Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

Sun Xiuying's hands trembled slightly as she took the syringe out of the insulated box. She tried twice before she could securely attach the needle, tip upwards, and then pushed the plunger with her thumb. A small stream of pale blue liquid squeezed out, flashing under the light. She looked up at He Yuzhu, her lips opening and closing repeatedly.

"Director He... or should we wait a little longer? The toxicology report from Shanghai will be out in three days."

He Yuzhu rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing a bluish vein in the crook of his elbow. There was an old scar across that patch of skin, a shrapnel wound, more than ten years old, its color whitish, like a centipede lying there.

"We can't wait any longer." He stretched out his arm, his voice low but each word firm and decisive. "I've read Qin Huairu's report. Early-stage liver fibrosis. She can't wait."

Sun Xiuying's hands trembled even more violently. She took a deep breath and wiped He Yuzhu's elbow with an alcohol swab. The cotton ball felt cool and irritated his skin.

"Relax," she said.

The needle pierced his skin. He Yuzhu's fingertips trembled slightly, not from pain, but from the cold. That coldness crept up his elbow along the veins, like an icy snake burrowing into his shoulder and then up to his chest. He held his breath, watching the tube of pale blue liquid slowly diminish.

"Does it hurt?" Sun Xiuying asked.

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He felt the chill reach his heart, pause for a moment, and then spread like an explosion to his limbs. His fingertips, toes, and scalp were all numb. He gripped the armrests of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white.

"...That's interesting," he said in a hoarse voice.

The door opened very softly, but He Yuzhu still heard it.

Qin Huairu stood at the door, not coming in. She was wearing a blue apron, her hands still covered in flour, and had run straight over from the stove. Her gaze moved from He Yuzhu's face to his arm, then to the empty syringe on the bedside table. The syringe was still there, the needle uncapped, the remaining pale blue liquid gleaming under the light.

Her eyes immediately welled up with tears.

"You lied to me." Her voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be squeezed out of her throat. "You said you'd try it after human trials."

He Yuzhu opened his mouth, as if to say something. Qin Huairu didn't give him the chance. She walked over, grabbed the empty syringe, and slammed it into the enamel basin in the corner. The crash echoed like thunder in the quiet ward.

"You're always like this." Her back to him, her shoulders trembling, "Like this in North Korea, like this on Zhenbao Island, like this when we were working in the archives. When will you ever value your own life?"

He Yuzhu watched her retreating figure, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I have reviewed your report. Early-stage liver fibrosis."

Qin Huairu turned around abruptly, tears streaming down her face. "So you're going to use yourself as a test subject? He Yuzhu, have you ever thought about what would happen to me if something happened to you? What would happen to Nianhua?"

He Yuzhu reached out and grabbed her wrist. Her hand was cold and trembling.

"Nothing will go wrong," he said. "Sun Xiuying's animal experiments lasted eight months, with three hundred mice and twenty rabbits, and they are all fine."

Qin Huairu didn't speak. She shook off his hand, walked to the window, turned her back to him, and her shoulders trembled. The ward remained quiet for a long time. Birds chirped outside the window, their calls completely clashing with the somber atmosphere inside.

After an unknown amount of time, Qin Huairu turned around, walked back to the bedside, and sat down. She didn't say anything more, but simply took He Yuzhu's hand, held it in her palm, and gently rubbed it.

It was late at night. The lights in the corridor were half off, and a dim yellow light seeped in through the crack in the door, drawing a thin, bright line at Qin Huairu's feet.

She sat on the hard wooden chair, her back aching terribly, but dared not move. She was afraid the chair would make a sound and wake him. He Yuzhu slept soundly, his breathing steady, his chest rising and falling gently. But she knew that the vial of pale blue medicine was flowing through his veins, she didn't know where it was going, or what it was doing.

She remembered that year in the field hospital. He had a fever of 40 degrees Celsius, his lips were cracked, and he was talking incoherently, one sentence after another. He said, "Snow, so much snow," "Squad leader, don't sleep, get up and charge," and "Huairu, Huairu..." At that time, she didn't know him, but she thought this wounded soldier was really talkative, still muttering even with such a high fever.

Later, she met him. She knew he wasn't good at sweet talk, coaxing people, or being romantic. But he would get up to get her water when she coughed in the middle of the night, wait for her at the newspaper office when she worked late into the night, and silently use himself as a test subject when she was diagnosed with liver fibrosis.

Qin Huairu reached out and gently touched his forehead. It wasn't hot, it was cool. She withdrew her fingers and looked at his face, which was finally no longer furrowed as he slept.

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and shone on the bed and his face. She noticed gray hairs at his temples, wondering when they had appeared.

She moved the chair forward, leaned close to his hand, and buried her face in her arms. Tears streamed silently down her face, soaking a small patch of her sleeve.

At daybreak, Sun Xiuying arrived. She didn't knock, but pushed the door open and came in, clutching a stack of lab reports, the edges of which were crumpled from her grip.

He Yuzhu was already awake, leaning against the headboard. Qin Huairu was lying beside him, still unconscious. He gestured for Sun Xiuying to be quiet, slowly pulled his hand away from Qin Huairu's, got out of bed, and slipped on his shoes to walk to the door.

"How is it?" he asked in a low voice.

Sun Xiuying didn't say anything. She handed over the stack of test results, her hands trembling.

He Yuzhu took it and flipped through the pages. Blood routine test, normal. Urine routine test, normal. Liver function test—he paused.

ALT: 18. Yesterday it was 89. AST: 22. Yesterday it was 76. Creatinine: 0.7. Yesterday it was 1.2. He flipped to the last page of the lab report, where there was a summary section that read: All indicators have returned to the levels of a healthy 20-year-old male.

"The rate of senescent cell clearance is 87%." Sun Xiuying's voice was soft and clear. "Your bodily functions are equivalent to those of a 20-year-old. Your blood vessels, liver, and kidneys are all younger."

He Yuzhu folded the test results and stuffed them into his pocket. "Don't make a fuss. Verify first, then repeat. Repeat at least three times before considering the next step."

Sun Xiuying nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait," He Yuzhu called out to her. Sun Xiuying turned around. He Yuzhu glanced at Qin Huairu, who was sleeping by the bedside in the ward, and paused.

"Don't tell her about this yet. Wait until the official report comes out."

Sun Xiuying nodded and left.

The phone rang. He Yuzhu answered it, and it was Lao Sun on the other end, his voice very low.

"Old He, news has come from Brazil. It's a secret telegram sent by Yang Xiaobing."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Speak."

Old Sun was silent for two seconds. "Several white men came to the rubber plantation. They were unusually tall, probably over two meters, with physiques like professional athletes. They were well-trained and moved in perfect unison, unlike ordinary bodyguards. Yang Xiaobing said that when they ran, they were at least 30 kilometers per hour and ran for half an hour without stopping."

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on the table. "A bio-warrior?"

Old Sun said, "That's what Yang Xiaobing guessed. He's seen US special forces before, but he's never seen anything like this. Their physical abilities are beyond the limits of normal people."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He stood by the window, looking at the sky outside. The sun was obscured by clouds, and the light dimmed.

"Have Yang Xiaobing continue to keep watch. Don't get close, don't alert them. Take clear photos of those people and figure out their patterns of activity."

Old Sun responded and hung up.

He Yuzhu put down the phone and stood by the window. His own face was reflected in the windowpane; a thirty-year-old man with the physical attributes of a twenty-year-old. But the scar was still there, above his brow bone, from a shrapnel wound, more than ten years old, and it hadn't faded.

He reached out and touched the scar. It felt cool, just like the sensation of the medicine being injected into his vein.