A dream within a dream within a dream

After bandaging, Jiang Chen sat quietly on the sofa, the twilight darkness enveloping him as the wind and rain howled outside. Perhaps unwilling to disturb the girl's sleep with the light, he left it off.

Suddenly, the phone—set to silent—lit up in the darkness. Jiang Chen picked it up, glanced at the scrolling incoming call notification, draped his trench coat over himself, and rose to walk to the balcony.

“Mm?”

A flat, emotionless question.

The caller hurried to reply, “Boss, I see the person. It’s a middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and stout… heavy injuries to the head, looks serious. He hasn’t woken yet—pretty bad… his pants are still off.”

Jiang Chen’s gaze sharpened. His eyes pulled back from the distant view and landed on the rain-soaked potted plant before him.

He said nothing.

The caller continued, “Boss, what now? Should I send the man to the hospital?”

He closed his eyes, reining in the urge to kill himself, “Do you know who it is?”

“Easy to check.”

“Don’t bother.” Jiang Chen lit a cigarette with deliberate calm, the smoke curling between his brows, his voice as cool as the chill of the rainy night.

“Break his hands and take him to the hospital. If anyone asks, say you mistook the person tonight, there was some friction, and you’re willing to settle it privately.”

“Understood.”

“Confirm identity when you pay. Pay whatever he demands. If he refuses, find a chance to remind him that rape is a crime. I’ll use the money to hire people and ensure he rots in jail.”

“Understood.” The caller agreed without hesitation.

In the narrow, damp corridor, several men in black gathered their phones and kept eyeing the fat man on the floor.

Seeing the bloody stone nearby, they quickly grasped what had happened. They loathed such people most of all.

Without pause, they pulled several sticks from the car and brought them down hard, smashing them against the man’s hand bones again and again.

Not a drop of blood spilled.

But the bones were definitely fractured.

At least a few months before he could feed himself.

Almost done, the leader ordered them to stop, then dragged the man onto the car like garbage and drove toward the hospital.

…

For the entire night, Jiang Chen never left the room.

He sat on the sofa with his eyes closed, not knowing whether he slept or not. Yet the moment the girl on the bed stirred even slightly, he would open his eyes at once, hurry to her side, and carefully tuck the blanket around her.

He treasured her with exquisite care, unwilling to leave her side again.

Ye Mian’s sleep had been restless. She had endured three or four nightmares in succession.

The first showed Jiang Chen killing.

The second showed her mother.

From a child’s perspective, she sat in a cradle watching her mother embrace a relatively young uncle and kiss him. The young girl in the dream wept bitterly. Without a mother since childhood and her father far away, she had clung to a virtual image of one to fill the void of maternal love. She told herself her mother had loved them both, only taken away by heaven.

The third dream continued directly from the first. She saw Jiang Chen—noble in every gesture—inside a prison cell. There was no sunlight; the rough boards could grind skin to pieces. No familiar scent remained, only a thick, moldy dampness. She could not identify what had rotted in the dark corner. Yet the man who had always been so fastidious endured it, sitting upright with eyes closed, as if awaiting his own death.

Ye Mian opened her mouth. Her hazy consciousness suddenly cleared. She knew she was dreaming, yet she stared in disbelief at the surroundings so vivid they felt unreal. She shrank back involuntarily. The scene she feared most in this lifetime was unfolding before her. Her heart felt punctured, wind howling coldly through the wound. She cried again.

She had assumed the same as before—that the figures in the dream could not see her. So her tears fell freely, without restraint. But the man beside the bed suddenly opened his eyes, saw the indistinct girl suddenly appear before him, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Here again.”

He spoke to the phantom as if alone, voice cold and clear, his pupils containing only her, “What are you crying for, Ye Mian? How are you doing now?”

Ye Mian froze, tears still on her lashes, pointing at herself. “You can see me?”

Jiang Chen’s fingers trembled.

Previous hallucinations had never spoken. He swallowed the hoarseness and asked tentatively, “Ye Mian?”

Ye Mian jumped in fright, then, after a moment of confusion, asked again, “This year… did you open a bank?”

The man ignored her strange question, brows knitting tightly, an overwhelming aura of authority pressing in. “Even in a fantasy, you can ask questions. I really am mad.”

The prison guard nearby knocked on the door. “Quiet.”

Ye Mian blinked, confirmed the guard saw nothing, then glanced at her own translucent hand. She realized she was still dreaming. The Jiang Chen before her was the man of her previous life.

She walked over, looked at him, and asked through the bitterness, “Did you really kill someone?”

Jiang Chen raised his brows. “Mm.”

Ye Mian’s throat tightened. She thought of the Jiang Chen in reality. Even though it was only a dream, she still asked, “Do you… like me?”

Jiang Chen clasped his hands together, his desolate heart trembling again. Reason told him the girl could not be here. Yet even as a fantasy, he wanted to speak the words he had never dared to say in his life—words that could serve as a final gift to leave this world.

He admitted them openly before the illusion, brows and eyes impossibly gentle.

“Mm, I like you very much.”

“Since when?”

“Since… before I even knew you.”

Two days passed. Ye Mian still had not awakened.

Jiang Chen contacted a private hospital. After examination, Ye Mian had sustained only minor concussion at worst.

In the hospital, Jiang Chen’s fingers traced the ring on his hand as he questioned the doctor.

“Why can’t she wake?”

The doctor paused, then answered carefully, “Was she stimulated?”

“Mm.”

“In that case, it happens sometimes. If the patient already has mental vulnerabilities, a severe blow can prevent awakening. That falls outside our specialty. I suggest you consult doctors in other fields.”

“Mental issues?” Jiang Chen fell silent. He saw no problems in the girl’s mind.

“There are many causes. The most common are mental confusion, brain damage, memory disruption. Many psychiatric conditions can produce this. If there’s no psychiatric factor, the trauma is simply too great and the patient refuses to wake. Look at her now—she seems to be dreaming, doesn’t she?”

“…”

“In short, there’s no need for excessive worry. It’s not to the point of vegetative state. She may simply need to sleep, think things through, and wake herself. If you’re truly anxious, I recommend a psychological specialist.”

“…”

“In this situation, patients are likely to have some degree of mental weakness. You should pay close attention.”

Jiang Chen lowered his head and gazed at the girl lying quietly.

He remained silent for a long time.

“Thank you. I understand.”