In the hospital, where disinfectant was being sprayed, the woman forcefully grabbed his neck, her voice filled with extreme ruthlessness: "Divorce me, now!" A suffocating despair overwhelmed him. Song Hengjue's hands, gripping the sheets, bulged with veins, as if suppressing immense pain. He still gritted his teeth and squeezed out the exact same words as last time: "You wish."

Yang Qingheng's cold face was chilling, and the ruthlessness in her eyes left no room for doubt about the truthfulness of her words: "Then die!"

Song Hengjue was not intimidated by her. A pleasant smile appeared on his lips, and his deep black eyes greedily locked onto her every move.

Normally he would have looked very affectionate, but now his lips were bluish from suffocation and his pupils were constricted, making him look strange and sickly.

The lips moved.

There was no sound, but Yang Qingheng understood—"You love me."

"You slut, you slut, who loves you, you lunatic!" Not getting the answer she wanted, she broke down and vented her anger on him, digging her nails into his throat until it bled.

She doesn't love him, how could she love him, you idiot.

It would be better to kill him. Kill him and let him go down to hell with her. They should go to hell together.

Yang Qingheng looked at the closed eyes, her hands trembling, and after several attempts, she finally dialed the number haltingly: "The patient in room 307 has fainted."

She seemed to smell blood in her breath, and her face was deathly pale.

Meng Xu hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently patted her shoulder.

Yang Qingheng watched from afar as the nurses and doctors swarmed in, her expression indifferent: "Let's go."

"I believe he really wanted to spend his last moments with you." Her eyes were like a stagnant pool, completely devoid of their former brilliance, and Meng Xu couldn't bear it.

Yang Qingheng stared blankly in the direction of the ward. The streets behind her were bustling with activity, but all that liveliness no longer belonged to her.

"Tell him, let him watch me grow old, become ugly, watch me die? If it were Dr. Meng who was sick, would you tell Miss Lu as well?"

Meng Xu's words of persuasion stuck in his throat. After a few seconds of silence, he helped her open the car door.

…………

Yang Qingheng hugged her knees and stared blankly ahead, or rather, she was staring blankly into thin air.

Since the tumor started pressing on her optic nerve last week, her vision has become increasingly blurry. Now she can't even perceive any light; it's all pitch black.

She blinked, then suddenly looked at the air and said, "Dr. Meng, is the sun not out today? It's so cold."

The only person in the house was a temporary caregiver who had heard that she was going to die. The caregiver thought it was bad luck and vowed never to come over except when she was cooking.

Only Meng Xu would occasionally come to see her when he had some free time, probably out of pity for her.

In the past, she would get angry if someone pitied her, but now even getting angry feels tiring, and all she wants to do is get a good night's sleep.

Looking at the bright sun in the courtyard, Meng Xu felt a lump in his throat, but forced himself to speak in a natural tone: "Yeah, it looks like it's going to rain. Do you want me to light a stove for you?"

"Hmm," Yang Qingheng said, resting her chin on her hand and touching the stick beside her, "No need, even if I level up I can't destroy it, I'll just lie here."

Meng Xu stepped forward to help her, but she brushed him away.

“I have a cane, I don’t need you. Don’t let me make you late for work.”

Meng Xu opened his mouth, but froze when he saw the familiar face outside the yard. He sighed and said, "Okay, then call me if you need anything."

She had two numbers in her phone, one for the hospital and one for him, but even so, she always dialed the wrong number.

Yang Qingheng ignored his daily monotonous words, tapped her cane left and right to estimate the distance to the bed, and groped her way to sit on the edge of the bed. It took her half a minute just to grab the blanket, and she almost desperately wrapped herself up in it, making it completely airtight, with only her face showing.

She was frighteningly pale, and only then did she belatedly press her fingers against the corner of her eye, as if she had gained even more wrinkles.

Yang Qingheng began to feel fortunate for her decision; at least Song Hengjue wouldn't see her half-dead, ugly state.