Yin Lie didn't wake up.
He returned.
That was the only word that fit.
One moment there was nothing—no pain, no thought, no shape.
The next, there was awareness.
Not centered.
Not whole.
Just… present.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was too close.
Then too far.
It pulsed, stretching away like breathing stone, then snapping back into place. The light flickered—not in the room, but in him. As if his eyes were late to agree on where he was.
"Lie."
The voice came from the left.
Then the right.
Then behind him.
His name arrived before the sound did.
"…Mian?" he said—or thought he did.
His mouth didn't feel connected to the word.
Qin Mian leaned over him, face pale, eyes red. Her hands hovered an inch above his chest, not touching, afraid to.
"You're here," she said softly.
"Stay here."
He tried to nod.
The motion happened twice.
Once in his body.
Once somewhere else.
Reality Loses Its Grip
Kai watched from the edge of the chamber, jaw tight.
Yin Lie's outline wavered.
Not visually—not like heat haze.
Conceptually.
His presence felt thinner, like a sound losing volume but still echoing.
"Report," Kai said.
Qin Mian swallowed.
"He keeps… lagging," she whispered.
"Like he's arriving late to himself."
Yin Lie blinked.
For a second, he wasn't lying down.
He was standing in a corridor of white light, hands restrained, someone saying his name like it was a number.
Then he was back.
He gasped, fingers clawing at the mat.
"No," he breathed.
"That's not now."
Qin Mian grabbed his wrist.
Her hand passed through—
then snapped back as if burned.
She cried out.
Kai moved instantly, pulling her away.
"Don't touch him," she said sharply.
"You'll make it worse."
Yin Lie stared at his own hand.
It looked solid.
It felt… optional.
Drift Is Not Movement
The woman with the mechanical eye approached cautiously, lens whirring.
"He's desynchronizing," she said.
"Not leaving.
Not phasing."
Her eye focused sharply on Yin Lie.
"He's losing priority."
Kai frowned.
"Priority?"
"In simple terms," the woman said,
"reality used to agree he should be here."
She gestured vaguely.
"Now it's… undecided."
Yin Lie laughed weakly.
"That figures."
The sound echoed wrong.
Too long.
Too delayed.
Then it stopped abruptly, cut off like someone had muted him.
Qin Mian covered her mouth.
"Lie," she whispered.
"You're fading."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
Her outline was sharp.
Anchored.
Real.
"I'm not disappearing," he said slowly.
"I'm just… not sticking."
The World Slides Sideways
Time stopped behaving.
Seconds stretched.
Then snapped short.
A drop of water fell from the ceiling—
hit the ground—
then fell again, repeating the same motion like a skipped frame.
Yin Lie watched it, mesmerized.
"I can see the seams," he murmured.
Kai stiffened.
"What seams?"
He closed his eyes.
"The places where the world decides what happens next."
He opened them again.
"And right now… it's hesitating."
The underground responded.
Stone creaked—not from stress, but confusion. Paths flickered between open and closed, like the place couldn't decide which version of itself to be.
The graying-bearded man appeared, face drawn.
"This is bad," he said.
"He's turning into a moving inconsistency."
Qin Mian looked up at him desperately.
"Can I anchor him again?"
The man hesitated.
"…Not like before."
"Then how?"
He shook his head.
"Something changed when he cut it."
Yin Lie smiled faintly.
"I did that."
The Moment He Almost Slips
Without warning, Yin Lie sat up.
Too fast.
Too many directions.
His body rose—
and half of it didn't follow.
Qin Mian screamed his name.
Kai lunged forward—
and stopped herself inches away.
Yin Lie froze mid-motion, teeth clenched, eyes wide.
"I'm—"
He swallowed.
"I'm splitting."
The air around him rippled.
Not violently.
Quietly.
As if reality was gently pulling him apart, testing where he would give.
"Look at me," Qin Mian begged.
"Just look at me."
He did.
Her eyes were steady.
Fear, yes—but focused.
Anchored.
The world steadied a fraction.
Enough.
He collapsed back down, shaking.
Kai exhaled slowly.
"That was close."
Yin Lie stared at the ceiling again.
"Next time," he whispered,
"I might not come back the same way."
What Drift Means
Later—if "later" still meant anything—
the underground gathered at a distance, watching.
Not hostile.
Wary.
"He's becoming like the deep zones," someone murmured.
"Unfixed."
The mechanical-eye woman nodded.
"Without an anchor," she said,
"he'll start aligning with whatever rule is strongest nearby."
Kai crossed her arms.
"And down here?"
The woman looked into the darker tunnels.
"Down here," she said quietly,
"rules are old.
And they don't care about people."
Qin Mian sat beside Yin Lie again, hands clenched in her lap.
"This is my fault," she said.
He turned his head slowly.
"No," he replied.
"This is the cost of not letting you bleed for me."
She shook her head, tears falling.
"There has to be another way."
He looked at her.
And for a moment—just a moment—
his gaze slipped past her, as if seeing something behind her that didn't exist yet.
"…If there is," he said softly,
"it won't look like anchoring."
The lights dimmed again.
Not from power loss.
From indecision.
Somewhere deeper, the underground adjusted—not to contain him, not to reject him—
but to make room.
Because Yin Lie was no longer fixed enough to be held.
And the world could feel that.