Chapter 7 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well.

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

Being a lawyer truly feels inhuman at times. For years, Shuai Zhaomin hadn't managed a single night of six hours' sleep.

 

It wasn't until the doctor came by for his rounds that Shuai Zhaomin finally woke, rubbing his eyes and feeling surprisingly refreshed. His broken wrist throbbed faintly, the fractured rib made his chest so tight it was nauseating, and the wounds on his face caused him to slur his speech during the doctor's questions. But overall, he felt…good.

 

Sure, losing a fight wasn't ideal. Having his hospital stay discovered by that worrywart, Serg, was another blow. But for the first time in years, he'd slept like a log, and that alone filled him with satisfaction.

 

Unfortunately, his good mood lasted only until the afternoon. Damn it! He was still a patient! Was a little peace and quiet too much to ask for?

 

First, Miranda showed up with the case files for Tengshe Brelini to ensure nothing would derail next week's trial.

 

Whether as a secretary or simply as a woman, Miranda was flawless. She had thoughtfully organized the documents into a binder and even brought a stand to make it easier for him to read without straining his injured hand.

 

Knowing Serg had specifically told him not to eat hospital food, Miranda pulled out an apple and expertly carved little rabbit-shaped slices for him to munch on while he worked.

 

It was such an oddly blissful moment, it almost made him want to curse out loud.

 

He resolved to spend the next two days resting properly, calming his nerves, and preparing to face that troublesome, bearded brute with composure. No more getting led around by the nose!

 

Then Serg arrived—carrying a pot of chicken and mushroom soup. Damn it! Chicken and mushroom soup!

 

"Serg, you can cook Taiwanese dishes?" Shuai Zhaomin's dark eyes narrowed behind his glasses, a smile of delight spreading across his battered face. Just the aroma alone made him feel halfway healed.

 

"I looked up a recipe online. Here." Serg's elegant smile accompanied a ladle of golden soup poured into a bowl. Plump mushrooms had been cut into bite-sized pieces, and tender chicken shredded with the skin intact.

 

It looked divine. But…staring at the bowl, Shuai Zhaomin realized he had no idea how to eat it.

 

Of course, Serg, always gentle and attentive, wouldn't expect his injured friend to be able to hold the bowl. Miranda swiftly cleared away the case files to make space, setting everything up perfectly. In theory, drinking soup with one functional hand wasn't impossible.

 

But why should he still go through this humilliation?!

 

His battered face twitched involuntarily, pulling at his wounds, and his eyes squinted in pain. Yet they remained locked on the bowl of soup and the spoonful Serg held out, inching toward his lips.

 

Was this really happening? Damn it! Was this really going to happen? This was precisely why he hated letting Serg know about his hospital stays. It had to be deliberate—absolutely deliberate!

 

"Here," Serg said softly, his impossibly beautiful face graced with a smile so warm it could melt into fine wine. The spoon hovered just before Shuai Zhaomin's lips.

 

"Serg…I'm a grown man, for God's sake…" Damn it! Was Serg really going to feed him?!

 

Serg sighed lightly, shaking his head. "Zhaomin, even adults sometimes need help. Let me do this for you, okay? The soup is hot—if it spills, it'll only make things worse."

 

The issue wasn't him being an "adult"! It was him being a man, damn it!

 

"Serg, I can manage on my own. Just set the bowl down. It's my left hand that's broken, not my right." Even if his right hand were injured, drinking soup with his left wouldn't be a problem.

 

"Zhaomin…" Serg shook his head again, a touch exasperated. "Sometimes I just don't understand what you're so stubborn about." He relented, though, placing the bowl on the table stand before him without further insistence.

 

Offering Serg a weak smile, Shuai Zhaomin eagerly scooped up a spoonful of soup and drank it, almost moved to tears. Damn it! It was delicious! He'd never tasted chicken and mushroom soup so exquisite in his life. Though the chicken was shredded and soft, the broth's rich flavor more than made up for it.

 

"Would you like a bowl, Ms. Miranda?" Shuai Zhaomin offered generously.

