The maintenance chamber was too quiet.
Not the calm kind.
The kind that made Qin Mian notice every breath Yin Lie took—and every time his body failed to follow it properly.
He sat with his back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, color drained from his face. The faint glow beneath his skin was unstable now, thinning like light seen through fog.
Qin Mian watched his hands.
They shook.
Only slightly.
But they didn't stop.
Kai leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, pretending not to stare. She had already run the numbers in her head. Too many times.
Five minutes passed.
Yin Lie tried to stand.
His knee buckled instantly.
Qin Mian caught him before he hit the ground.
"Lie—don't—"
"I can walk," he insisted, breath ragged.
"I just… need a second."
Kai exhaled sharply.
"You don't have a second," she said.
"You have maybe one more surge before your nervous system shuts itself down."
Silence fell again.
Qin Mian lowered him back onto the bench, hands steady even though her chest was tight.
She didn't look at Kai.
She didn't look at the tunnel.
She looked at him.
At the way his jaw tightened every time he forced control.
At the way he flinched before pain even arrived—because his body had learned what was coming.
"Lie," she said quietly.
He opened his eyes.
"Yes?"
"I'm going to try something."
Kai stiffened immediately.
"Mian—"
"It's not a burst," Qin Mian said quickly.
"Not expansion.
Not amplification."
Yin Lie frowned.
"…What kind of something?"
She swallowed.
"Reverse anchoring."
The word sat heavy in the room.
Kai's eyes widened.
"No," she said instantly.
"That's not a theory.
That's a last-resort hypothesis."
Qin Mian nodded.
"I know."
Yin Lie's grip tightened on her wrist.
"Mian—don't—"
"Listen," she said, leaning closer.
"You're burning your body to keep your power from tearing outward.
You're absorbing all the mismatch alone."
Her voice shook—but held.
"What if you didn't have to?"
Kai pushed off the wall.
"You're talking about transferring stress across the anchor bond," she said sharply.
"That's not stabilizing.
That's sharing damage."
Qin Mian met her eyes.
"Yes."
Kai stared at her.
"If you do this," she said slowly,
"your nervous system will experience the backlash.
Pain.
Fatigue.
Disorientation."
She paused.
"And possibly loss of consciousness."
Qin Mian nodded again.
"I know."
Yin Lie's voice cracked.
"No."
He pulled her closer, desperate.
"No, Mian—
I won't let you—"
She placed her forehead against his.
"You already are," she whispered.
"Every time you hide how much it hurts."
He froze.
"…That's different."
"It's not," she said softly.
"It's just quieter."
Kai looked away.
She hated that this made sense.
Initiation
Qin Mian knelt in front of him, hands resting lightly on his knees.
"Don't push," she told him.
"Don't suppress.
Just… let me feel it."
His breathing stuttered.
"Mian—"
"Trust me," she said.
"You asked me to anchor you.
This is still anchoring."
Just… backward.
She closed her eyes.
The Anchor field didn't expand.
It reversed direction.
Instead of locking Yin Lie into reality—
it opened a channel.
A narrow one.
Controlled.
Intentional.
Qin Mian felt it the moment it connected.
Pain.
Not sharp.
Not localized.
A systemic heaviness, like gravity suddenly increased inside her skull.
She gasped.
Kai stepped forward instinctively.
"Mian—stop—"
"I'm okay," Qin Mian said quickly—
too quickly.
Her vision swam.
Yin Lie's breath evened.
Not fully.
But noticeably.
He stared at her.
"…What did you do?"
She forced a smile.
"Bought you time."
Transfer
The effect wasn't dramatic.
No light.
No shockwave.
Just subtle changes.
Yin Lie's hands stopped shaking.
His breathing slowed into something closer to rhythm.
The glow under his skin stabilized—dim, but coherent.
Qin Mian, meanwhile, swayed.
Her hand slipped from his knee.
She blinked hard.
Kai caught her shoulder.
"That's enough," she said.
"Pull back."
"Wait," Qin Mian whispered.
"Just… another second."
Another wave hit her.
Her teeth clenched.
Her ears rang.
It felt like her body was trying to respond to signals that weren't meant for it—neural echoes, delayed reflexes, misaligned sensory input.
She tasted metal.
Yin Lie's eyes widened.
"Mian—your hands—"
She looked down.
Her fingers were trembling now.
Mirroring his earlier tremor.
She pulled back sharply, cutting the channel.
The Anchor field snapped closed.
Qin Mian sagged forward.
Kai caught her before she hit the floor.
Aftermath
They sat like that for a long moment.
Qin Mian leaned against Kai, breathing shallowly, eyes unfocused.
Yin Lie knelt in front of her, panic plain on his face.
"Talk to me," he said.
"Please."
She blinked.
"…Sorry," she murmured.
"Everything feels… late."
Kai cursed under her breath.
"Neural echo," she said.
"You absorbed part of his desync."
Qin Mian nodded faintly.
"Worth it."
Yin Lie shook his head violently.
"No.
No, it's not."
She reached for him—missed slightly—then corrected.
"It is," she said softly.
"Because you're still here."
He grabbed her hands carefully, afraid to hurt her.
"…You can't do this again," he said.
"You hear me?"
She smiled weakly.
"We'll see."
Kai watched them both.
Two unstable systems
trying to keep each other alive
by passing damage back and forth.
"This can't be your long-term solution," she said.
"You'll burn each other out."
Qin Mian closed her eyes.
"I know."
Yin Lie pressed his forehead to hers.
"…Then we find another way."
The tunnel lights flickered faintly.
Not from power failure.
From movement.
Something far down the shaft shifted.
Kai's head snapped up.
"…They're coming."
Qin Mian inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
Her head hurt.
Her limbs felt heavy.
But she pushed herself upright.
"Then we move," she said.
Yin Lie stood beside her—unsteady, but standing.
For now.
The cost had shifted.
Not vanished.
Just redistributed.
And somewhere deep beneath the city,
the hunt adjusted its parameters.