好,继续.
The world didn't snap back.
It hesitated.
That was the first sign something had gone wrong.
Qin Mian stood frozen where she was, arms slightly raised, Anchor field still turned outward—inside out, inverted from everything she had ever been taught, everything her body instinctively resisted.
The air around her trembled.
Not violently.
Uncertainly.
"Qin Mian," Kai shouted.
"Shut it down. Now!"
Qin Mian tried.
Nothing happened.
Her field didn't collapse.
It didn't retract.
It kept seeking.
"…I can't," she whispered.
Her voice sounded distant, like it had to cross a long space before reaching her own ears.
Yin Lie felt it immediately.
Not as support.
As misalignment.
"Mian," he said urgently.
"Stop. You're not anchoring me anymore."
"I know," she replied, eyes unfocused.
"I'm anchoring… everything else."
That was when the pain hit.
When the Anchor Turns Backward
It wasn't a single surge.
It came in layers.
Her chest seized first, breath locking halfway in. Then heat flared along her spine, racing upward into her skull like something was trying to exit through her eyes.
She screamed.
Not loudly.
Her voice fractured before it could.
Kai reached for her—
and was thrown back as the Anchor field lashed outward instinctively.
Not attacking.
Rejecting interference.
"Shit," Kai gasped, slamming into the wall.
"She's burning herself."
Qin Mian dropped to her knees.
The ground beneath her blurred—not visually, but positionally. Like the floor couldn't agree on where her weight belonged.
"I didn't mean to do this," she choked.
"I just— I needed the city to hesitate."
Yin Lie staggered toward her, every step fighting containment pressure.
"You did," he said hoarsely.
"It's hesitating. That's enough."
Her head snapped up.
Blood trickled from her nose, dark against her skin.
"No," she whispered.
"It's not stopping."
Anchor Without a Target
The reverse Anchor had no focus.
That was the danger.
Instead of pulling one thing into place, it began to flatten differences.
Distances shortened.
Edges softened.
Cause and effect blurred.
A drone nearby malfunctioned, its clean geometry folding in on itself like paper soaked in water.
Another froze midair, unsure which direction counted as "down."
Kai stared.
"She's destabilizing priority logic," she said.
"That's impossible."
Qin Mian laughed weakly.
"I think… the Anchor doesn't care what it's used for," she said.
"It just wants things to… stay."
Her eyes flickered.
"But I don't know what anymore."
Yin Lie reached her.
He didn't touch her.
He knelt in front of her and let his instability show.
Fully.
The drift surged, warping the air around him.
"Mian," he said quietly.
"Look at me."
She did.
And screamed again.
Because for the first time—
she couldn't tell where he ended.
The Cost Reveals Itself
Her vision split.
Not double.
Multiple.
Versions of Yin Lie overlapped—some stable, some already gone, some heavy enough to bend the space around them.
Her Anchor field reacted to all of them.
Trying to hold everything at once.
"No—no—no—" she sobbed.
"I can't— I can't choose!"
That was when her body gave its answer.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
Then slammed back hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
Kai saw it.
"She's hitting systemic overload," she shouted.
"If it keeps expanding, she'll anchor herself into the field!"
Yin Lie went cold.
"…What does that mean?"
Kai didn't look at him.
"It means she stops being a person," she said grimly.
"And starts being a reference point."
Qin Mian collapsed forward, hands clawing at the ground.
Her Anchor flared blinding white—
then fractured.
The First Loss
The fracture wasn't explosive.
It was… quiet.
A section of her perception went dark.
Just gone.
She gasped, choking.
"…I can't feel my left hand."
Yin Lie grabbed it.
Her fingers didn't respond.
Kai swore violently.
"Neural disconnect," she said.
"She's losing internal mapping."
Qin Mian looked up at Yin Lie, terror finally cutting through the pain.
"I'm still me," she whispered desperately.
"Right?"
He swallowed hard.
"Yes," he said.
"You're still you."
Even as the world around them warped again.
Director's Adjustment
Above them, the city adapted.
Not slowed.
Refined.
ANOMALOUS FIELD SOURCE IDENTIFIED
SECONDARY ANCHOR ACTIVE
RISK: SYSTEM CONTAMINATION
The Director's voice cut in—precise, colder than before.
"Terminate secondary Anchor," she ordered.
"Preserve primary subject."
The drones reoriented.
Not toward Yin Lie.
Toward Qin Mian.
Yin Lie felt something inside him tear loose.
"No," he snarled.
The drift exploded outward.
Containment geometry cracked.
Kai raised her weapon again.
"Move!" she shouted.
"Both of you!"
A Body Can Only Hold So Much
Qin Mian tried to stand.
Her legs folded.
Yin Lie caught her this time—damn the consequences.
The Anchor reacted violently to contact, pain lancing through both of them.
She screamed into his chest.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed.
"I broke it."
He held her anyway.
"No," he said fiercely.
"You showed them where the rules bend."
The world screamed back.
Drones advanced.
The city closed in.
And Qin Mian's Anchor—
still inverted—
kept searching for something to hold.
Something to make sense of the collapse.
And it was running out of places to land.