Unknown location – midnight

  Yan Qing had no idea where the hell they were. Darkness pressed in from all sides, the forest stretching endlessly—row after row of trees, their trunks looming like silent sentinels, vanishing into blackness. The air was thick and damp, heavy with the scent of moss and rotting leaves. Each breath he drew was ragged, loud in the hush, his own labored panting echoing back at him from the void.

  Every step sent a tremor through his aching legs, muscles quivering with exhaustion. Twigs snapped beneath his shoes, the brittle sound swallowed almost instantly by the oppressive silence. Sweat chilled on his skin, clinging beneath his clothes, and the rough bark of branches scraped his arms as he pushed forward. He could feel Chen’s weight dragging at him, every inch a reminder of how little strength he had left.

  Still, Yan Qing gritted his teeth and pressed on, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue, the cold biting through his jacket. The only certainty was the desperate need to keep moving, to drag both of them out of the suffocating dark—no matter how much his body screamed for rest.

  Suddenly, Yan Qing was startled by muffled groans coming from Chen. Before he could react, a powerful force hurled his body to the ground. Both he and Chen crashed onto the leaf-covered earth with a heavy thud.

  Disoriented, Yan Qing quickly disentangled himself from Chen and looked around. Finding no one, he snapped his focus back to Chen. Chen’s inhuman features, now completely visible and no longer cloaked, was writhing on the ground. His eyes glowing eerily as he stared into empty space. His muscles were drawn taut with a strain so intense it looked as though they might snap at any moment.

  Concerned, Yan Qing leaned closer to Chen, trying to assess what was happening. “Chen! What’s going on?” he called out, searching for any sign of injury. Despite the concern, there were no visible wounds on Chen, yet he remained unresponsive, leaving Yan Qing with a growing sense of dread.

  A violent tremor ran through Chen’s body, his movements erratic and uncontrolled as if he was suffering from a seizure. The realisation struck Yan Qing suddenly—could this be the result of Lian’s earlier attack?

  Yan Qing straightened, his fingers raking through his wet hair in a shaky attempt to steady himself. Panic threatened to take hold as he considered his options. He scanned their surroundings, searching for anything that might be useful, but the forest offered no help. The isolation was both a blessing and a curse—there was no one around to witness Chen’s alienness, but also no one to offer assistance.

  Yan Qing had no idea how to find the nearest hospital, yet even that was a moot point. He couldn’t take Chen to a hospital, and worse, he doubted any hospital could treat an alien. The uncertainty gnawed at Yan Qing, leaving him at a complete loss for what to do next.

  Then –

  That Teleopean doctor.

  Yes!

  Yan Qing looked at Chen’s multifunctional bracer and he remembered last time Chen told him how to operate the device. He took an opportunity and pressed a little button on the outer ring of the device, the bracer came off with a click.

  Yan Qing checked on Chen again, noticing that the intense seizure seemed to have eased somewhat for the time being. Chen, his blonde hair matted with sweat, appeared to be regaining a small measure of awareness—his eyes now following Yan Qing’s movements with a hint of recognition.

  “You’re going to be all right. I’m calling for backup,” Yan Qing reassured him, though he wasn’t certain if Chen could understand his words in his current state. Still, he kept his tone steady, hoping to offer some comfort.

  Turning his attention back to the device, Yan Qing picked it up with trembling fingers. He navigated through the holographic interface, scanning the unfamiliar list of functions. As he did so, he struggled to recall the bits of Teleopean glyphs Chen had taught him in passing, hoping he could remember enough to send out a call for help.

  Yan Qing fumbled with the bracer, painstakingly trying to input the name “Shi” into the alien communication settings using Teleopean glyphs. He was unsure if he had managed to enter it correctly, but desperation kept him going.

  Suddenly, a voice sounded from the device—a little familiar, yet unexpected. The relief was so overwhelming that Yan Qing nearly shouted in triumph. He gripped the bracer tightly.

  “Hi, this is Yan Qing. Are you Shi? Are you the doctor I spoke to last time?” he blurted out, unable to contain his urgency.

