The fluorescent lights of Mo Ting's office flickered softly, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, a turbulent symphony matching the chaos brewing beneath his seemingly calm exterior.
The door burst open, shattering the fragile quiet. Lu Feng, his usually composed assistant, stumbled inside, his face pale and drenched, though whether from rain or sweat was unclear.
"President Mo!" Lu Feng's voice cracked.
Mo Ting's pen stilled mid-stroke. He didn't look up immediately, his cold tone slicing through the air. "I hope you have a good reason for barging in unannounced, Lu Feng."
"Sir, it's… it's about Miss Lin Nuan," Lu Feng stammered, his chest heaving.
At the mention of her name, Mo Ting's grip on the pen tightened. His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped to an icy calm. "What about her?"
Mo Ting's eyes lifted, cold and sharp. No greeting, no invitation to speak. Just a razor-edged stare that demanded instant explanation.
"Lin Nuan—" Lu Feng's voice cracked. "Shaoting filed divorce papers this afternoon. She's being chased through the city in this storm. I just received—"
"Address." Mo Ting's command was clipped, brooking no argument.
"Maple Street, near—"
Mo Ting was already moving. His expensive leather shoes struck the marble floor with military precision, each step a declaration of intent. No coat, no umbrella—just raw, unleashed purpose.
The city blurred past him. Rain-slicked streets, neon lights smearing like watercolors, the world reduced to a tunnel of urgent motion.
Then—a moment of absolute horror.
The truck's impact was brutal and sudden. Lin Nuan's fragile form tumbled like a broken doll, tossed aside by merciless metal and momentum.
Mo Ting's world stopped.
"No," he whispered, a rare crack in his impenetrable facade. The rain continued falling, indifferent to human drama.
Approaching the scene, he saw her lying there—motionless, pale. The truck driver stood paralyzed, shock etched across his face.
"Call. Ambulance. Now." Each word was a razor, cutting through the ambient noise.
Lu Feng, who had somehow followed him, was already on the phone, his voice trembling. "Emergency services? Accident. Maple and Third. Critical condition."
Mo Ting knelt beside Lin Nuan, his hand hovering—not touching, as if afraid she might shatter further. Her breathing was shallow, barely perceptible.
"Nuan, dont leave..... please" he commanded, though it wasn't clear whether he was speaking to her or the universe itself.
The night continued its relentless assault, rain mixing with the street's grime, with blood, with unspoken promises and potential futures—all suspended in this singular, devastating moment.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Coming. Always coming, but never fast enough.
The emergency room buzzed with urgent activity. Mo Ting stood like a stone statue, his immaculate suit splattered with rain and traces of blood.
His phone rang. Qiao Ye, his closest friend, answered with his typical humor. "Mo Ting, what trouble have you gotten into now?"
But what he heard next froze him completely.
Soft, broken sounds. Weeping. Mo Ting was crying.
The great Mo Ting—a man known for his steel-like composure, whose very name made executives tremble—was sobbing.
"Qiao Ye," Mo Ting's voice cracked, "Lin Nuan... she might not survive."
Qiao Ye dropped everything. The phone call, the jokes, the entire world collapsed into one urgent mission: reaching Mo Ting.
He burst into the hospitals second floor, following the sounds of medical equipment and hushed conversations. At the operating room's entrance, he found Mo Ting—a broken version of his usually controlled self.
"She will live," Mo Ting whispered, more a command to the universe than a statement. "She must live."
All Qiao Ye could do was to enter the operating room and make sure he bring Lin Nuan back alive.