Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 22: Only Him

The hospital was bright and sterile, the kind of place that smelled like disinfectant and anxiety.

I hated it.

Zu Zhenlan didn’t let go of me as we walked through the automatic doors, his hand still on my back, guiding me toward the reception desk as he hunched his body like he was protecting me from danger.

The nurse looked up, her expression professionally neutral. "How can I help you?"

"She cut her hand," Zhenlan replied in a low growl. "Badly. She needs stitches."

The nurse glanced at my hand, still wrapped in the blood-soaked towel. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Twenty minutes," Zhenlan answered before I could.

"Has the bleeding slowed at all?"

"No."

The nurse nodded and handed him a clipboard. "Fill this out. We’ll get her back as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible?" Zhenlan’s voice sharpened. "She’s bleeding through a towel. She needs to be seen now."

"Sir, I understand, but—"

"No. I don’t think you do. She needs to be seen. Now. Unless of course you want your funding cut. Then, when you are all out of a job, you’ll have plenty of time to see to my ward."

The nurse’s expression tightened, but she picked up the phone and spoke quietly into it. A moment later, a doctor appeared—young, tired-looking, with dark circles under his eyes that suggested he’d been on shift too long.

"Come with me," he said, gesturing toward the hallway.

Zhenlan followed so closely he was almost stepping on my heels. The doctor led us to a small examination room and gestured for me to sit on the paper-covered table. I did, holding my hand out automatically.

The doctor unwrapped the towel carefully, his expression neutral as he examined the wound. "This is deep. You’ll need stitches."

"I told you," Zhenlan said.

The doctor ignored him and turned to a tray of instruments. "I’m going to clean it first, then numb the area. You’ll feel some pressure, but it shouldn’t hurt."

I nodded.

Zhenlan stood beside me, his arms crossed, his attention fixed on the doctor like he was waiting for him to make a mistake. The doctor didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he was just used to anxious family members hovering.

He poured saline over the wound, washing away the blood. The liquid was cold, stinging slightly as it hit exposed tissue.

I didn’t react and the doctor worked methodically, cleaning the edges, checking for debris, his movements practiced and efficient.

Behind him, the supply cabinet stood open. Shelves lined with gauze, bandages, antiseptic, syringes, needles, sutures. Medical tape, scissors, gloves. Bottles of medication—antibiotics, painkillers, anti-inflammatories.

I reached out with my mind.

The supplies shifted. Not physically—there was no movement, no sound—but I felt them transfer into my space. Boxes of gauze, rolls of bandages, bottles of antiseptic. Syringes by the dozen, needles in sterile packaging, sutures in various sizes. The medications followed—antibiotics, painkillers, everything within reach.

The shelves didn’t look empty. They just looked... less full. Like someone had restocked recently and hadn’t quite filled them all the way.

The doctor picked up a syringe and filled it with local anesthetic. "You’ll feel a pinch."

He injected the numbing agent around the wound, and I watched the needle slide into my skin without flinching. Zhenlan’s hand tightened on the edge of the examination table.

"Why isn’t she reacting?" he asked.

The doctor glanced at him. "She’s probably in shock. It’s normal after an injury like this."

Zhenlan’s expression shifted—concern deepening into something that looked almost like fear. He moved closer, his hand hovering near my shoulder like he wanted to touch me but wasn’t sure if he should.

I almost smiled.

Shock. That’s what he thought this was.

The doctor threaded the needle and began stitching. Each pull of the suture was precise, methodical, closing the wound in neat, even rows. I watched without interest, my attention split between the needle and the supplies still within reach.

The crash cart in the corner held more—IV bags, tubing, emergency medications. I pulled those too, feeling the weight transfer into my space. The drawers beneath the examination table were full of tongue depressors, cotton swabs, alcohol pads. Gone.

The doctor tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. "All done. Keep it clean and dry. Come back in a week to have the stitches removed."

He turned to grab bandages from the cabinet and paused, frowning slightly. "We’re running low on supplies."

"You should restock," I said.

He nodded absently and pulled out what was left—a single roll of gauze and some medical tape. He wrapped my hand carefully, his movements efficient, then stepped back. "You’re good to go. Take it easy for a few days."

Zhenlan didn’t move. "That’s it?"

"That’s it."

"You’re not going to give her antibiotics? Painkillers?"

"The wound is clean. If it shows signs of infection, she can come back. As for pain, over-the-counter medication should be sufficient."

Zhenlan looked like he wanted to argue, but I stood before he could. "Thank you."

The doctor nodded and left, already moving on to the next patient.

Zhenlan stayed close as we walked back through the hospital, his hand on my back again, his attention fixed on me like he thought I might collapse at any moment. I didn’t. I walked steadily, calmly, my bandaged hand held carefully against my chest.

In my space, medical supplies were stacked higher than I’d planned. Gauze, bandages, syringes, medications—enough to stock a small clinic. Maybe more than a small clinic.

I’d taken too much.

The realization settled over me slowly, like cold water. If anyone checked inventory, if anyone noticed the sudden shortage, if anyone reviewed the security footage and saw me sitting in that examination room while supplies mysteriously vanished—

This could become a problem.

Zhenlan opened the car door for me, and I slid inside, my mind already working through contingencies. How to explain it. How to cover it. How to make sure no one connected the missing supplies to the girl with the cut hand who sat so still, so calm, while the doctor stitched her up.

Zhenlan got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, his expression still tight with worry.

"You scared me," he said quietly.

I looked at him. "I’m fine."

"You didn’t react. At all. You just... stood there, bleeding, like it didn’t matter."

"It didn’t."

"It did to me."

There was something in his voice—something raw and unguarded—that made me pause. I studied his profile in the dim light of the car, the way his jaw was still tight, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel like he was holding on to something solid.

He’d been terrified.

For me.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

"I’m fine," I said again, softer this time.

He didn’t respond. He just drove, his attention fixed on the road, his worry hanging in the air between us like something tangible.

And for the first time in a very long time, I realized I didn’t mind it.

Not from him.

Only him.