112: Chapter 112 Red Intelligence: Song Zhiwei to be Kidnapped

Barely two hours after the clamor of the banquet had died down, Zhang Fan was wheeled back to the hospital by Gu Jingshen.

He hadn't changed out of his black custom suit yet, though his tie was loosened and hung loosely around his neck. The brace on his lower back made a faint bulge beneath the fabric. As he leaned back in the wheelchair, his expression held a bit more weariness than it had at the banquet.

Having forced himself to deal with guests and sign contracts at the banquet, now that he finally relaxed, the dull ache in his lumbar spine began to seep out in tiny, sharp stabs.

“The doctor said you need to be on bed rest for at least three weeks, yet you insisted on standing for nearly two hours.” Gu Jingshen helped him onto the hospital bed and complained irritably, “If your back injury worsens, Zhou Yurou will definitely skin me alive.”

Zhang Fan twitched the corner of his mouth, and just as he was about to speak, he heard the hospital room door being gently pushed open.

Song Zhiwei walked in carrying an exquisite thermal container. She hadn't changed out of her champagne-colored long dress, but her hair was loosely pinned up, stripping away some of the banquet's refinement and replacing it with a touch of domestic softness.

However, when she reached the bedside, she didn't sit on the chair as naturally as before. Instead, she stood half a step away from the bed, her fingers unconsciously gripping the handle of the thermal container.

“President Zhang, I had the kitchen stew some pigeon soup; they say it's good for back recovery. Would you like to try some?” Her voice was more polite than usual, and her gaze avoided Zhang Fan's, landing instead on the vase on the bedside table. The sunflowers inside, which she had brought yesterday, were blooming brilliantly.

Watching her distant demeanor, Zhang Fan had a vague idea of why. Song Zhiwei had spoken with her father, Richest Man Song, alone for a long time yesterday. It was likely that Chairman Song, fearing she would give her heart to the wrong person again like before, had urged her to keep her distance.

He didn't point it out, merely responding gently, “Thank you for the trouble. Just leave it here; I'll have Zhou Yurou serve it for me later.”

Song Zhiwei gave a soft “Mm,” set the thermal container on the bedside table, and didn't linger, only saying, “Rest well, then. I'll come to see you again tomorrow.” As she turned to leave, her pace was faster than usual, as if she were deliberately avoiding something.

Gu Jingshen had seen everything clearly from the side, and only after the door closed did he lean in, lowering his voice to tease, “What's up with Miss Song? She was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you signing contracts yesterday; how come she's acting like a stranger today?”

Zhang Fan didn't respond, instead picking up his phone to send a message to Zhou Yurou, telling her not to rush over and to handle company matters first.

Seeing this, Gu Jingshen wisely didn't press further. He adjusted the angle of the head of the bed for him, gave a few instructions to the caregiver, and then turned to leave the room.

The room quieted down, and sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the quilt, warm enough to make one drowsy. Zhang Fan had barely closed his eyes for a moment when he heard a soft “creak” from the door hinges. Zhou Yurou walked in carrying a canvas bag, wearing a creamy white knit sweater, with a stack of documents in her hand.

“I just bumped into Gu Jingshen downstairs, and he said you pushed yourself to finish the banquet and your back hurts again?” She set down the documents, walked quickly to the bedside, and reached out to gently press the edge of the brace on Zhang Fan's waist. Her movements were as soft as if she were afraid of breaking something. “The doctor said you can't keep sitting up; you need to lie down more.”

Zhang Fan opened his eyes and, seeing her furrowed brows, couldn't help but smile. “It's nothing, just a bit sore. Don't worry.”

“How can I not worry?” Zhou Yurou shot him a playful glare and took a thermos out of her canvas bag, pouring a cup of warm honey water to hand to him. “You didn't finish the millet porridge I made this morning, so I heated it up at noon. Drink some later to line your stomach, and I'll stew some pork rib soup for you tonight. I asked the doctor, and they said pork rib soup is rich in calcium and good for back injury recovery.”

As she spoke, she opened the canvas bag, which contained not only documents but also a small hot water bottle and a worn-out book. “If you're bored lying there, shall I read a few pages to you? I brought that book, 'Entrepreneurship Notes', that you said you wanted to read yesterday.”

Zhang Fan took the honey water, the warm liquid sliding down his throat, warming his heart until it trembled.

He watched Zhou Yurou's busy figure. She first filled the hot water bottle with warm water, carefully placed it by his waist, and tucked the quilt in for him before sitting on the chair by the bed and picking up the documents to read softly, “This is the follow-up docking process after Singularity signed with the overseas company. The legal department has drafted a schedule; listen and see if there's anything that needs changing...”

