Against the Algorithm

Chapter 40: The Quiet Before the Reckoning

"Copy." came Lao K's voice, already moving.

Back upstairs, Da Bing remained on the bed, curling close to his girl, his giant form anchoring her gently, his ears twitching with every sound she made. And on the windowsill, Xiao Cong sat—watching, alert, and still. Because both of them knew. Their human was hurting. And their... her protector? Was already moving to fix it.

Lu Sicheng didn't waste a second. Wallet in his back pocket, phone gripped tight in one hand, and car keys in the other, he moved with the kind of precision that left no room for interruption. His hoodie was zipped, shoes on, hair tied back in a quick, low knot. Every motion was fluid, practiced, not the careful elegance of his usual controlled calm, but the sharp, focused efficiency of someone who had already calculated every step between her bedroom and the hospital doors.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he found Lao K waiting just outside her room, having done exactly what was ordered. Yao was now bundled in the oversized hoodie from the couch, the hem falling over her thighs like a blanket, the sleeves swallowing her hands. The soft lavender socks covered her feet, and Da Bing remained curled tightly against her, refusing to move from his post, his broad white body flush against her side.

Sicheng crossed the room in two strides. "Lao K," he said, voice low and clipped, "watch the brats."

Lao K gave one firm nod, stepping back to make room as Sicheng crouched.

She stirred slightly as he slipped one arm behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, lifting her with practiced ease into a full bridal carry. She didn't protest—barely even opened her eyes—but her fingers curled weakly into his hoodie, her head tipping against his shoulder as a low, pained breath left her lips.

Da Bing growled softly—worried—but did not follow.

"Keep them in here," Sicheng added, already turning. "Da Bing won't leave unless you give him a reason. Xiao Cong's not allowed out."

"Understood."

Sicheng didn't break stride. He carried her through the hallway, her fever-heavy form cradled close, his grip solid and unwavering. Her weight wasn't even a factor. His entire focus was the pulse of heat radiating off her skin, the tremble in her limbs, the faint tension in her jaw as another wave of discomfort passed through her.

The living room came into view and so did the others. They had gathered in loose formation: Pang still in kitchen slippers, Yue clutching his phone, Lao Mao and Ming halfway through a whispered argument about who had heard what and when. But the second Sicheng emerged with Yao in his arms, everything fell silent.

No one dared to speak.

No one even moved.

He didn't pause. Didn't look at them. Didn't explain. He just walked straight through, the sound of his shoes against the floor the only echo that remained behind him as he reached the front door, unlocked it, and stepped into the cool morning air. The door shut firmly behind him. And without a word, without hesitation, Lu Sicheng headed straight for his car. Because his girl was sick. And nothing else mattered.

The drive had been fast—faster than usual—but not reckless. Sicheng's hands never once left the steering wheel, though his eyes never strayed from the rearview mirror either, always flicking up between turns to check on the girl curled against the seat, her head propped with his jacket, her breathing shallow and uneven. The soft, occasional whimper from her throat made something coil tight and cold inside him, but he said nothing—just pressed harder on the gas and willed every traffic light to stay green.