Qin Mian made it three blocks.
That was all.
She didn't collapse in the open.
Didn't scream.
Didn't draw attention.
Her body simply… missed a step.
Her left foot landed.
Her right didn't.
The world lurched sideways and she hit the wall hard, breath exploding out of her lungs. Pain bloomed late, spreading from her shoulder down her arm in a dull, nauseating wave.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the cold pavement.
"…Okay," she whispered.
Her voice sounded wrong.
Too soft.
Too far away.
Delayed Signals
She tried to stand again.
Her leg didn't answer.
Not paralysis.
Delay.
She lifted her hand and watched it move half a second later, fingers curling with a faint tremor that didn't belong to her intention.
Her Anchor had always been a bridge.
Now it was gone—and her nervous system didn't know how to route around the missing connection.
She pressed her palm to her thigh.
"I'm here," she told herself.
"I'm still here."
The city flowed around her.
People stepped aside instinctively, not noticing why. To them, she was just another exhausted woman having a bad night.
No alarms.
No pursuit.
That scared her more than drones ever had.
The First Real Symptom
The numbness spread.
Not outward.
Inward.
Her chest tightened as her heartbeat skipped—not stopped, just misfired. A sudden sharp pressure hit behind her eyes, making the streetlights fracture into overlapping rings.
She gasped and bent forward, hands braced on the ground.
For a terrifying moment—
she couldn't feel her breath entering her lungs.
Then it rushed back all at once, burning.
"…This is new," she whispered.
Blood dripped onto the pavement.
She wiped her nose absently and stared at the red on her fingers, confused.
She didn't remember hurting herself.
What the Anchor Took With It
Qin Mian finally understood.
The Anchor hadn't just stabilized Yin Lie.
It had stabilized her.
Micro-corrections.
Constant alignment.
Invisible compensation for stresses her body should never have handled.
Without it, everything she'd been pushing through for weeks was arriving all at once.
Like interest on a debt she hadn't known she was taking.
Her vision darkened at the edges.
She leaned her forehead against the wall, breathing shallowly.
"I don't regret it," she said quietly.
Her voice shook.
"But I didn't plan for this."
A Body Without Backup
She forced herself to her feet again, swaying.
Every step felt wrong—too heavy, then too light. Her sense of balance flickered, and for a second she felt like she was walking a fraction of a second behind herself.
She laughed weakly.
"So this is what normal feels like," she murmured.
It wasn't funny.
Her left hand spasmed suddenly, fingers locking into a claw.
She cried out, biting down hard to keep the sound in.
The spasm passed, leaving deep, aching pain in its wake.
She pressed her hand to her chest, heart racing now.
"Slow down," she whispered.
"Just get somewhere quiet."
Shelter Is Not Safety
She ducked into a narrow service alley, sliding down behind a stack of delivery crates. The concrete was cold, grounding.
She sat there, knees drawn up, shaking.
Her Anchor didn't respond.
Didn't flare.
Didn't even twitch.
For the first time since awakening it—
it was truly gone.
And with it, the illusion that her body could keep up with her choices.
Tears finally came.
Not dramatic.
Silent.
"I'm sorry," she whispered—to Yin Lie, to herself, to the part of her body that had tried so hard to hold everything together.
Her breathing slowed.
Too much.
Her eyelids drooped, heavy.
She jerked herself awake instantly, panic spiking.
"No," she said sharply.
"Don't sleep."
Because some part of her knew—
if she lost consciousness now,
there was no Anchor left to pull her back.
The City Watches Differently Now
Above her, unseen systems flagged subtle changes.
SECONDARY ANOMALY: PHYSIOLOGICAL DEGRADATION DETECTED
STATUS: NON-CRITICAL (OBSERVATION MODE)
No intervention.
No capture.
Just monitoring.
Qin Mian didn't know that.
She only felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her bones.
Her body trembled uncontrollably now, muscles misfiring as signals crossed late or not at all.
"…I need help," she whispered.
The admission hurt more than the pain.
Still Standing
She pushed herself up again.
Slow.
Careful.
Every movement deliberate now, negotiated.
She checked her surroundings once more, then stepped back onto the street, blending into the flow as best she could.
She didn't know how far she'd make it.
She only knew one thing:
She had left Yin Lie so he could live.
So she would not stop—
even as her body began, piece by piece, to fail her.
Not yet.
Not tonight.