  There was a brief pause on the line, as if the person on the other end was momentarily taken aback by the unexpected call. Then, the voice responded in calm, fluent Earth language.

  “Yes, I am. Why are you using Chen’s bracer?”

  “Can you come to this location please? Chen needs medical attention—I think he’s having a seizure or something. We were attacked by someone called… Lian. Yes, Lian!” Yan Qing replied, his words tumbling out in a rush, his voice still uneven with adrenaline.

  The tone on the other end shifted immediately, becoming grave. “I will be there in 10 star-ring minutes. Keep yourselves alive.” With that, the communication ended with a soft click, leaving Yan Qing clutching the bracer, both anxious and hopeful.

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  Yan Qing stared at the bracer for a second, then focused on Chen again. This time, the blonde man was trying to push himself off and backing away from something.

  Chen’s hands shot up abruptly—not towards Yan Qing, but away, as if warding off a threat only he could perceive. In one frantic motion, he scrambled backward across the damp forest floor. His boots tore through the leaf litter, scattering it in his retreat, while his breath fractured into sharp, panicked gasps that seemed entirely disconnected from the present moment.

  Yan Qing’s attention was drawn to Chen’s eyes, wide and glassy, the gold of his irises thinned almost to nothing. They reflected pieces of a reality that Yan Qing couldn’t reach—a world of memories or fears playing out behind Chen’s gaze.

  Reacting instantly, Yan Qing dropped to his knees in front of Chen, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder. He spoke urgently, voice low but clear. “Chen—stop. There’s nothing there.”

  But Chen didn’t respond. He didn’t seem to hear Yan Qing at all, lost somewhere beyond the present, unreachable for now.

  His gaze tracked something moving between the trees—something too close, too intimate. His fingers curled and uncurling at his sides, not defensive, not aggressive, but caught in the reflex of a body that had learned too early that stillness was dangerous.

  “No,” Chen whispered. The word didn’t sound like a refusal; instead, it carried the weight of memory. Yan Qing recognized this type of behaviour with awful familiarity. This wasn’t physical pain, but the aftermath of something endured.

  Chen’s breathing grew ragged and shallow, each breath short and quick, as if every inhale was a negotiation. His chest barely moved, and his entire posture seemed to fold in on itself, shoulders hunched and body tightening into a smaller, almost defensive shape. His boots scraped backwards, dragging lines in the soil until his back hit the rough trunk of a tree with a hollow thud.

  The sudden contact made Chen flinch. Yan Qing, seeing this, edged closer with deliberate care—moving slowly, with his hands open and visible. He kept his voice low and steady, choosing a tone designed to slice through the haze rather than force compliance.

  He had never done this on other people before, but –

  “Chen. Look at me.”

  There was no response. Chen’s head snapped sharply to the side, as if following something unseen, and his jaw tensed, teeth grinding so hard Yan Qing could hear the faint scrape.

  Yan Qing swallowed hard, steadying himself as he instinctively reached for the grounding techniques he’d learned in childhood therapy—searching his memory for the calm, methodical steps that had once helped him through episodes like this.

  “Chen,” Yan Qing repeated, voice firmer now. “You’re in a forest. There are trees. Dirt. You’re wet. You’re cold. You’re here.” His words fell unevenly, as if tossed into deep water, their impact uncertain.

  Chen’s fingers dug into the bark behind him, splinters biting into his palms, but he didn’t seem to notice. Yan Qing moved in, closing the distance, and knelt fully between Chen and whatever threat he imagined, positioning himself as a barrier—real and present—blocking Chen’s line of sight with his own body.

  “Hey.” Yan Qing extended his hand, pressing his palm firmly against the Teleopean’s sternum—a gesture meant to ground, to remind. The contact was solid and warm, undeniably real. “Breathe with me.”

  The touch made Chen jolt, body tensing in a reflexive startle. For an instant, Yan Qing worried he’d overstepped, that Chen would react with force, letting instinct override any flicker of recognition. But instead, Chen simply froze. His breath caught, stalling completely, lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and panic.

