Don't Give Your Heart to Your Nemesis - Chapter 2

Once the door slammed shut, Yan Ruixing realized he might have bitten a bit too “hard.”

It had only been a few years, yet this man’s fighting spirit had plummeted. In the past, he would have hounded Yan for three days, using every mean and shameless trick in the book to get even.

Yan Ruixing opened his memos, checked off the last item on his to-do list, and added two new ones:

1. Get the MRI scans.
2. Show them to Teacher Li.

His phone rang again. It was Sang Han: “Where are you?”

Yan Ruixing stood by the window, looking toward the parking lot: “The clinic.”

“Buddy, would it kill you to stop grinding for five minutes?”

“Have you left yet?”

“Duh. I’m not as neurotic as you.” Sang Han’s mouth was sharp, but his heart was soft. “I put the medicine in your locker. Take it for now and we’ll see how you are after one course of treatment.”

“Thanks.” Yan Ruixing’s view of the parking lot was obstructed. “Where are you now?”

“The parking lot.”

Without much hope, Yan Ruixing asked casually, “Do you see a sports car?”

“What model?”

“Not sure.”

“License plate?”

“I don’t know.”

“What color?”

“Hard to say.”

Sang Han: “…Are you messing with me?”

“It should be a very conspicuous sports car. If it’s there, you’ll see it instantly.”

“What kind of riddles are you—” Sang Han’s voice spiked. “Whoa, there actually is one!”

“Damn! That’s cool. Which rich heir does this belong to?” Sang Han marveled. “A car like this must cost one or two million, right?”

Yan Ruixing thought to himself that a car worth only a million or two wouldn’t even catch that man’s eye. He then asked Sang Han, “Are you busy?”

“Not really, why?”

“Do me a favor.”

On the other side of the outpatient building.

Wen Xiaomian stepped out of the elevator, MRI report tucked under his arm, venting his anger at Director Ren over the phone.

Before coming here, Director Ren had bragged to Wen’s grandfather that this was a highly skilled, authoritative doctor. Wen had imagined that even if it wasn’t a hunched-over old man, it would at least be a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline.

Who would have thought it would be that sucker!

Director Ren, being scolded mercilessly, stammered in a panic, explaining that although Dr. Yan was young, he had just won the Outstanding Contribution Award for Young Doctors. His specialty was acoustic neuroma—an honor at the absolute ceiling of the field.

Yan Ruixing’s mentor had once been the “Number One” in domestic skull base surgery. After retiring due to illness, he placed all his hopes on Yan Ruixing. If surgery were needed, Yan was undoubtedly the best candidate in the country.

Wen Xiaomian didn’t want to hear it. He told Ren to keep contacting other experts and hung up to buy a Coke from a vending machine.

Carrying the soda bottle to the parking lot, he looked up to see an even more obnoxious sight. A pink hatchback was parked directly in front of his car, blocking him in completely.

With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Wen Xiaomian walked to the front of the car only to find that the owner hadn’t even left a contact number.

“…………”

Was their sense of basic decency ground up into chicken feed?

After waiting several minutes with no sign of the owner, Wen Xiaomian went to call his assistant to pick him up. Before he could dial, a horn honked behind him.

The window of a white sedan rolled down slowly, revealing the man he had just seen.

Yan Ruixing had changed out of his white coat and was wearing a khaki trench coat over a light gray shirt. His buttons were fastened all the way up, looking as conservative as a relic from the old world.

“Mr. Wen, in trouble?”

The words sounded helpful, but the tone was cold. He was always distant and aloof, both then and now.

Wen Xiaomian, with his unlit cigarette still in his mouth, glanced at the internal parking permit on the pink car: “Do you know this person? When does she get off work?”

“She’s in surgery. It won’t be over anytime soon.”

Wen Xiaomian laughed in frustration: “Being in surgery gives someone the right to be classless?”

Yan Ruixing: “Where are you going? I’ll give you a lift.”

Wen Xiaomian: “…………”

In a relationship as fractured as theirs, a simple “I’ll give you a lift” was equivalent to a kneeling apology or an olive branch.

But their grudges could fill three sacks, and Yan Ruixing had more schemes than those three sacks combined.

He’s taking the initiative to make up? He’s capable of a kneeling apology? Does he really think I’m that stupid?

