Chapter 3

Wyatt and I grew up together.

In his words, we had a brotherhood forged through fire.

In my words—he'd screw over his best friend without batting an eye.

At two in the afternoon, he pushed open the ward door, a bag of fruit in hand, grinning from ear to ear.

"Bro! Heard you got hit? Does it hurt?"

"No."

Wyatt paused. "No to what? Not hit?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

I opened my mouth, found I couldn't explain, and just gestured—pointing at my throat, then shaking my head.

He pondered for five seconds. "You mean... you can't say anything else?"

"Yes."

"Only 'Yes' and 'No'?"

"Yes."

Wyatt put down the fruit, pulled up a chair to my bedside, his expression shifting from shock to contemplation, from contemplation to... excitement.

"Then you can only tell the truth?"

"Yes."

"Oh my god!" He slapped his thigh and stood up, pacing the ward twice. "Bro, you've unlocked a cheat code! Do you know what you can do with this?"

I knew.

I very much knew.

Then his phone rang.

Caller ID: The Boss (his wife).

Wyatt's face instantly changed. He lowered his voice, looking at me. "Bro, if my wife asks where I am, just say—"

He stopped.

Then slowly remembered my new 'setting.'

"...Never mind, I'll take it outside."

He slipped into the hallway, closing the door.

But the soundproofing wasn't great.

I heard muffled bits and pieces: "Working late... Yes, yes, the boss made me... No, no, not out drinking..."

Three minutes later, he pushed the door open, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Handled it."

"No."

Wyatt looked at me. "No to what?"

Before he could finish, his phone rang again.

This time it wasn't a call, but a voice message.

His wife Mary's voice boomed from the phone: "Wyatt, you better explain yourself! Your colleague posted on Ins, your company isn't working overtime this afternoon! Where are you really?!"

Wyatt's face turned green.

He stiffly looked back at me, his gaze as if asking, "How did you know?"

How could I know? I just said "No." But my uncooperative mouth had just delivered the most accurate, damning judgment at the most precise moment.

Wyatt took a deep breath, pressed the voice reply button. "Honey, I'm at the hospital seeing Mason—"

The phone was snatched away.

Mary called him on FaceTime.

Wyatt dared not refuse.

The moment the video connected, Mary's face filled the entire screen.

"Is Mason there? Let me see him."

Wyatt shoved the phone in front of me, desperately winking.

Mary stared at me. "Mason, did Wyatt just get there?"

I glanced at Wyatt's face, which screamed, "Bro, save me."

Then my mouth opened.

"No."

Wyatt's soul visibly floated out of his body.

Mary's voice dropped three degrees. "Did he go somewhere else first?"

"Yes."

"Did he go play cards?"

"No."

Wyatt secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Did he go to an internet cafe?"

"Yes."

Wyatt slumped back in his chair.

Mary was silent for three seconds, then let out a laugh.

That kind of laugh dropped the ward temperature to below zero.

"Wyatt, you just wait."

The video call ended.

Wyatt covered his face with his hands, a muffled sentence squeezing through his fingers. "Mason, our twenty years of friendship..."

"Yes."

"You just sold me out like that?"

"Yes."

"Were you doing it on purpose?"

"No."

His hands slid from his face. He looked at me, his gaze like a puppy abandoned by its owner.

"You can't control it either?"

"Yes."

He sighed, slumping back into the chair. "Alright, fine. Anyway, my credit score with my wife is already in the negatives."

He stood up to pack his things, and as he reached the door, he looked back at me.

"Bro, one last question."

"Yes."

"Do you think it's embarrassing that I'm so afraid of my wife?"

I wanted to say "No" to comfort him.

But my mouth wouldn't allow it.

"...Yes."

Wyatt nodded, his expression calm. "Yeah, I thought so too."

Then he gently closed the door.

The moment the door closed, I heard a low howl from the hallway, like a wounded beast.

I pulled out my phone and sent him a message: "Bro, buy some flowers on your way back, don't go home empty-handed."

He replied with one word: "Screw you."

Ten seconds later, another message came: "What kind of flowers?"

I smiled, then realized a problem.

I was being discharged tomorrow.

Out of the hospital, I would return to normal social relationships—my company, colleagues, boss.

And my mouth would still only tell the truth.

I opened the WhatsApp work group and saw Owen's latest message: "Mason's in the hospital after an accident; his clients will temporarily be handled by me."

Below it, the boss's reply: "Thanks for your hard work."

And below that, Owen's reply: "My pleasure, it's all for the company."

I stared at those lines of text, my fingers unconsciously clutching the bedsheet.

【Owen, you've been eyeing those three clients of mine for a long time.】

I put down my phone and closed my eyes.

【Tomorrow, back at the office, you're going to have a rough time.】