"You want to wash my bones and blood with disinfectant, but I want to carve a fragrance mark in your soul that will never fade."
Lu Chenzhou, the sharpest scalpel in the emergency department, has been living in the cold ripples of the electrocardiogram for ten years. Until that wet rainy night, the perfumer in cheongsam shattered his sterile world - the silver bells in Jiang Jinyue's hair were entangled with the blood of the dying, but the fragrant beads on his wrists exuded a cedar fragrance that made him tremble.
She dared to light the prohibited enamel incense burner in the emergency room, and she dared to press his scalpel-like lips with her fingertips stained with orange blossom nectar. When everyone accused her of using aromatherapy as an anesthetic to seek money and murder, only Lu Chenzhou saw the strangely spreading shadow of milkvetch on the CT film, which perfectly matched the medicinal substance buried in her incense ashes.
"Does Dr. Lu know that the strongest analgesic incense must be baked with blood?"
In the autopsy room where there was a power outage on a rainy night, Jiang Jinyue put a cinnabar mole on his stethoscope, and the formalin specimen bottle behind him reflected the entangled shadows of the two. The blood-red numbers in front of her mother's operating table ten years ago are now turning into passwords in her perfume notes.
In this battle between cedar scent and disinfectant, reason and desire are in close combat under the shadowless lamp. When the emergency alarm sounded for her for the seventh time, Lu Chenzhou finally saw the frost condensed on the breathing mask. It turned out to be moonlight soaked in eighteen years of aging wine.
"What he wants to save is the medical records she hid in the ashes, and what she wants to heal is the old snow he sewn into his heart."
Intention: None