After this internal triple-questioning, Wen Xiaomian “lashed” Yan Ruixing once more in his mind and then proceeded to sit in the passenger seat.

I want to see what kind of tricks he’s trying to play.

Wen Xiaomian gave the address and tossed the MRI report into the backseat.

“Put it here.” Yan Ruixing opened the storage box between them. “I just had the backseat cleaned.”

“Fussy.” Wen Xiaomian rolled up the films, shoved them into the storage slot, and pulled out a pillbox. “You’ve been a doctor for years; haven’t you cured your addiction to pills yet?”

Back in school, Yan Ruixing was never without medicine. He caught a cold every time the seasons changed but insisted on coming to class anyway.

Wen Xiaomian flipped through the packaging: “What are these?”

“Spent three years in America and you can’t even read English?” Yan Ruixing snatched the box away. “Seems the American education system isn’t all that great.”

Wen Xiaomian: “…………”

The damn box was in German.

Wen Xiaomian arched an eyebrow, a half-smile on his face: “We aren’t seatmates anymore, yet you’re still so concerned about me? You even knew I studied abroad.”

“You should ask yourself that.” Yan Ruixing kept his eyes low, his profile as cold as a sheet of ice. “Why did you call me and stay on the line for the entire night while dead drunk before you left the country?”

Harassing Yan Ruixing while drunk was a daily occurrence during Wen Xiaomian’s college years, but he had blacked out that night and forgotten the details long ago. It was likely just mutual accusations and insults; after four or five years, Wen couldn’t be bothered to care.

But that call had been the last one before they met again.

“What can I say? I’m beautiful and kind-hearted. I wanted to enrich your boring college life and add a spark to your dull existence.” Without a shred of shame, Wen Xiaomian praised himself. “You should thank me and treat me to dinner.”

“So, should I open the window and treat you to the cold wind? Or step on the gas and treat you to a ‘Hongmen Banquet’ (a trap)?”

“What a pity, I’m busy today and can’t keep you company.” With the cigarette still in his mouth, Wen Xiaomian leaned toward the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“Get away from me, you smell like a dog.” Yan Ruixing pulled out a pen and poked Wen’s shoulder back. “Also, no smoking in my car.”

“It’s not lit.” Wen Xiaomian buckled his seatbelt.

“But it’s an eyesore.”

“If your eyes are so full of filth, why don’t you go to a bathhouse and scrub people’s backs?”

Yan Ruixing wanted to throw the steering wheel at him: “After seeing someone as filthy as you, everyone else looks spotless. I’m not qualified for that job.”

“A shame. Otherwise, I could support your business on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, and help you drum up customers on the other days.” Wen Xiaomian turned his head. “Not only would you make money, but you’d also get to admire my high-quality physique.”

Yan Ruixing’s gaze swept over him, lingering on his chest: “With that much confidence, it’s a pity you aren’t making adult films.”

Wen Xiaomian tugged at his tie: “Want to see?”

“More than that. I’d recommend you to the reproductive department; please contribute to the human sperm bank.”

If Yan Ruixing hadn’t been driving his own car, the windshield would have been broken over Wen Xiaomian’s head by now.

The tension had reached its limit, but before a “war” could break out, it was interrupted by a phone call.

Wen Xiaomian was wearing a meticulously designed charcoal gray suit with Italian notched lapels, crisp and straight. As the night light washed over him, his profile shifted into something deep and composed.

His voice sounded mature and steady as he discussed work on the phone—a complete transformation from the person he was just a moment ago.

After hanging up, they remained in a cold war. During the evening rush hour, the car moved at a steady pace. Before long, Wen Xiaomian closed his eyes.

At a red light, Yan Ruixing asked softly: “Feeling unwell?”

Wen Xiaomian frowned and didn’t respond.

Yan Ruixing pulled the car to the curb: “Can you… not hear?”

With a Grade 3 acoustic neuroma, hearing loss is common. Given Wen’s condition, the fact that he could still function like a normal person was a medical miracle.

Just as Yan Ruixing was about to unbuckle his seatbelt, the man in the passenger seat opened his eyes, sounding annoyed: “What kind of crappy seat is this? It’s poking my back.”

Buckling back in, Yan Ruixing couldn’t help himself: “Your condition is quite serious.”

“Oh.” Wen Xiaomian closed his eyes again, sounding extremely dismissive.

