The city felt different without him.
Not quieter.
Not safer.
Sharper.
Qin Mian realized it the moment she crossed into the open transit corridor. The lights overhead were too bright, too clean. Every surface reflected her shape back at her—small, wounded, unmistakably alone.
Her Anchor field stayed silent.
No hum.
No resistance.
Just emptiness.
She stumbled once, catching herself against the wall. Her left hand still felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"Focus," she whispered to herself.
The word echoed back wrong.
When No One Is Holding You
She moved with the crowd at first.
Office workers.
Night-shift technicians.
People who didn't look at her twice.
That helped.
Until it didn't.
Her vision blurred again, the edges of the world softening as her body tried—instinctively—to reach for Yin Lie.
There was nothing there.
Pain flared behind her eyes.
She bit down hard, forcing herself to stay upright.
"I can do this," she muttered.
Not because she was strong.
Because she had to be.
The City Notices Her Shape
She felt it before she saw it.
A pause in the flow of people.
A hesitation in the lights.
Then—
attention.
Not fear.
Not curiosity.
Assessment.
Her Anchor twitched, reflexive, then went still again.
SECONDARY ANOMALY: MOBILE
ANCHOR SIGNATURE: DEGRADED
RISK LEVEL: MODERATE
She didn't see the text.
She felt the judgment.
Her steps faltered.
"Okay," she breathed.
"Just keep moving."
The city didn't rush her.
That was worse.
First Contact, Without Violence
A figure stepped into her path.
Not armored.
Not armed.
A woman in a simple gray coat, badge hidden, posture relaxed.
"Qin Mian," the woman said calmly.
Qin Mian stopped.
Every instinct screamed at her to run.
She didn't.
"Yes," she replied.
The woman studied her—eyes sharp, but not unkind.
"You're injured," she said.
"And alone."
Qin Mian almost laughed.
"Is that an arrest?" she asked.
"No," the woman replied.
"It's an observation."
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Where's Yin Lie?" the woman asked.
Qin Mian's heart clenched.
"Not here," she said.
"That was your choice," the woman said softly.
It wasn't a question.
Without the Anchor
The woman gestured toward a bench along the corridor.
"Sit," she said.
Qin Mian hesitated.
Her legs chose for her.
She sat.
The city didn't close in.
Didn't escalate.
Just… watched.
"You turned your Anchor outward," the woman said.
"That was reckless."
Qin Mian met her gaze.
"It worked."
"For seconds," the woman replied.
"At a permanent cost."
Qin Mian's jaw tightened.
"What do you want?"
The woman considered her.
"To understand," she said.
"You're not a weapon.
You're not an asset."
She tilted her head.
"You're a variable that refuses to stay where it's placed."
Qin Mian swallowed.
"I didn't ask to be placed anywhere."
"No," the woman agreed.
"But you chose to leave him."
The words cut deep.
Qin Mian looked down at her hands.
"I chose to keep him alive."
A City That Doesn't Chase
The woman stood.
"For now," she said,
"the city will not pursue you."
Qin Mian looked up sharply.
"Why?"
"Because you're no longer attached to the primary anomaly," the woman replied.
"You're… quieter."
That hurt more than she expected.
"But," the woman continued,
"quiet doesn't mean safe."
She leaned closer.
"You're bleeding internally," she said.
"Your Anchor damage will worsen without intervention."
Qin Mian nodded slowly.
"I know."
The woman straightened.
"When you're ready," she said,
"there are places the city won't look too closely."
Qin Mian frowned.
"Why tell me this?"
The woman paused.
"Because not everything broken should be forced back into function."
Then she turned and walked away.
Moving Forward, Alone
The crowd swallowed the space where the woman had stood.
Qin Mian remained on the bench for a long moment, breathing through the ache in her chest.
Her Anchor stayed silent.
No guidance.
No warning.
Just her.
She stood up again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The city resumed its flow around her, indifferent for now.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she was still moving.
And somewhere, not far enough to reach—
Yin Lie was alive.
That had to be enough.
For now.