Zhiwei

?? ??????: ?? ????? ????? ??????? ?? ?????????? ?? ?? ????????. ??? ????? ?? ????? ??? ???'?? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???? ??? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ??? ?????. 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.