“I suggest you pause your work and rest at home.” Yan Ruixing’s tone softened slightly. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can prescribe something.”

“My family doesn’t have a history of pill-popping addictions.”

Yan Ruixing looked at the soda bottle Wen was clutching: “Drink less carbonated soda, and absolutely no alcohol. Alcohol stimulates the vestibular nerve, worsens nerve compression and functional failure, and can induce an acute intracranial crisis…”

Wen Xiaomian wasn’t listening at all. He checked the time and then looked out the window: “Pull over. The intersection is fine.”

The car stopped as requested. Wen Xiaomian unbuckled and reached for the MRI report in the storage box.

“Wait.”

A hand reached out suddenly, grabbing Wen Xiaomian’s tie. Pale fingertips carried a scent of soap mixed with hand cream.

It was the milky-sweet scent of children’s lotion. Yan Ruixing had loved that scent since school.

“Your tie is crooked.”

Yan Ruixing’s voice was flat, and his movements as he straightened the tie were so natural that Wen Xiaomian froze, unable to think of a way to refuse.

“There.” Yan Ruixing let go, his gaze sliding to Wen’s mouth. “Quit smoking, too.”

“Sure thing.” Wen Xiaomian pinched the now-straight tie knot. “Thanks for the concern, Dr. Yan. I’ll follow your instructions and definitely won’t smoke.”

Wen Xiaomian got out, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He looked at the perfectly rounded tie knot: “Hypocrite. Acting all kind for no reason, I wonder what he’s really…”

Wen Xiaomian looked at his empty hands, then at the car driving away: “Fuck!”

The MRI films were still in the car.

In the middle of the rush hour traffic, Yan Ruixing headed straight to the home of his mentor, Li Zongshun. Over six months ago, Professor Li had suffered a sudden myocardial infarction on the operating table. Yan Ruixing had not only detected the condition in time but had also calmly completed the surgery.

Because of this, he was known as the “successor to the Number One in Otonerosurgery.”

Professor Li sat in his wheelchair and took off his reading glasses: “You haven’t visited in over half a month.”

“I’ve been a bit busy lately.” Yan Ruixing handed over the MRI films. “Teacher, please take a look at these.”

Under the light, Professor Li’s expression changed instantly. He put his glasses back on to confirm the gender and age on the report: “Is the patient, your friend?”

“Not a friend. Just… someone I know.”

“This kid must have teamed up with Sun Wukong to wreak havoc in Heaven in his past life.”

Yan Ruixing: “?”

“Sun Wukong was pinned under the Five-Finger Mountain, but this kid managed to run away.” Professor Li tapped the report. “The way this lesion has spread is more crowded than the Queen Mother’s Peach Garden.”

“Teacher, please don’t joke.”

Professor Li looked at the completely blocked intracranial space: “The brainstem and trigeminal nerve are covered. Even if it’s stripped clean, there will be plenty of complications.”

“What if we use occipital-pharyngeal reverse ablation?”

That was a new type of surgery introduced in Germany in the last two years. It involved a 2cm minimally invasive incision below the occipital bone at the back of the head, using a targeted dissociative enzyme to soften the tumor, which was then removed through the throat.

No craniotomy, no touching the brain, no damage to facial nerves—the facial nerve preservation rate was nearly 100%.

Professor Li’s gaze darkened: “Why are you still obsessed with that?”

On the surface, minimally invasive surgery sounded better, but the procedure could easily trigger malignant vagal reflexes, laryngeal spasms, or neurogenic shock. The risk was far higher than a standard craniotomy.

“High risk brings high reward,” Yan Ruixing said.

“I shouldn’t have let you go to Germany. You just learned crooked ways.” Professor Li slapped the table. “Nonsense!”

Clinically, Professor Li was a staunch conservative. His prized student, whom he had recommended for German studies, had brought back the very techniques he found most unacceptable and wanted to promote them at home.

Yan Ruixing understood his mentor’s concerns, but the success rate of traditional surgery wasn’t high either. Even if successful, preserving facial function was difficult. He didn’t back down: “Teacher, I want to try.”

Professor Li took off his glasses and sighed: “Even if you want to try, what about the patient? Would he agree?”

“Setting aside that we don’t have the equipment in China yet, even if we did, who could afford it and who would take such a huge risk?”

