In the end, Wei Wenhua prescribed him some medication for improving blood circulation, along with Vitamin D tablets.
While jotting notes in a notebook, he said, “You should eat more protein-rich foods, like eggs, milk, fish, and shrimp…”
Halfway through, he seemed to remember something and got up to retrieve a blister pack of pills from the shelf. He counted out five pills, wrapped them neatly in a square piece of paper, and placed them into the transparent white plastic bag with the other medications.
Turning around, Wei Wenhua handed the bag to Qi Min. “These five pills are sleeping aids. Some patients experience PTSD after car accidents… You’re in your final year of high school, and the psychological pressure is pretty intense. If you have trouble sleeping, take one. A good rest helps with bone recovery.”
“Thank you, Doctor Wei.”
Taking the medication, Qi Min hobbled out of the clinic on his crutches.
The sky had already darkened. Outside, the streetlights illuminated half of the Ping’an Clinic signboard, leaving the other half swallowed by shadows.
Beyond the alley, the main road was a bustling stream of cars, horns blaring and headlights flashing. But the alley itself was serene and quiet, as if separated by an invisible barrier dividing two different worlds.
A clinic, unlike restaurants or supermarkets, didn’t need heavy foot traffic to thrive. It didn’t have to be on a busy street, and the low rent in a secluded location was likely better for business.
After exiting the alley and turning right, it was only a few hundred meters to the main gate of the Huayuan Community.
At the mouth of the alley, Qi Min noticed a Volkswagen Passat parked on the left.
The alley wasn’t very wide—barely enough for one car to pass through—so this vehicle effectively blocked the road, leaving only a narrow path for scooters to squeeze through, or for two people to barely walk side by side.
Glancing back at the alley, Qi Min noted that the only establishment there was Wei Wenhua’s clinic. It was highly likely the car belonged to him.
In recent years, the number of cars on the road had increased significantly, and improper parking had become a common sight.
But the impression Wei Wenhua gave Qi Min was that of someone meticulous and disciplined.
The clinic’s shelves gleamed, spotless. Not a speck of dust could be seen on the floor. The consultation desk, chairs, and medical supplies were arranged so neatly they could rival a showroom.
Qi Min held the plastic bag under the streetlight, inspecting it.
Inside, every paper-wrapped package of medicine was folded into uniform, precise diamond shapes, with the folds and edges tucked in exactly the same way.
His evaluation? Nearly obsessive levels of tidiness and order.
Someone like that didn’t seem the type to park their car haphazardly—especially not with the residential area recently cracking down on parking violations. It felt out of character.
Qi Min figured that Wei Wenhua had likely rushed over after finishing work at the hospital in the eastern district and hadn’t had time to find proper parking, so he simply parked near the clinic to deal with it later.
But that raised another question: If he was so busy, why go through the trouble of opening an additional clinic in the city center?
As an attending surgeon at a major hospital, Wei Wenhua’s salary was undoubtedly high.
And judging by the car parked at the alley entrance—a German model—it was clear he wasn’t strapped for cash. Cars were a luxury for most people, and even an average one cost at least tens of thousands. This one, looking particularly new, was likely purchased recently. Clearly, he wasn’t driven by financial pressure.
Moreover, running a clinic wasn’t especially lucrative. It often brought legal liabilities, and most hospital doctors wouldn’t bother with the hassle—pharmacies, for instance, were much more profitable.
Most doctors who opened clinics were either not highly qualified, lacked credentials, or couldn’t meet the standards to work at major hospitals, so they turned to private practice as a last resort.
Some older hospital doctors, unable to keep up with the grueling overtime schedules, might choose to leave and open their own clinics.
But for someone like Wei Wenhua, a surgeon in his thirties with a prominent position at a major hospital, juggling both his hospital role and running a clinic was unusual.
The effort required outweighed the benefits. So why bother?
