The comm flickered to life, projecting Mien’s image with clinical clarity. He sat perfectly upright, every line of his body radiating an austere discipline. Silver hair, so pale it seemed spun from frost, caught the overhead light and threw it back in cold, metallic flashes. Not a single strand of hair was out of place. Even the air around him seemed to chill, as if his presence alone could lower the temperature.

  Across the connection, Shi leaned against a battered table, posture a study in deliberate contrast. One hip anchored him, the other leg loose, his weight shifted in a way that looked careless—until you noticed the subtle tension in his shoulders. The light played over his skin, lending it a warm, honeyed glow that made the sharpness of his eyes all the more striking.

  “It’s been a while, vot’z Frolandii,” Shi began, his voice a velvet purr, playful and edged with something sly. The words hung in the air, teasing, as if he were testing the boundaries of formality.

  Mien’s chromed gaze flicked—just once—to Shi’s mouth, the movement so quick it might have been imagined. Then, as if correcting himself, he returned to his rigid composure.

  “I do not understand Chen’s hesitation,” Mien said, his voice as flat and cold as a blade. “He knew the full consequences of letting Lian’s copy live too long.”

  Shi smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that lingered a fraction too long, as if savoring the discomfort it might cause. “He said he doesn’t want to change too much,” Shi replied, his tone unhurried, pitched low and smooth, like silk sliding over glass. “I don’t agree with that either, but at least that copy was constrained on this planet.”

  A silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Mien’s nostrils flared with a slow, deliberate inhale. The muscles along his jaw flexed, then stilled, his posture growing even more rigid. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but a razor’s edge glinted beneath the surface. “The objective—non-contact with level-zero civilizations—no longer applies.”

  “The federation is gone with our universe,” Mien said, his voice flat, almost hollow. “There is no authority left to enforce intergalactic policy. The longer Chen let this copy live because of some no interference reason, the more likely it will cause a political explosion.”

  The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with the weight of old decisions and unspoken history.

  Shi pushed off the table and took a step closer to the projection—not enough to invade the space, but enough to alter it. The frame filled more with him. His presence pressed forward, subtle but undeniable.

  “This universe is not the same as ours,” Shi said, his voice a low ripple in the hush of the room. “Keeping our existence quiet is not a bad idea for now.”

  Mien’s eyes narrowed, a trace of irritation tightening at the corners. “Even if we’re adopting the silence as the policy, neutralizing Lian’s copy should have come first.” Each word landed with deliberate precision, as though he were weighing the consequences of every syllable.

  Shi tilted his head, the movement languid, almost mocking. “You know how infuriating he can become if being pushed,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a smile that was all provocation and no warmth. “Unless you intend to correct him yourself—he is your blood too, after all.”

  Mien stiffened, a minute tightening of his shoulders, as if the temperature in the room had dropped a degree. His gaze sharpened, the metallic sheen of his eyes hardening to a mirror’s chill. Mien exhaled through his nose. “He does not take correction from me.”

  “Mm.” Shi let his gaze drift, slow and deliberate, over the crisp line of Mien’s collar, the perfect set of his shoulders, the tension in his composure—then back to his face.

  Mien’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “There are people still resenting the circumstances that made Chen a legitimate heir to the throne,” he said, “I don’t want to have this copy running around and encouraging speculation.”

  Shi leaned in, just enough that the comm’s pickup softened the edge of his voice, making it almost a secret. “Then maybe you should deal with these people first.”

  The silence that followed was immediate and dense, as if the air itself had thickened. Mien’s gaze hardened further, a glint of steel in his eyes. His shoulders drew back a fraction, reclaiming a distance the projection could never truly provide.

  “We will revisit this,” he said, the words clipped, final.

  Shi’s smile flashed—sharp, bright, unmistakably pleased. “Please don’t,” he replied, light as a knife’s tip.

  The comm cut. The room seemed to expand, the tension dissolving into the quiet. Shi lingered where he was, the ghost of a smile curving his lips for a breath longer before it faded. Only then did he straighten, the mask of neutrality sliding back into place, his expression unreadable once more.

  Good, he thought, a private satisfaction flickering in his eyes. Uncomfortable people don’t ask follow-up questions.