For most patients, success rates were important, but the financial burden was often what broke them.

After dinner, Yan Ruixing said his goodbyes and left.

As soon as he got home, his phone rang. It was a number without a caller ID, but even after all these years, it was still hauntingly familiar.

Wen Xiaomian: “Where are you?”

Yan Ruixing checked the time: “Home.”

“Room number.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Class Monitor, there’s no point in playing dumb.”

Yan Ruixing gave him the address.

About ten minutes later, Wen Xiaomian called again: “Are you coming down, or should I have my assistant go up to get it?”

Yan Ruixing stood by the window; a black business van was parked below. “Come up yourself.”

“Missed me after only three hours?”

“Well, dogs need to be walked every few hours.”

Wen Xiaomian choked back his anger before saying, “Yan Ruixing, I don’t have time to play with you.”

Yan Ruixing didn’t want to chat either, giving a command: “Come up. I’m only waiting three minutes.”

The call was cut off. Yan Ruixing stood by the door. After the watch hand turned for 2 minutes and 55 seconds, he heard a knock.

A man flushed with the scent of alcohol stood at the door, looking defiant.

“How much did you drink?” Yan Ruixing’s anger flared.

Wen Xiaomian leaned against the doorframe, acting as if he hadn’t heard: “The films.”

Yan Ruixing grabbed his tie and yanked hard: “Didn’t I tell you? You can’t drink in your condition!”

Having had quite a bit to drink, Wen Xiaomian was unsteady on his feet and was dragged inside. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“I’m a doctor! It’s for your own good!”

“Thanks, but your shoulders are too broad and your ‘good’ is too heavy. A little boss like me with a net worth of over a hundred million really can’t handle it.”

Yan Ruixing dragged him to the sofa and, within thirty seconds, handed him warm water and a pill.

Wen Xiaomian leaned back drunkenly, asking the obvious: “What is this?”

“Rat poison.”

Wen Xiaomian didn’t take the medicine. Instead, he grabbed Yan’s wrist, tightening his grip the more Yan struggled. His vengeful side took over, and his thumb rubbed Yan’s skin twice. The skin was smooth and delicate—so thin he could feel the pulse beneath.

Yan Ruixing didn’t stop trying to break free, contemplating whether to use the glass or his foot: “What exactly do you want!”

“To commit suicide.”

Wen Xiaomian pulled Yan closer and, using Yan’s hand, took the medicine into his mouth. Then he let go.

Yan Ruixing looked at his reddened wrist and handed over the water: “Drink it all. You’ll die faster.”

“Will do.”

Wen Xiaomian downed it in one go and handed back the empty glass.

While Yan was putting the glass away, Wen Xiaomian scanned the living room. Cream-colored furniture, clean and organized—it matched his stereotype of someone with OCD and a picky personality.

The only “disorder” in the room was on the coffee table: the opened box of the medicine he had just been given.

Yan Ruixing returned with the imaging films: “Do you plan on conservative treatment or surgery?”

Wen Xiaomian maintained his joking tone: “Your meddling reaches as far as the borders of ancient China.”

When it came to the illness, Yan Ruixing had no heart for games: “There probably aren’t many doctors who would dare take your case. If you need it, I can perform the surgery.”

“Pass.” Wen Xiaomian stood up and snatched the films. “Given our precarious relationship, I’m afraid you’d stitch the scalpel into my brain.”

This was the expected result. Yan Ruixing said nothing more, packed up the medicine, and handed it to him: “Once a day, before bed.”

Wen Xiaomian took the medicine without a word. One opened the door to leave, the other didn’t ask him to stay.

Late at night, the hallway was unusually quiet. Even through the security door, the sound of a lighter was audible.

Before the elevator arrived, Wen Xiaomian was met with a fierce face. A pair of hands reached into his suit pockets, searching him without any explanation.

Memories flooded back—back to middle school, at the school gate, the stationery shop, the boys’ bathroom, the equipment room… that meddling, idiot class monitor who used to forcibly search him for cigarettes and lighters.

“Hey! Where are you touching!”

“Those are the deltoids, latissimus dorsi, biceps, pectorals, rectus abdominis, and obliques!”

“Ah, that tickles! Stop or I’ll call for help!”

“I’m an innocent young man!”

“Yan Ruixing!!!”

“Below the belt is a man’s career line!”