THE STORY CONTINUES ...
Chapter X :The Gaps Between Sleeps
Armin was siting on a quiet street ground.
The scar pulsed again.
Not painfully—just enough to remind him it existed.
Armin exhaled slowly and looked back at the notebook. His handwriting was uneven, letters pressing too hard into the page, but the thoughts were clearer than they had ever been.
If the theory was right, then sleep wasn't the trigger.
Collapse was.
He stood up.
The room felt too small, the walls too close, as if they were listening. He shook the thought away and focused on something real—his body. The dull ache in his leg. The tightness in his chest. The faint pressure behind his eyes, like a warning he didn't yet understand.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's test it."
Armin sat back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
He didn't relax.
Instead, he did the opposite.
He brought the alley back.
The smell of rain.
The echo of footsteps.
The exact moment fear had bloomed in his chest, sharp and absolute.
His heartbeat accelerated.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the world sharpened.
Not fully. Not like before.
Just enough.
His breathing slowed, each inhale crisp and defined. He could feel the mattress beneath him, the way the fabric stretched under his weight. He could hear the distant hum of electricity in the walls.
Three seconds.
Then the clarity vanished.
Pain followed immediately.
Armin gasped, clutching his thigh as heat flared deep inside the muscle. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges.
"…So it really is a loan," he whispered.
He waited for the pull.
Nothing.
The room remained stubbornly solid.
His heart was still racing, but the invisible pressure—the one he'd begun to associate with the transition—didn't appear.
He laughed under his breath.
"Too awake," he said. "You don't take me unless I'm already breaking."
That realization settled heavily in his chest.
Before, he hadn't been choosing to leave.
He'd been discarded.
Armin wiped his face with the back of his hand and picked up the pen again.
Conclusion:
Travel is automatic only when the mind shuts down under extreme stress.
Awareness prevents activation.
He hesitated, then added one more line.
The Imprint didn't give me escape.
It gave me permission to stay.
The room seemed quieter after that.
Time passed strangely. Minutes stretched, then snapped back into place. His body felt wrong—too heavy, too light, like it couldn't decide which world it belonged to.
Then it started.
A subtle pressure, right behind his eyes.
Armin stiffened.
The pull.
It wasn't violent this time. No vertigo. No sudden blackout.
It was… patient.
Like a tide slowly drawing back.
He stood up immediately, pulse spiking.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
The pressure increased.
His head throbbed. His vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding slightly out of place.
He staggered, bracing himself against the wall.
So this was the difference.
Before, the world had taken him without asking.
Now it was waiting.
Armin slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, breath coming in shallow bursts. His chest burned, the scar beneath his skin pulsing harder with every second.
He could let go.
Sleep.
Blackout.
Escape.
The pull would finish the rest.
Instead, he clenched his fists.
Pain surged immediately, sharp and punishing. His muscles spasmed, a wave of nausea crashing through him.
Something deep inside him responded.
Not fear.
Not instinct.
Will.
The pressure didn't vanish—but it stopped growing.
[Returner's Resolve — Minor Activation]
The sensation wasn't a voice. It was understanding.
Staying hurts more.
Armin laughed weakly, forehead dropping forward until it touched his knees.
"Figures," he whispered.
Blood trickled from his nose, warm against his lip. His head pounded like it was being split open from the inside.
But he was still here.
The pull lingered, frustrated, as if the world on the other side didn't quite know what to do with him anymore.
Armin lifted his head, eyes unfocused but sharp with something new.
"If this is how it works," he said quietly, "then next time…"
The pressure surged once—angry, final.
Darkness crept into his vision.
"…next time, I'll decide how far I'm willing to bleed."
The room dissolved.
TO BE CONTINUED...