thought I lost you.”
He murmured, voice breaking.
But Zhan, even weak and pale, managed a tiny smile.
“Where else would I go… leaving you here all alone, Mr. Wang?”
Yibo let out a soft, trembling laugh, his eyes brimming now.
“All I want… is you….”
He whispered.
“…by my side. Always. Nothing else matters.”
Zhan’s fingers curled around his hand.
Their eyes met, and the silence between them was no longer empty—it was full.
Full of everything they had survived.
Everything they had fought for.
Everything they had refused to give up.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 