Night existed underground.
Not because the sun set—
but because the lights dimmed on purpose.
The cavern settled into a low amber glow, softer than before. People spoke less. Movements slowed. Machines that had been humming for hours finally went quiet, one by one, like animals curling in on themselves.
This was how the underground slept.
Qin Mian sat beside Yin Lie, her back against a rusted support beam. He lay on a thin mat scavenged from somewhere deeper in the tunnels, breathing shallowly, every rise and fall of his chest uneven.
He was asleep.
Or something close to it.
She couldn't tell anymore.
Kai stood a short distance away, arms folded, eyes never fully closing. Even here—among people who had chosen not to turn them in—she didn't trust stillness.
Stillness was when mistakes happened.
A faint drip echoed from the ceiling.
Once.
Twice.
Yin Lie twitched.
Qin Mian leaned forward immediately.
"Lie?"
His brow tightened. His fingers curled as if gripping something invisible. A low sound escaped his throat—not a word, not a cry.
A dream.
But not a normal one.
She felt it before she saw it.
The Anchor bond stirred, pulling at her awareness like a thread under tension. Images leaked through—fractured, heavy.
Cold corridors.
White lights.
Voices without faces.
Hands holding him still while something inside him screamed.
Qin Mian sucked in a sharp breath.
This wasn't rest.
This was his body replaying everything it hadn't survived cleanly.
She placed her hand on his chest, careful not to push.
"Lie," she whispered.
"You're safe.
You're not there anymore."
His breathing hitched.
For a moment, the glow under his skin flared—too bright, too fast.
Kai noticed instantly.
She was at Qin Mian's side in two steps.
"Anchor fluctuation," she murmured.
"He's reliving it."
Qin Mian nodded, jaw tight.
"I know."
She didn't expand her field.
Didn't stabilize outward.
Instead, she leaned down until her forehead touched his.
"I'm here," she said softly.
"Don't run.
You don't have to."
His body shook once, sharply.
Then again.
The glow dimmed.
Not gone—but quieter.
Kai exhaled slowly.
"That was close."
Qin Mian didn't answer.
Her hands were trembling now.
Sleep Is Not Neutral
Later—
or maybe earlier; time didn't behave normally underground—
Kai sat with one of the residents near a low fire pit made from old conduit rings.
"You don't all sleep at once," Kai observed.
The man snorted quietly.
"That's how people disappear."
He tossed a small object into the fire—something metallic that sparked blue, then vanished.
"Underground night isn't for resting," he continued.
"It's for not being seen."
Kai glanced around.
People lay in clusters. Some awake. Some pretending to be. Children slept in short shifts, rotated between adults.
No one was fully unguarded.
"You ever get used to it?" Kai asked.
The man shrugged.
"You stop expecting peace."
The Anchor's Cost at Night
Back at the mat, Qin Mian finally let herself breathe.
She hadn't slept.
She didn't think she could.
Every time Yin Lie's breathing changed, her body reacted before her mind. Her Anchor field stayed tight around him, humming low—constant effort, no release.
Her head ached.
A dull, spreading pressure behind her eyes.
She pressed her fingers to her temple.
Too much.
Not too much power.
Too much attention.
She realized it suddenly.
During the day, threats pulled outward.
Movement gave direction.
At night, everything turned inward.
Every misalignment.
Every echo.
Every delay.
All of it surfaced.
Her hand slipped.
She caught herself against the wall, dizzy.
Kai noticed.
"You're not okay," she said quietly.
Qin Mian forced a smile.
"I will be."
"That's not an answer."
Qin Mian looked back at Yin Lie.
"If I let go," she said softly,
"he'll fall into it again."
Kai didn't argue.
She just said, "You can't carry this alone."
Qin Mian nodded.
"I know."
She just didn't know who else could.
Something Else Is Awake
Deep in the cavern, beyond the sleeping area, a faint vibration traveled through the stone.
Not machinery.
Not footsteps.
Something slower.
Heavier.
One of the underground residents stiffened, hand going to her weapon.
"You feel that?" she whispered.
Another nodded.
"…Yeah."
The vibration passed.
Then stopped.
Kai felt it too—like pressure shifting behind her ears.
Not Director.
Not the grid.
Something older.
Something that didn't care about containment zones.
She turned slowly toward the darker tunnels.
Underground had always been dangerous.
But tonight—
It felt curious.
Morning Without Light
Yin Lie stirred just before the lights brightened again.
His eyes opened slowly, unfocused.
"…Mian?"
She was instantly there.
"I'm here."
His voice was hoarse.
"I dreamed."
She nodded.
"I know."
He swallowed.
"…I don't want to sleep again."
Her chest tightened.
"I know."
They sat in silence for a while.
Above them, the city continued hunting—calculating paths, refining models.
Below it, in a place that survived by refusing clean definitions, night passed without rest.
Because underground, sleep wasn't recovery.
It was another kind of exposure.
And something had noticed them while they were still.
Something that hadn't decided yet
whether they were prey—
or a problem.