 

"Ah, thank you very much."

 

Up to this point, Shuai Zhaomin considered the hospital stay a blessing in disguise. It had granted him a reprieve from his hectic routine, a break from his obnoxious boss, and the joy of having some delicious soup. He even dared to look forward to dinner.

 

"Zhaomin, why insist on staying in the hospital? You could stay at my place—I'd take care of you." Once the meal was done, Serg tidied the dishes while voicing his confusion.

 

"For the insurance payout," Shuai Zhaomin replied bluntly. He'd paid those premiums for years—he wasn't about to let the opportunity slip. The restaurant brawl had left him with injuries to his wrist, ribs, and face, which would translate to a sizable claim.

 

"Is that allowed? You were…in a fight…" Serg hesitated, a faint smile curving his lips. His luxurious eyes, framed by long, curling lashes, glimmered with a subtle mirth.

 

"These things are all about perspective. Technically, the other party was a mobster, and I'm a lawyer." If there was a silver lining to be found, Shuai Zhaomin wasn't about to waste it—it was only fair in this merciless profession.

 

"Oh? A mobster, you say?"

 

Shuai Zhaomin froze. His head snapped up so quickly he almost strained his neck.

 

Fuck! Disaster incoming. Fuck!

 

At the edge of his vision, a tall man leaned lazily against the doorframe, a cigarette perched between his lips. He had an air of restrained wildness, his auburn eyes gleaming with a beast-like intensity as they roved over Shuai Zhaomin and Serg with predatory interest.

 

The cigarette wasn't lit, but it was still an eyesore. The man's unkempt beard couldn't quite hide the fresh bruises along his jawline, the swelling and discoloration giving his rugged face an extra edge.

 

Despite the pain in his own battered face, Shuai Zhaomin couldn't help but smirk. Damn! I'm so proud of my handiwork!

 

"Sir, this is a non-smoking area, isn't it?" Serg's gaze immediately locked onto the cigarette. His tone was courteous, but the slight lift in volume betrayed his irritation.

 

"It's just a prop," the man replied with infuriating nonchalance, his casual attitude enough to make Shuai Zhaomin's fingers twitch. Instead, Shuai Zhaomin settled for tapping the mattress lightly.

 

Damn it! Sure, cigarettes are just props, alcohol is perfume, and drugs are vitamins! Who gets mad at a mobster for having no common sense? This is as ridiculous as feeling sorry for a donut eaten by my boss. Damn laughable!

 

If this meeting had been delayed by two more days, Shuai Zhaomin was certain he could've faced it with a cooler head. But now? Now, when he had finally stolen a moment of peace amidst delicious soup and adorable apple slices, this catastrophe had arrived uninvited. He wasn't mentally prepared to deal with it.

 

He almost missed the good old days of exchanging punches, where he could express himself freely. Now, he had to maintain a semblance of civility. Summoning a strained smile—one made all the more grotesque by the cuts on his lips—he turned to face the intruder.

 

Tengshe squinted slightly, then let out a low chuckle.

 

Damn it! What's so funny, you bastard? Shuai Zhaomin's hand clenched against the mattress. "May I ask what brings you here, Mr. Brelini?" Damn it, to ruin my vacation?!

 

"Because I'm free," the man replied smoothly. Why not just say you're bored and looking for trouble? Damn it! I'm a lawyer! Do you understand that? A lawyer!

 

Not a clown, not a toy, and definitely not some rich man's idle plaything!

 

"Zhaomin?" Serg noticed his tense smile. Behind his glasses, his usually warm gaze had turned sharp, fixing on the man by the door with enough force to pierce through steel.

 

"Hm?" Shuai Zhaomin's response was a simple sound, his focus entirely on regulating his breathing. He was a refined and cultured Eastern gentleman. Even if he was cursing someone to hell in his head, he had to keep his exterior polished.

 

Damn it! What am I even holding onto this façade for? We've already traded blows!

 

"This gentleman is?" Serg directed his question to Miranda, who had been quietly organizing documents. The red-haired beauty glanced at her boss, then at the rugged man by the door, scratching his short curls with a casual, almost rakish ease.

