Qin Mian didn't remember how she got there.
One moment she was leaning against a wall, counting breaths so she wouldn't lose them.
The next, she was sitting on a narrow metal chair that smelled like antiseptic and old smoke.
The light above her flickered.
Not broken.
Just tired.
"Don't move."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
Qin Mian tried to look up.
Her neck refused.
"…Where am I?" she whispered.
"Somewhere the city doesn't log in real time," the voice replied.
"That's all you need to know."
The Grey Zone
The room was small. Concrete walls. One table. One cabinet with mismatched tools that looked salvaged rather than purchased.
No logos.
No official markings.
A man stood in front of her—thin, older than she expected, sleeves rolled up to reveal arms lined with old scars and interface ports long past regulation.
He watched her the way mechanics watched engines.
Not unkind.
Unsentimental.
"You walked in on your own," he said.
"That's good."
Qin Mian swallowed.
"I don't remember walking in."
He nodded.
"That's bad."
A Body Past Emergency
He didn't ask for permission.
He clipped a small sensor to her wrist, another to the base of her neck. The devices hummed softly, projecting faint readings into the air.
His expression changed—subtle, but real.
"…Anchor burnout," he muttered.
"Neurological lag. Autonomic desync."
Qin Mian forced herself to focus.
"Can you fix it?"
The man finally looked at her face.
"No," he said simply.
Her chest tightened.
"But I can stop it from killing you tonight."
That was enough.
The Cost of Grey Help
She laughed weakly.
"Figures."
The man reached into a drawer and pulled out a syringe filled with clear fluid, threaded with faint silver filaments.
"This isn't city medicine," he said.
"And it's not underground stabilization either."
He paused.
"It will hurt."
Qin Mian nodded.
"Everything does."
He injected it into her shoulder.
Pain exploded instantly—sharp, electrical, racing through her nerves like fire searching for exits. She screamed, unable to stop it, body arching against the restraints she hadn't noticed until now.
"Easy," the man said calmly.
"Let it re-map."
Her vision went white.
Then black.
Then back again.
What the Doctor Sees
When she could breathe again, the room felt heavier.
Her body responded faster—but wrong. Like everything was too close to the surface.
"You rewired me," she gasped.
"Temporarily," the man replied.
"I forced your nervous system to stop expecting Anchor correction."
She stared at him.
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is," he agreed.
"But less dangerous than what you were doing."
He leaned back against the counter.
"You Anchors always do this," he said.
"Carry load meant for systems. When it's gone, the body doesn't know how to be human again."
Qin Mian closed her eyes.
"…How long?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"That depends," he said finally,
"on whether you try to be a hero again."
A Warning, Not Advice
She sat there, trembling, feeling pain in places that hadn't existed before—but also feeling present.
Grounded.
Not drifting.
Not collapsing.
"I can't stay," she said quietly.
The man snorted.
"Of course you can't."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"The city will pretend you don't exist until you stop moving," he said.
"Then it will decide whether you're worth retrieving."
Qin Mian looked up sharply.
"And Yin Lie?"
The man's gaze sharpened.
"So that's who you burned yourself for."
She didn't answer.
He sighed.
"He shook the system," he said.
"Which means eyes are everywhere now."
He met her gaze.
"If you go back to him in this state," he said,
"you won't save him."
That hurt worse than the injection.
Temporary Mercy
He unstrapped her wrists.
"You get twelve hours," he said.
"Twelve hours where your body won't tear itself apart."
She stood slowly, testing her balance.
Pain.
But control.
"After that?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"After that, you pay again."
She nodded.
Fair.
As she reached the door, he spoke once more.
"This doesn't make you weak," he said.
"Needing help just means you survived long enough to need it."
She paused.
"…Thank you."
He waved her off.
"Don't thank me," he said.
"Just don't die in my waiting room."
Back Into the City
Outside, the night felt colder.
Sharper.
But she was standing.
Still moving.
Her body screamed quietly with every step—but it answered when she asked it to.
Qin Mian pulled her jacket tighter and disappeared back into the city's flow.
She had time now.
Not much.
But enough to choose what came next.
And somewhere far away, Yin Lie was still alive.
That thought—
more than any medicine—
kept her upright.