And then, he had to say something.
Anything.
"I appreciate the sentiment. But, Shen Xinghui… please, take better care of yourself. I—"
"My dirty body isn't good enough, is it?"
"What?"
Shen Xinghui's eyes, so close now, filled with tears.
They spilled over, tracing silent paths down his smooth cheeks.
His expression twisted with deep sorrow.
Ignatius had said something wrong.
Hurt him.
"I'm sorry," Shen Xinghui whispered, his voice barely audible.
Then, he hastily grabbed his discarded clothes and fled.
As if rejecting him.
Ignatius tried to follow—tried to stand—but dizziness overwhelmed him.
His vision blurred, and he stumbled, barely catching himself before he hit the ground.
He had lost too much blood.
A bitter realization.
He slammed a fist against the floor in frustration.
He had hurt Shen Xinghui.
His actions had been mistaken for rejection.