As the sound of Qi Min’s uneven footsteps gradually faded into the distance, Wei Wenhua leisurely slid the now-empty blister pack with five missing pills back into its box and placed it neatly on the shelf.
There were no other appointments scheduled for tonight.
Adjusting the position of the medicine box, he stood back and admired the perfectly organized shelves, a satisfied look on his face.
Whistling softly, he walked to the door and switched off the clinic lights.
As the lights went out, darkness briefly swallowed the room.
Wei Wenhua stood motionless in the pitch-black clinic for a long moment before tilting his head slightly and slowly walking toward the faint light spilling in from the streetlamp outside the alley.
Time passed quickly, and in the blink of an eye, half a month had gone by.
The second semester of sophomore year was still fairly intense academically. But for Qi Min, none of it compared to the pressure of being physically inconvenienced.
“Old Qi, need to go to the bathroom?”
Because of Qi Min’s limited mobility—and to prevent him from holding it in out of embarrassment—Hao Peng had made a habit of asking him every break if he needed to go to the restroom.
Qi Min looked up to see his good friend’s face twisted in an odd expression.
This wasn’t a metaphor. Qi Min felt like the environment he was in was undergoing some kind of unpredictable change.
And as time went on, that change seemed to be sliding in a worse direction.
“No need,” Qi Min replied, expressionless.
In that moment, the lights around him seemed to dim slightly.
Qi Min’s gaze shifted past Hao Peng, whose face had gone pale, to someone behind him.
Sun Xiaoxiao, who had been lively and adorable when he first met her, was now collecting group assignments in a strange, stuttering motion.
Although her face was turned to the side, her pupils slid toward the corners of her eyes, locking onto him with an unnerving, sidelong stare.
Her serene smile, paired with her rigid expression, looked particularly eerie.
Doesn’t that hurt her eyes? Qi Min found himself wondering absently.
Despite such obvious strangeness, none of their classmates seemed to notice. They continued chatting, reviewing, going about their usual routines.
No.
Maybe he was the only “normal” person left here.
Qi Min calmly endured Sun Xiaoxiao’s scrutiny. When she came over to collect his assignment, he even politely thanked her.
Sun Xiaoxiao froze for a moment, the confusion in her large eyes clear as day.
Then, as if to cover her reaction, she let out a soft “hehe” laugh, her smile widening unnaturally until it seemed her mouth might tear apart.
Qi Min ignored her completely and turned his head to chat with Hao Peng instead.
Sun Xiaoxiao: “…”
Watching the two of them animatedly debate whether to have rice bowls or noodles for lunch, Sun Xiaoxiao finally closed her exaggerated grin and walked away, visibly bored.
“By the way, Old Qi, have you decided which university you want to apply to?”
As they chatted, Hao Peng suddenly changed the topic without warning.
The moment the words left his mouth, the classroom fell deathly silent.
It was as if the classmates who normally kept their backs to Qi Min were always secretly eavesdropping on his conversations.
Even Hao Peng, who had just been speaking to him so casually, froze in place, his smile stiffening into something unnatural. He looked at Qi Min the same way Sun Xiaoxiao had earlier—intense and unsettling.
Faced with such an eerie atmosphere, most people would probably break down on the spot.
But Qi Min wasn’t “most people.”
Acting as if nothing was wrong, he calmly threw the question back. “What do you think?”
His tone was light and effortless, like pushing away a heavy door with just a finger.
“You’ve always wanted to be a cop, and your grades are great. I’m guessing An Da University in Hutong City!” Hao Peng said. “They have a 90% police recruitment rate… but with this car accident and the scars on your leg, wouldn’t that affect the physical exam? Police schools are pretty strict about scars, aren’t they?”
If Qi Min were to choose for himself, he’d probably go for something in the field of chemistry—maybe medicine or pharmacology.
A police academy wasn’t even on his list of options.
And why? Because he hated exercise and sweating.
Police school would undoubtedly involve a ton of physical training, and for someone like Qi Min, who despised movement, it would be nothing short of hell.