  Yan Qing didn’t pull away. He left his hand where it was, steady and unyielding, refusing to withdraw or apologise. Leaning in just a little closer, he let Chen feel the weight of his presence—a tangible reminder that someone was with him in this moment.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Yan Qing said softly, voice low and certain. “I’m not leaving. You’re not alone.”

  Chen’s throat moved as if he were trying to speak, but the only sound that emerged was raw and broken, more a fracture than a word. Yan Qing shifted his grip, gently sliding one hand to Chen’s wrist and pressing his thumb over the pulse there. He applied enough pressure to make the pulse impossible to ignore—anchoring Chen to something real, something present.

  “Count with me,” Yan Qing instructed. “You don’t have to look. Just feel.”

  Beneath Yan Qing’s fingers, Chen’s pulse fluttered wildly—erratic and unsteady, sometimes racing, sometimes stalling, but always there. Alive. Present. Yan Qing breathed in deliberately and spoke, “One.”

  Chen didn’t respond. Yan Qing waited, patient and unwavering. “Two.”

  Chen’s chest shuddered, and a shallow breath slipped in through his clenched teeth. At once, Yan Qing’s voice remained steady and unreactive. “Good. Again.”

  The forest surrounded them in silence. There was no pursuit, no voices—only the distant rustle of leaves and the slow, steady drip of unseen water. Chen’s breathing came again, ragged and uneven, but deeper this time.

  Slowly, his gaze flickered. Not away, but back—returning to Yan Qing’s face with the effort of someone surfacing from deep water, vision swimming, reality slow to take shape. He tried to speak. “Y…” The name broke at the edges, rough and unfinished.

  Yan Qing reassured him quietly. “I’m here. You’re safe enough. Shi is coming soon.”

  Chen’s fingers twitched against Yan Qing’s sleeve, not gripping or pushing, just checking that the fabric’s texture remained unchanged. In Chen’s eyes, the unnatural glow slowly faded, gold bleeding back in around the edges of dilated black. For a moment, his expression went utterly blank. Then, pain—something not physical or immediate, but older, deeper—crossed his face.

  “I—” Chen started, swallowing hard. “He was—”

  Yan Qing cut him off gently. “You don’t have to tell me. Not now.”

  Chen’s shoulders sagged, as if the permission itself had lifted a weight from him. His head tipped forward and rested briefly against Yan Qing’s shoulder. Yan Qing stayed still, allowing Chen the moment. The tremors didn’t stop all at once, but faded in uneven waves—muscle by muscle, breath by breath—until Chen’s body remembered gravity and the present’s boundaries.

  Yan Qing shifted just enough to brace them both against the tree—one arm around Chen’s back, the other still anchoring his wrist. “You’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Just stay.”

  Chen’s fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Yan Qing’s jacket.

  Above the forest canopy, the night moved on—indifferent and vast. Yan Qing didn’t look up. He watched Chen breathe. And stayed with him.

  Chen’s voice, choked and hesitant, broke the silence. “C-can I feel you?” His words were barely more than a breath, trembling and almost desperate in their plea.

  Yan Qing leaned in closer, his presence steady and reassuring. He nodded. “Yes, do whatever will make you feel better.”

  For a lingering moment, Chen searched Yan Qing’s face—a face slick with sweat, pale and drawn in the dim light. Stress etched deep lines across his features, threatening to break him, yet beneath it all shone an unwavering, sincere concern.

  “Thank you…” Chen murmured quietly.

  Closing the final distance between them, Chen pressed his forehead gently against Yan Qing’s. The contact was intimate, bridging a gap that words could not. Yan Qing’s eyes widened at the sensation—something intangible and foreign slipped into the back of his consciousness. It was a feeling so strange and inexplicable that no words could capture it.

  He blinked several times, gathering himself, willing his body and mind to remain still. If this could help Chen, even a little, Yan Qing was determined to endure it. With that thought, he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the moment.