  Suddenly, the phone on the counter vibrated.

  Shi glanced down.

  Serena.

  He answered before it could buzz again.

  “Shi,” Serena said. Her voice was steady, clipped. “I need a favor.”

  Shi didn’t move to sit. He remained standing, shoulders drawn just a little too straight, weight balanced on the balls of his feet as if ready to pivot away. His gaze sharpened, narrowing on the phone in his hand. “What happened?”

  “My rotation ran over. I can’t leave.” There was a pause—brief, decisive. “Lily’s daycare closes in twenty minutes.”

  Shi’s grip on the phone tightened, knuckles paling. For a moment, he stared at the floor, jaw flexing once before he answered. “I can’t,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant.

  “I know,” Serena replied, her tone unchanged. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option—the nanny was sick, she couldn’t pick her up.”

  A silence stretched between them, thick as the city dusk pressing against the window. Shi’s eyes flicked to the glass, watching the blurred movement of traffic below, the world outside moving on, indifferent.

  “You know what I am,” he said at last, his voice quieter, almost brittle. “Why are you entrusting your child to me?”

  On the other end, Serena’s breath was audible—slow, measured, as if she were weighing her words. “Because you were the only one that helped me and Lily when no one did,” she said. Nothing more.

  Shi’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away from the window, shoulders tensing, the silver in his hair catching the last light and flashing coldly. “I shouldn’t stay with her,” he said, the words clipped, as if each one cost him effort.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Serena replied. “Just pick her up. Walk her home. That’s all. You just lock the door when you leave.”

  Another pause. Shi’s jaw set, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. He exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible, and when he spoke again, his voice was cool and precise, each word edged with a faint note of disapproval. “I still do not approve of how you care for your own child.”

  He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he let the silence hang, his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the room, as if searching for something he couldn’t name. The light caught in his hair, making it gleam like a blade, and for a moment, his discomfort was written in the rigid line of his shoulders, the restless shift of his stance, the way his fingers drummed once against the phone before falling still.

  Among his people, a child was not something you entrusted to chance—or strangers. The fact that humans did so at all still unsettled him.

  Shi stood by the window, the city’s neon glow reflected in the glass, his posture rigid. He listened to Serena’s voice—soft now, almost apologetic—threading through the phone. “I know I’m probably the worst mum on earth right now,” she said. “This is on me. I should’ve planned better.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Shi’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to the street below, watching the blur of headlights, the careless flow of human life. His fingers drummed once against the sill, then curled into a fist. He said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders spoke for him.

  Guilt and regret hung in the silence between them, heavy as humidity before a storm. Serena didn’t reach for it. Neither did he.

  “Send me the pickup code,” Shi said at last, his voice clipped, almost metallic.

  On the other end, Serena’s relief was barely contained, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Thank you so much. I’ll be fast.”

  “You should be,” he replied, the syllables edged and cool. “This is not something I can make a habit of.”

  “I understand.”

  Before the call ended, Serena hesitated. “Shi?”

  He didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. “Yes.”

  “If at any point you need to leave—”

  “I will let you know,” he said, the answer immediate, almost too quick.

  That was enough. Serena thanked Shi again and the line went dead.

  Shi lowered the phone and activated the cloaking field on his bracer. The faint shimmer stripped him down to a human outline, smoothing away what would never belong on an Earth street.

  Human enough to pass.

  “Humans are reckless with what they cannot replace,” he murmured.

  The daycare’s glass door gave a soft pneumatic sigh as Shi stepped inside, and the world changed. The air was thick with the mingled scents of lemony disinfectant and the syrupy tang of fruit snacks, undercut by a faint, ever-present note of crayon wax and spilled juice.

  Noise pressed in from every corner: the high, unpredictable pitch of children’s laughter, the sharp squeal of a chair dragged across tile, the staccato rhythm of a plastic block tower collapsing. Voices overlapped in a chaotic fugue—one child wailing, another singing off-key, a third narrating an imaginary adventure to anyone who would listen.

  Shi paused just inside the threshold, letting the sensory onslaught wash over him. He kept his posture composed, shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely at his sides, careful not to draw attention. A stray ball bounced past his foot, chased by a child with pigtails and a determined scowl.

