Yin Lie didn't know what woke him.
There was no sound.
No signal.
Just a sudden absence of pressure.
He had been sitting where Qin Mian left him, back against the cold concrete, eyes closed—not resting, just holding himself together the only way he still could.
Then—
the burning inside his chest eased.
Not gone.
Adjusted.
He inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open.
"…That's new," he murmured.
When the World Stops Screaming
For the first time since she left, the city's logic loosened around him.
Not retreating.
Not forgiving.
But no longer grinding him into shape.
The rules felt… less personal.
Kai noticed instantly.
She stopped mid-step, head tilting slightly as if listening to something she couldn't hear.
"You feel that?" she asked.
Yin Lie nodded slowly.
"Yes."
He pressed his palm to the ground.
The drift was still there—dangerous, volatile—but the wild oscillation had dampened. Like a storm losing its center.
"…She stabilized," he said.
Kai turned sharply.
"Qin Mian?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Resonance Without Anchor
It wasn't the Anchor returning.
There was no pull.
No correction.
Instead, Yin Lie felt alignment at a distance—like two instruments tuning to the same note without touching.
His thoughts sharpened.
The splitting in his vision eased, overlapping realities pulling closer together without collapsing.
"Damn it," Kai muttered.
"That shouldn't be possible."
Yin Lie smiled faintly.
"She's still alive," he said.
"And not breaking anymore."
Kai exhaled slowly.
"Across how far?"
He closed his eyes, focusing.
The city tried to intrude.
He ignored it.
"…Far enough that she chose to live without me," he replied.
What He Feels
The resonance wasn't emotional.
Not comfort.
It was structural.
Like knowing a bridge existed somewhere ahead, even if you couldn't see it yet.
His heartbeat steadied.
His breathing fell into rhythm.
The violent urge to stand and tear through the city—gone.
Replaced by something worse.
Patience.
"She bought me time," he said quietly.
Kai studied him.
"And you're not going after her."
He shook his head once.
"No."
That surprised her.
"You always do."
"I always wanted to," he corrected.
"This time… she asked me not to."
The drift shifted again—smaller now, but deeper. Like a blade sheathed rather than shattered.
The City Notices the Change
Above them, systems recalculated.
PRIMARY ANOMALY: STABILITY INCREASED
CAUSE: UNKNOWN (NON-LOCAL)
The Director paused.
A fractional delay—barely measurable.
"Correlation?" she asked.
"Secondary anomaly shows reduced degradation," the system replied.
"Temporal proximity suggests interaction."
The Director's gaze hardened.
"Distance interaction," she said.
"So she's still relevant."
She turned away from the display.
"Maintain observation," she ordered.
"Do not intervene. Not yet."
A Quiet Exchange
Back below, Yin Lie stood slowly.
This time, the ground didn't scream.
Kai raised an eyebrow.
"Better?"
"For now," he said.
He flexed his fingers.
The light that had cracked through his skin earlier was gone—condensed, contained somewhere deeper.
"She didn't fix me," he added.
"She reminded me how to wait."
Kai scoffed softly.
"That might be the most dangerous thing she could've done."
He didn't disagree.
What He Sends Back
He focused—not reaching, not pulling—
acknowledging.
No words.
No demand.
Just presence.
Across the city, through layers of concrete and code and attention—
the resonance answered.
A faint steadiness settled in his chest.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to not move.
Enough to survive the next step.
Yin Lie opened his eyes.
"I'll hold," he said.
Kai nodded.
"For how long?"
He looked toward the ceiling—toward the city, toward wherever Qin Mian was now.
"…As long as she needs."
Silence returned.
Not empty.
Shared.
Across distance, across danger, across systems that wanted them defined—
two unstable lives found a moment of balance.
And for the first time since she walked away,
Yin Lie knew:
She wasn't gone.
She was holding herself.
And that—
somehow—
was holding him too.