 

"Mr. Brelini. He's the client for this case," she answered, her tone neutral.

 

"And a mobster?"

 

The man chuckled and strode further into the room, stopping at the foot of Shuai Zhaomin's bed. His reddish-brown eyes narrowed, meeting Shuai Zhaomin's gaze head-on. "Attorney Shuai, I think you've misunderstood my family."

 

"Have I? What sort of misunderstanding might that be?" Shuai Zhaomin's smile didn't reach his eyes as his fingers idly traced patterns on the tray table.

 

"The Brelini family isn't a mob organization. We're a legitimate, registered business. And I, personally, teach at Columbia University."

 

The man leaned forward slightly. Though he kept a respectable distance, his presence pressed down like a physical weight, stealing the air from the room.

 

Fuck! If cigarettes are props, then I suppose your guns are toys too? What a delightful company—handing out toys to its employees for stress relief! Damn it!

 

After all, he'd nearly been "relieved" into becoming fish food in the bay.

 

"Mr. Brelini, thank you for visiting Zhaomin, but shouldn't the patient get some rest?" Serg's soft tone carried effortlessly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

 

"And you are?" Tengshe's gaze shifted to Serg, a flicker of intrigue lighting his eyes as they met Serg's dazzling, luxurious gaze. The air seemed to crackle faintly, an almost audible current snapping between them.

 

Damn it, what now? Lying in bed, Shuai Zhaomin—though not entirely immobile—found it hard to move freely. He couldn't shake the feeling that the dynamic in the room had shifted against him.

 

"Sergi bin lama Mohammed. A pleasure." Serg extended his hand gracefully, radiating poise. Tengshe arched an eyebrow before clasping it firmly, holding the handshake a beat longer than necessary.

 

"Tengshe Brelini. I've heard you're a close friend of our Attorney Shuai." Tengshe's free hand flicked the cigarette from his lips, twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers.

 

Fuck! Who told you that? Which damn bastard spilled that?! "Mr. Brelini, I'm afraid I must—"

 

"Yes, we've known each other since university." Serg's velvet voice smoothly cut him off, warm and gentle yet absolute, stealing the words right from Shuai Zhaomin's mouth. His lavish gaze curved into a perfect, polite smile.

 

Shuai Zhaomin was speechless. For the first time in his life, he found himself cut off so decisively. Even in court, he always held the upper hand. Damn it! He was a lawyer with a fractured wrist, not a shattered sense of dignity!

 

"Oh," Tengshe hummed, eyes sliding back to Shuai Zhaomin's stiff face with apparent amusement. "Your friend is quite something, Attorney Shuai."

 

"Thank you for the compliment." Shuai Zhaomin forced a smile, though the strain twisted it further. At this moment, his irritation was nearing the peak of his 35 years, pushing dangerously close to the breaking point.

 

"Thank you for the kind words," Serg replied smoothly, still holding Tengshe's hand. "I'm only doing what any friend would." With a gentle tug, he redirected Tengshe's attention back. "Perhaps Mr. Brelini could visit another time?"

 

"Oh, I'd love to. In fact, let's leave together—I find you fascinating, Mr. Mohammed."

 

What the hell! This is a hospital! He's a patient! Does anyone care?! Am I invisible here?!

 

"Gàn līn niáng! Quánbù gěi lín bèi sǐ chū zhè jiān bìngfáng! Gàn!" Shuai Zhaomin roared, slipping into rapid Taiwanese, his frustration exploding like a thunderstorm. Then, burying his face in his hands, he let out a low groan.

 

[T/N: I left the pinyin as is to emphasise that he is speaking another language. It can literally translate to "Fuck your mother! Drag your dead corpses out of this hospital room (Get the hell out of here)! Fuck!"]

 

Damn it! This was why he hated losing control—because when he did, he would curse in Taiwanese!

 

Tengshe froze for two seconds before bursting into uncontrollable laughter, the sound deep and utterly unreserved.

 

Fuck! Can't you take your laughter outside?!

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