  At the counter, a woman in a pastel cardigan glanced up from her clipboard. Her smile was practiced, but genuine, the kind that softened the lines around her eyes. Her gaze flicked over Shi—pausing on the unfamiliar sharpness of his features, the pale sweep of his hair, the way he seemed both present and apart from the scene.

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice pitched to carry over the din. She looked him over again, as if searching for a memory, then let her smile settle into something welcoming. “You’re here for…?”

  Shi offered the pickup code, his voice even, betraying nothing. “Lily.”

  The woman checked the screen, her fingers tapping briskly at the tablet. “Ah. Auntie, right?” she said, glancing up with a conspiratorial wink, as if sharing a joke about the oddities of family arrangements.

  Shi did not correct her. Behind him, a child shrieked with delight as a tower of blocks toppled, and the scent of orange slices drifted from a snack table in the corner.

  “Lily!” the woman called, already turning.

  There was a pause—then a flurry of motion. From behind a low divider painted with peeling animal decals, Lily burst forth, shoes half-untied and socks slipping down, hair escaping its clip in wild wisps. Her cheeks were flushed, and her face lit up the instant she spotted Shi.

  “Shi!” she shouted, her voice rising above the overlapping chorus of children’s laughter and the clatter of plastic blocks. She barreled toward him, arms outstretched, and collided with his legs at full speed. The impact jolted Shi—instinct tensed every muscle, calculations flickering behind his eyes—but he caught himself, letting the moment settle. The linoleum floor was cool beneath his feet, and the static from Lily’s sweater crackled faintly as she hugged him.

  He bent, careful not to disturb the swirl of children darting past, and lifted her into his arms. Lily laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, her small hands gripping his collar as if she’d done it a thousand times before. Her weight was warm and solid, her heartbeat fluttering fast against his chest, the scent of finger paint and apple juice clinging to her hair.

  “You came!” she said, delighted, her breath warm against his neck. “Mommy said you might!”

  “I said I would,” Shi replied, his voice quiet but steady, the words almost lost beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant squeal of a chair dragged across tile.

  At the counter, the woman in the pastel cardigan smiled at the sight, already waving them through. “She’s been very good today,” she called, her voice carrying over the din. Lily beamed, her pride as bright as the sun streaming through the smudged windows.

  Outside, the late afternoon light had softened, painting the sidewalk in gold and stretching their shadows long and thin. The city’s noise faded to a hush as they walked, Lily kicking her feet in the air, narrating her day in breathless fragments—paint on her hands, a friend who stole her crayon, a story about a dog that was definitely a dragon. The scent of cut grass drifted from a nearby yard, mingling with the distant aroma of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor.

  Shi listened, storing each word with a care he rarely allowed himself. He should not have. He knew this. He had always known this. But he did anyway, letting the rhythm of Lily’s voice and the gentle weight of her head against his shoulder fill a space he’d kept empty for centuries.

  A memory surfaced—small hands gripping his own with desperate trust, the sensation so immediate it seemed to echo through time and flesh. The ghost of that touch overlapped the present, and Shi’s throat constricted, a sharp ache blooming beneath his composure. Regret pressed in, raw and unbidden, as if the past and present were folding together, impossible to separate.

  He returned the smile, his gaze lingering on the young human with a gentleness that softened the edges of his usual reserve—watchful, quietly protective, as if memorizing the moment.

  Serena’s apartment was quiet when they arrived, the hush broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft scrape of Lily’s shoes on the tile. Shi set her down gently, helped her wash the paint from her hands at the kitchen sink, poured juice he did not drink. Lily insisted he sit with her while she drew, and he did—hands folded, back straight, eyes following the careful seriousness with which she chose her colors, the waxy scent of crayons filling the small room.

  When Serena finally came home, breathless and apologetic, the door swinging shut behind her, Lily ran to her at once, her laughter echoing through the apartment like a promise that, for a moment, everything was exactly as it should be.

  “You’re late,” Lily announced.

  “I know,” Serena said, hugging her tight. Then she looked up at Shi, relief plain on her face. “Thank you. Again. I really—”

  “You’re here,” Shi said. “That’s enough.”

