Against the Algorithm

Chapter 40: The Quiet Before the Reckoning

By the time they reached the hospital, she was barely coherent. He parked in the emergency drop-off zone, stormed through the doors carrying her in his arms, still dressed in her socks and his hoodie, her cheeks flushed with the unmistakable heat of a fever that had gone too long unchecked. The admitting nurse took one look and called for assistance, her voice sharp with urgency.

The next few minutes blurred into clinical lighting and the rustle of forms and the soft beep of machines. They took her from his arms. He hated it. But he allowed it—because this was beyond what he could do. She needed more than blankets and tea. She needed help.

Sicheng sat in the waiting chair outside the treatment room, elbows braced against his knees, fists clenched tight, his phone buzzing intermittently with messages from the others. He didn't respond. He couldn't not until he had answers. It was twenty-three minutes later when the attending physician came out, clipboard in hand, eyes already focused on the man who had been glaring holes into the floor like he could burn through the concrete if it meant getting back to her faster.

"Lu Sicheng?"

He stood immediately. "How is she?"

"She's stable," the doctor said quickly, voice level but not gentle. "But she's very sick."

The words hit harder than he expected.

"She has severe strep throat," the doctor continued. "It's progressed—badly. There's inflammation in her upper respiratory tract and her tonsils are nearly swollen shut. We're catching it right as it's on the cusp of developing into bronchitis."

Sicheng's jaw tightened.

"She's also extremely dehydrated," the doctor added. "That's likely what pushed the fever up so aggressively. Her immune system's been under stress—based on the timeline, it sounds like she was already getting sick before her period started. That combined with the hormonal shifts, loss of appetite, and poor hydration created a perfect storm."

"Is she on fluids?" Sicheng ran a hand down his face, every muscle in his body coiled.

"We've started an IV," the doctor confirmed. "She's also getting antipyretics and antibiotics. We'll monitor her for the next few hours, but if she remains stable, we'll discharge her with medication and a care plan. She's not contagious anymore, but she's going to be exhausted and in pain for a few days."

"Can I see her?"

The doctor gave a short nod. "She's asking for you."

That was all he needed to hear. He was already moving. Already slipping through the doors toward her room. Because no matter what the chart said, no matter how sick she was. She was still his and he would be right there until she was better.

She had looked so small in the hospital bed.

Too small.

The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, IV taped to the back of her hand, platinum strands clinging to her damp forehead, her hazel eyes glassy with fever and confusion. Her lips were dry, cracked, and every time she swallowed, she winced from the pain it caused. The redness in her throat, the rasp of her breathing, the sluggish way she blinked up at him—it all clawed at something primal in him. She tried to speak.

He silenced her gently, brushing her hair away from her temple and leaning in close until her gaze met his. "Don't talk. Just listen." he whispered, thumb brushing her cheek with impossible gentleness. Her fingers, weak but determined, curled into the front of his hoodie like she was scared he'd disappear. "I'm not going anywhere, Xiǎo xiānnǚ." His voice stayed low and even, unshakable. "Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me."