But he didn’t refute Hao Peng’s assumption.
Hao Peng’s response seemed to press “play” on the environment, and the classroom’s chatter and activity resumed as though nothing had happened. But Qi Min knew they had all been listening in, their ears tuned to every word.
Qi Min didn’t know much about police school physicals, so he referenced what he could recall about the medical standards for civil service exams and said, “As long as the scars aren’t on the face or neck, it shouldn’t be an issue…”
“But just to be safe, I’ll go to a dermatology clinic to have the scars removed before the exam. There’s still a year left, so don’t worry!”
As he spoke, he patted Hao Peng on the shoulder in a friendly manner, flashing a fake smile while closely observing Hao Peng’s reaction.
Hao Peng blinked, his expression softening.
His movements no longer seemed stiff, and his face relaxed into his usual goofy grin.
The lights brightened again, the temperature rose, and everything seemed to return to normal.
Qi Min couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh of relief.
This year marks the 80th anniversary of the founding of the Communist Youth League of China.
Coincidentally, a new multi-functional digital cinema had just been built in the West City shopping center. The school decided to organize a trip for students to watch a “red” film1A red film refers to a genre of films in China that focus on revolutionary themes, often depicting the struggles, sacrifices, and victories of the Communist Party of China, its leaders, and its soldiers. These films aim to promote patriotism, honor revolutionary history, and convey ideological and moral values consistent with the party’s narrative. The term “red” symbolizes communism and socialism, aligning with the color associated with the Communist Party. after school on Friday.
May 3rd and 10th were reserved for seniors and freshmen, respectively. Today, May 17th, it was the sophomores’ turn.
After school, the students boarded buses one by one under the supervision of their homeroom teachers and student organizers, heading slowly toward the cinema.
The newly constructed cinema was large, housed in a standalone building with a sleek and modern look. Its glossy glass exterior reflected the bright lights that illuminated it from within.
The ticket booths were located on the first floor, where long lines of people were already queuing.
Fortunately, their school had pre-purchased the tickets, so the students didn’t need to stand in line.
Classes 1 through 7 were assigned to a screening hall on the third floor, so the group surged upstairs in a noisy crowd, heading straight for their destination.
On the second floor, Qi Min noticed that in addition to screening halls, there were restaurants like Pizza Hut and KFC. The corridors also featured claw machines and display cases filled with merchandise from recently released films.
This was clearly a place where moviegoers could hang out before or after a screening.
Compared to this modern digital cinema, the old 1990s theaters in Linjiang City, with their limited facilities and poor soundproofing, didn’t stand a chance.
The third floor consisted entirely of screening halls.
Ropes cordoned off the entrance areas where ticket inspectors stood ready to check tickets.
Students handed over their tickets, and the inspectors quickly marked each one with a pen before letting them through.
The ticket-checking process was efficient, and soon everyone had entered the hall and found their seats, ready for the movie to begin.
In celebration of the special occasion, the cinema was screening a re-release of the 1974 classic film Sparkling Red Star.
Qi Min had seen this old movie on Central Television before, but watching it in a theater felt far more immersive, with its grand sound effects enhancing the experience.
However, the contrast between the dark surroundings and the bright screen did make him a little concerned about his eyesight.
Sparkling Red Star was undeniably a classic, though compared to modern blockbusters, it lacked contemporary appeal.
The dated stage-play acting style took some getting used to at first.
Still, the actors’ passionate performances and the beautiful, moving songs gave the film a powerful emotional impact.
When Pan Dongzi’s mother sacrificed herself, many students were moved to tears.
Since Qi Min had already seen the movie before—and was feeling a little distracted—he didn’t watch it very attentively.
The Author has something to say:
Qi Ming: “There’s always some schemer trying to harm me!”
Shang Jingshui: (pulls out sleeping pills)
Qi Ming: “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” (slaps them away)
Shang Jingshui: “…”