  Serena hesitated, then nodded. She did not argue.

  Shi did not stay.

  He said goodbye to Lily, who pouted but accepted it with the solemnity of a promise extracted. At the door, Serena thanked him once more—quietly this time—and he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  Then he left.

  The lift doors slid closed with a soft chime, sealing them in a box of glass and steel. The mirrored walls caught every angle—Shi’s rigid posture, the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides. The air inside felt thinner, as if the elevator itself sensed the hostility brewing.

  Shi’s gaze stayed fixed on the descending numbers, but his reflection was taut, every muscle drawn tight beneath the surface calm.

  Behind him, Yin’s reflection materialized—posture loose, hands visible, a faint, almost mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked too relaxed, too at ease in the confined space, as if daring Shi to make the first move.

  “You carried the human child carefully,” Yin said, voice mild, but the words landed with the weight of accusation.

  Shi’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn. His eyes narrowed, the line of his mouth flattening. “If you’re here to die,” he said, each word clipped and cold, “this is a very inefficient venue.”

  Yin’s smile widened by a fraction, the glint in his eyes sharpening. “I’m here to negotiate.”

  The word hung in the air, sour and unwelcome. Shi finally turned, his gaze cutting, jaw set. The silence between them was charged, the mirrored walls amplifying every flicker of animosity—two predators circling, neither willing to look away first.

  The lift began to descend.

  Shi smiled, his gaze sharpened to a scalpel’s edge. “You’re not qualified to negotiate with me.”

  Yin’s lips curled in a lazy, almost taunting curve. “That’s why I brought something that is.”

  He lifted his hand with deliberate calm, as if presenting a harmless trinket. Between his fingers, a small, nondescript device gleamed dully under the lift’s fluorescent lights.

  Shi’s eyes flicked to it—once, cold and dismissive—then snapped back to Yin, pupils narrowed, voice dropping to a lethal hush. “You’re bluffing.”

  Yin’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not. There’s an explosive charge wired into the apartment above us. Load-bearing wall, secondary trigger in the service shaft.” He let the words settle, each syllable measured and precise. “Enough to take the floor with it.”

  The elevator hummed, a low, mechanical drone that seemed to vibrate in Shi’s bones. He let his power uncoil, invisible but palpable—pressure rippling outward, the air thickening, the mirrored walls trembling as if they might shatter from the force.

  Yin didn’t so much as blink. “Go on,” he said, voice mild as a knife slipped between ribs. “Kill me and you will also kill everyone here.”

  Shi’s body went rigid, the air in the lift suddenly thick as oil. The soft whir of the descending car seemed to amplify, echoing in the tight, mirrored box. Yin’s words landed with the precision of a scalpel.

  “Step out of this lift,” Yin continued, his tone almost gentle, “or strike me in any way, and the signal transmits.”

  Shi’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. His reflection glared back at him, eyes narrowed to slits. “You’d involve those innocents,” he said, voice flat as steel.

  “I would ensure compliance,” Yin replied, his gaze unblinking in the glass. “Including the woman and the child.”

  A flicker of calculation crossed Shi’s face—cold, clinical, the kind of look that measured the cost of every move. The tension in the lift was a living thing, pressing against the glass, humming in the fluorescent light.

  Shi didn’t move. Yin’s hand lowered, just a fraction. “Good.”

  Before Shi could react, the world seemed to twist. Not force—something subtler, more insidious. A lattice of interference flared around Shi’s skull, invisible but suffocating. His vision fractured, colors bleeding at the edges, power misfiring in his veins—every instinct screaming, but nothing obeying.

  Shi staggered, not from a blow, but from the sudden, gaping absence of himself. The mirrors warped, reflecting a stranger’s face—pale, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent snarl.

  “Don’t fight it,” Yin murmured, voice distant, almost kind. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  Shi’s hand jerked, a last flicker of resistance. The space around Yin rippled—then collapsed, the effort snuffed out before it could spark.

  The world surged, then went black. Shi hit the floor hard enough to send a spiderweb of cracks through the tile, consciousness shattering into fragments. The last thing he saw was the lift doors sliding shut, sealing him away from the world above.