Darkness felt strangely heavy.
Not the usual kind—the kind that pressed on Lian Ye's chest like a second heartbeat, slow and drowning. He floated in it without direction, like someone had dropped his mind into a lake, and all he could do was sink.
There were whispers too—no words, just the feeling of people talking behind a glass wall. Familiar, yet not. Gentle, yet cold.
For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.
Then the cold touch of metal against his cheek snapped everything into place.
He wasn't home.
Lian Ye's eyelids fluttered open. A pale ceiling stared back at him. Dim lights hummed above, steady and clinical. He blinked twice, trying to understand where the warmth of the sun and smell of apples had vanished to.
His head felt… light. Too light. His thoughts were slippery.
The station.
The man.
The gun pressed to his forehead.
The stranger pushing him off the platform.
Falling.
Then—nothing.
His breath caught.
He tried to sit up, but his arms felt like they didn't fully belong to him. He reached up, brushing shaky fingers against his own hair—
And froze.
White.
Every strand.
He dug his fingers deeper, faster now, like if he rubbed hard enough, the brown he had lived with for twenty years would peek through. Nothing changed.
"…What…?"
His voice sounded wrong. Raspy, thin, weaker than the quiet confidence he usually carried. He swallowed, throat dry, the taste of iron faint on his tongue.
A small metal tray clinked beside him. He hadn't noticed it before—bandages, tools, a half-filled cup of water. He grabbed it with trembling fingers and peered into the reflection on its surface.
It wasn't just the hair.
His skin had lost its warmth. Pale — almost translucent.
And his eyes… the soft brown he had been born with was gone.
Now they were a shock of cold blue, like winter water.
He almost dropped the tray.
"…What happened to me?"
The room around him felt too quiet now. Sterile. Empty.
Not a hospital — it didn't have that smell. More like… an abandoned medical wing that someone repurposed. The walls looked reinforced. There were no windows. Only a single heavy metal door with a slot near the bottom.
He pulled the blanket back and swung his legs off the bed.
His knees buckled instantly.
He barely caught himself on the nightstand, breath shaking. His body felt wrong, like he'd been rearranged while unconscious. Like he was wearing someone else's weight.
He tried again, slower this time. His feet touched the cold floor.
He stood.
Barely.
He took a step. The world tilted. His heart raced—a fast, panicked thrum that didn't match his calm nature at all. He rubbed his forehead.
"Calm down… Think clearly… You studied emergency psychology for a reason…" he whispered to himself.
But even his refined, educated tone trembled.
There were gaps in his memory—thick, foggy patches where his mind refused to reach. He couldn't recall the exact moment he had hit the tracks. Couldn't recall the seconds before unconsciousness. Couldn't even remember what the stranger had shoved into his hand—
"…Wait."
His fingers brushed his pocket.
Something sharp.
He pulled it out.
A bullet.
Not fired. Not dented.
Perfectly clean.
His breath hitched.
The man… he had saved him.
Why?
And why leave a bullet?
He examined it slowly, turning it between his fingers. It wasn't ordinary—it was engraved. A small insignia carved into the shell. A lotus.
He stared.
A lotus?
Memory stabbed him suddenly—Mei's birthday. The broach. The gift he never delivered. The alley. The men in coats. The gun.
His chest tightened painfully.
He didn't know where Mei was.
He didn't know if she was safe.
And he didn't know why someone had tried to kill him.
His breathing grew uneven.
The door clicked.
Lian turned sharply—too sharply—and nearly fell again. His hand gripped the side of the bed to steady himself.
The door didn't open.
Someone had slid a tray of food through the metal slot.
Bread. A small bowl of rice. Water.
He stared at it.
"…Prison?" he muttered under his breath.
He wasn't chained.
He wasn't restrained.
He wasn't even guarded.
Yet the door never opened fully. Someone was watching him… but not approaching.
He approached the tray slowly and crouched. His fingers paused on the bread.
He wasn't hungry.
He was exhausted. Lost. Confused. Angry. All at once.
What kind of place keeps someone alive but doesn't let them leave?
He sat on the floor, back against the cold wall. His blue eyes stared at the bullet resting in his palm.
Whoever brought him here knew something.
Whoever saved him wanted him alive.
And whoever tried to kill him…
They weren't done.
As he sat there, feeling the silence press in around him, Lian Ye realized something chilling:
The boy who delivered fruit in the morning
and chatted freely with strangers…
died on those train tracks.
Whoever he was now—
white-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned
holding a bullet he didn't understand—
He wasn't the same person.
He didn't know what he had become. He didn't know what this place wanted. He didn't know who brought him here.
But he knew one thing for certain: He hadn't survived by luck. Someone wanted him alive for a reason. And that reason hadn't shown its face yet.