*Illustration by author*

  Elena shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, the last of her strength draining away. Damp strands of hair slid down her shoulders, dripping cold against her collar. She hadn’t even the will to reach for a towel.

  Her mother had already settled her father into bed, but the house was far from calm. Since returning from the hospital, everything felt brittle, overstretched. Mike buzzed from room to room like a restless sparrow, his voice pitched high with excitement.

  “Sis! That guy’s everywhere online!” He shoved his phone into her hands, the screen flashing with shaky footage of YiChen cleaving through shadows with the fire axe. “Look! A new clip just dropped—over ten million views already!”

  Elena only lowered her gaze. She gave no answer.

  She slipped into the bathroom, twisted the shower handle, and let the water crash down. Steam fogged the mirror; rivulets streaked the tiles—yet nothing could rinse away the heaviness pressing on her chest. She pressed her palm against her lips, choking back sobs that kept breaking loose despite her will.

  So this is what it feels like… to like someone.

  Bitter. Tight. Helpless.

  When she stepped out, steam veiled the mirror in a soft haze.

  She dried her hair halfheartedly, changed into her sleepwear, and crawled into bed. Her half-damp hair clung to her shoulders like wilted silk.

  Mike had forwarded the latest clip; the video froze on her screen—YiChen before the shattered window, axe blazing silver, his profile sharp as a blade against flickering light.

  Her fingertips brushed the glass.

  Tears welled, spilled, smearing his outline into streaks of fractured brilliance. She remembered the weight of his body collapsing into her arms, remembered the pallor of his lips, the thread of his breath as fragile as a candle’s flame. She remembered Logan lifting him onto his back—while she herself had stood rooted, powerless even to follow.

  Will I ever see him again?

  Her thumb slid across the video. Then her breath caught.

  In the corner of the frame, blurred by shadow and motion, was herself—disheveled, clutching an infant, half-hidden against the wall.

  Her hand froze.

  In his world… I don’t even count for more than a background extra.

  —————

  Morning sunlight slipped through a crack in the curtains, drawing a pale golden stripe across the floorboards.

  YiChen’s eyes opened slowly. His vision sharpened on the familiar ceiling above him—this was his own room.

  He flexed his fingers. The joints were stiff, but the searing pain he remembered never came. His last memory was that stairwell: leaning against the wall, vision drowning in black. After that—nothing.

  How… did I get back?

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  A soft snore stirred the silence.

  Turning his head, he saw ChengYu curled on a mat by the bed, game controller still clutched to his chest. The boy must have fought sleep for days, keeping vigil until exhaustion finally dragged him under.

  YiChen’s throat burned dry. He shifted, and the faint rasp of sheets woke ChengYu with a start.

  “Bro!” ChengYu shot upright, eyes wide. “You’re awake! You’ve been out for three whole days!”

  YiChen tried to answer, but only a cough rasped free.

  “I’ll get water!” ChengYu bolted out like a whirlwind.

  ?

  Stillness returned. Beyond the window, birds trilled faintly in the morning air. YiChen pushed himself upright, the blanket slipping to his waist. Someone had already changed him into clean sleepwear. His left arm and the back of his neck were wrapped in fresh bandages.

  Three days…

  ChengYu soon rushed back, cradling a cup of warm water in both hands. YiChen took it, fingers brushing his brother’s palm. That small warmth eased something deep inside him.

  “Drink slow,” ChengYu urged, eyes fixed on his face. Then, leaning closer, he whispered with conspiratorial glee:

  “Bro… you’re the biggest thing online right now. Everyone’s reposting your video!”

  YiChen nearly choked on the first sip. He was still catching his breath when hurried footsteps thundered down the hall.

  “YiChen!”

  The door flung wide.

  Zhang Han burst in, eyes swollen and red. She cupped his face with trembling hands, tears spilling freely. “Good, good—you’re awake… Do you hurt anywhere? Are you hungry? I’ll make porridge right now!”

  YiChen shook his head gently, covering her hands with his own. “I’m fine.” A pause—then the faintest smile.

  “Just… a little hungry.”

  Zhang Han let out a shaky laugh, wiping her cheeks. “Right away! Don’t move, just stay in bed…” She turned, already hurrying toward the kitchen.

  ?

  The doorway darkened.

  Mark stood there—gaunt, eyes hollow from nights without sleep. He crossed the room without a word, his hands instinctively moving to the bandages on YiChen’s arm and neck.

  But what should have been torn flesh was… smooth. Whole. Not even a scar.

  His hand froze. Slowly, his gaze lifted.

  Confusion. Fear. Disbelief. And beneath it all, the tremor of realization.

  “Dad,” YiChen said quietly.

  Mark drew a long, steady breath, as though swallowing a hundred questions. At last, he only ruffled his son’s hair with a tired hand.

  “…Eat first,” he murmured. “We’ll talk after.”

  ?

  After breakfast, the family gathered in the living room. Morning light poured through the wide windows, gilding the carpet in warm gold.

  YiChen sat opposite his parents and brother. He inhaled slowly, then spoke.

  “This world is changing.” His voice was quiet, yet it cut through the air. “The spirit realm has begun descending. Dark spirits will keep coming—stronger, more vicious. From now on… peace is gone.”

  ChengYu’s eyes went wide. But instead of fear, excitement flickered. “Bro! Then one day—can I learn those moves too?”

  “Xiao Yu.” Zhang Han set a hand on her younger son’s shoulder, her gaze fixed on YiChen. “How do you know this? And those techniques… they weren’t martial arts. They were like something out of a film.”

  YiChen lowered his eyes, staring at his palms. His fingers curled, then slowly uncurled.

  “Because…” He raised his head again. His voice was calm, but fathomless. “I’ve already lived through it once.”

  Mark’s brows furrowed. “…Lived through?”

  “Yes.” YiChen nodded. “This isn’t the first descent. Last time… the world collapsed. