The nursery was a ruin.

  Black blood cratered the tiles. The air reeked of rot and iron. Glass shards littered the floor among overturned cribs and tangled blankets. No infant could ever sleep here again—no one could.

  “Everyone. To the stairwell.”

  YiChen’s voice was raw, but it carried an edge that allowed no refusal.

  They obeyed. In silence.

  Infants were lifted into trembling arms, their whimpers muffled against shoulders. The wounded leaned on the able, dragging themselves step by step down the corridor.

  The emergency stairwell yawned ahead—a narrow concrete throat, lit by a single failing lamp that flickered like a faltering heartbeat. Shadows snapped and broke across the walls.

  On the landing lay the remnants of earlier flight: an uncapped water bottle, half a packet of biscuits, a crumpled coat abandoned in panic.

  YiChen shoved the safety door. The rusted hinge screamed—shrill, metallic, slicing through the sealed air like a blade.

  “Inside.”

  The survivors filed in. Nurses carried infants two at a time until the last crib stood empty. Adults hunched their shoulders, each step a prayer that the fog outside would not notice them.

  At YiChen’s order, the men braced the doors. Logan led Gabe and Owen, lashing handles with belts, power cords, even strips of torn bedsheets—every floor, every entrance sealed with trembling hands.

  By four-thirty, a fragile stillness settled.

  The darkest hour before dawn pressed like iron into their lungs, yet the same thought pounded in every chest:

  Just hold until sunrise.

  At dawn, the Fiends will vanish.

  ?

  YiChen leaned against the stairwell door, breath slow but shallow. The wound at his neck throbbed raw; his arm ached with every faint tremor of his grip.

  Mark dragged his weary frame closer, fingers trembling as they prodded at the torn flesh. His voice rasped, raw with fatigue.

  “Your neck… and your arm… both need treatment.”

  YiChen shook his head. His lips were pale, but his tone was steady.

  “I’m fine, Dad. You look worse than me. Sit. Rest. The sky’s almost light.”

  Mark let out a long, frayed sigh and lowered himself beside his son. His eyes softened, but his chest clenched at the sight—his boy sitting rigid, gaze locked unblinking on the stairwell door, every nerve strung to breaking.

  “You push yourself too far…” Mark whispered, voice on the edge of breaking. “When we get home—you have to tell me everything. What’s really happening to you.”

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  YiChen’s gaze never wavered. His reply came quiet, yet heavy as stone.

  “When we get home, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Mark didn’t press. He knew his son too well. Since boyhood, YiChen had swallowed pain, shouldered burdens without a word. Now—pale lips, hollow eyes, body trembling just to stay upright—he was still the wall holding everyone else together.

  Mark’s hand curled helplessly against his thigh. His heart twisted with a father’s grief.

  How much longer… can he carry this alone?

  ?

  YiChen had stolen barely two hours of broken sleep. His spirit was scraped to dregs, his muscles aflame, yet he forced himself awake. This stairwell was the last refuge—he had to guard it. Quietly, he pinched his thigh, dragging his body back to focus.

  In the shadows, infants whimpered, quickly hushed against nursing breasts. The wounded huddled together, breath rising in fragile clouds. Logan and Gabe braced the door in turns; Owen kept his eyes fixed on the ducts; Elena moved among the blankets, pressing water to parched lips.

  Each clung to a task.

  Each clung to hope.

  Through the narrow window, the east began to pale.

  Dawn shimmered faint on the horizon.

  The darkest night was breaking—yet every heartbeat stretched sunrise unbearably far away.

  ?

  The first ray of sunlight spilled through the hospital’s shattered panes, washing away the chill that had strangled the night.

  Almost at once, every phone in the stairwell buzzed—the signal had returned. Vibrations and chimes rippled through the crowd like rainfall.

  “It’s over—it’s really over!”

  Someone dropped to the floor, sobbing into both hands.

  “We survived!”

  “Mom! Mom, we’re safe!”

  Relief burst like floodwater. Some clung to each other; others knelt and wept, trembling fingers fumbling for calls that finally connected.

  After a night stretched taut on the edge of death, nerves at last unraveled.

  YiChen pushed against the wall, forcing himself upright.

  The world swam black. His spirit was drained, his blood loss heavy, his body hollowed like a shell. Only will had kept him standing this long.

  One after another, survivors pressed forward—grasping his hand, bowing, one even trying to kneel. YiChen nodded numbly, their voices blurring into a ringing haze.

  Beside him, Mark clutched a phone, his own voice raw with relief:

  “…Yes, we’re safe. We’ll find a way home. YiChen can’t… neither of us can drive right now…”

  At the stairwell’s edge, Elena froze.

  Her father’s words blurred into background noise.

  Her eyes fixed on YiChen—on his pallor, the faint sway of his body.

  He doesn’t look well.

  The thought struck like a knife. She pushed through the crowd.

  “YiChen…”

  Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the din.

  But he heard. Through the haze, he forced his gaze to focus—saw the girl he had dragged back from death. Amber eyes, trembling lips, words unsaid brimming in silence.

  He tried to answer.

  But the world tilted.

  The flame guttered.

  Not good.

  His body collapsed forward—

  —into warmth.

  “YiChen!!”

  Elena’s cry split the stairwell as she caught him, arms locking tight. The impact slammed her knees to the floor, pain shooting up her bones, but she didn’t notice.

  She only clung to him. His head sagged against her shoulder, heavy, helpless.

  YiChen—

  the man who had carved a path through the night for them all—

  now felt as fragile as a falling leaf.

  Tears spilled hot down her cheeks. Gasps rippled around them. Footsteps. Mark’s panicked shout.

  But in Elena’s world, there was only the weight in her arms, and the ache lancing through her chest.

  “YiChen… please… don’t let anything happen to you…”

  Her voice trembled, desperate, as if holding tighter might bind his soul to her.

  Sunlight streamed through the stairwell window, washing across them both.

  Their shadows merged on the floor—

  long, unbroken, inseparable.

  ?

  Epilogue

  Later, no one could say when the fire axe vanished from the hospital.

  Some claimed it was discarded in rubble. Others swore the fire department reclaimed it.

  But on a narrow street not far away, the residents knew a different truth.

  Each morning, behind a modest breakfast stall, an old grandmother lit a stick of incense before a wooden box wrapped in red cloth.

  Inside that box, resting in silence—

  was the axe.