Sunlight fell on the tips of Zhou Yurou's hair, gilding them with a pale golden halo. Her voice was steady and soft, and occasionally, when she encountered technical terms, she would pause to discuss them with Zhang Fan.

Zhang Fan leaned against the pillows, listening to her voice and smelling the faint scent of laundry detergent on her, and the pain in his lumbar spine seemed to have lessened quite a bit.

“By the way,” Zhou Yurou finished reading a page and looked up at him, her eyes carrying a hint of a smile, “Gu Jingshen was joking with me earlier, saying that if your back were healthy, maybe the two of us could...”

She stopped halfway through, her cheeks slightly flushed, and didn't continue, merely reaching out to tidy the stray hairs on Zhang Fan's forehead.

Zhang Fan looked at her reddening earlobes, a wave of warmth rising in his heart, and reached out to gently hold her hand. “When my back is better, we'll take it slow.”

Zhou Yurou's hand paused, then she gripped his hand back, her fingertips lightly brushing against his palm, her eyes full of tenderness. “No rush, I'll wait for you.”

The atmosphere in the hospital room became exceptionally warm, with only the occasional sound of turning document pages. Neither of them mentioned Song Zhiwei's coldness or the trouble with the Pei family; this moment belonged only to two people whose hearts were in sync, quiet and sweet.

It wasn't until evening, when Zhou Yurou had finished helping Zhang Fan drink the pork rib soup and was tidying up the bowls and chopsticks, that a sharp buzzing suddenly exploded in Zhang Fan's mind—a red warning signal, shattering this tranquility without warning.

It wasn't an external sound; it was the red warning signal belonging to the “daily intelligence system” that he hadn't perceived in a long time.

The next second, a line of glaring crimson text was branded directly into his consciousness: [Emergency Warning: Today between 15:00 and 17:00, Song Zhiwei will be kidnapped by three members of the Pei family on her way to the hospital, with the goal of extorting money from the Song family to pay off gambling debts and arrears].

Recently, the intelligence system had been far too quiet. If not for the occasional scattered, minor promotional intelligence, Zhang Fan would have almost suspected that the daily intelligence system that accompanied him every day was about to “retire.”

In fact, Zhang Fan had always remembered the good the intelligence system had done—it was precisely when he was at the lowest point in his life, barely able to scrape by, that this system had unexpectedly awakened. It was the system that accompanied him as he walked out of the dire straits of having nothing, not only ensuring he no longer had to worry about basic necessities, but also gradually bringing people into his life who treated him with sincerity. He had never forgotten this warmth.

Now that a red intelligence report had suddenly popped up, Zhang Fan's heart constricted sharply, and his face instantly turned much gloomier.

“What's wrong?” Zhou Yurou was turning around with the warmed milk when she saw him suddenly freeze, his expression ugly. She quickly walked over, reaching out to check his forehead. “Is your back hurting again? Or are you feeling unwell somewhere else?”

Zhang Fan took a deep breath, forcing himself to suppress the anxiety in his heart. Avoiding any information that might expose the system, he focused his worry on the Pei family's situation. “It's not me; it's Song Zhiwei...”

He paused, the urgency in his eyes exceptionally real. “Think about it, the Pei family already owed a lot of gambling debts, and now that they have no source of income and the debt collectors are pushing them hard, could they be driven to desperation and target Zhiwei? Isn't she supposed to come over today? I just feel a terrible panic in my heart, as if something bad is about to happen.”

The milk cup in Zhou Yurou's hand wobbled, a few drops of the warm liquid splashing onto the tray, and her expression changed as well. “The Pei family would really dare? Aren't they afraid of going to jail?”

“People driven to desperation no longer care about jail.” Zhang Fan's voice was tight. As he spoke, he threw off the quilt, wanting to get out of bed, but was held down firmly by Zhou Yurou.

“Don't move around, your back isn't healed yet!” Zhou Yurou placed the milk on the bedside table, picked up Zhang Fan's phone, and handed it to him. “I'll dial Butler Wang's number for you. You can talk to him while sitting down and tell him to send more people to follow Zhiwei.”

Zhang Fan took the phone, his fingertips slightly cold from tension. The moment he dialed Butler Wang's number, his consciousness was still repeatedly confirming the time of the system's warning: 15:00 to 17:00. It was only just past 9:00; there was still time to save the situation.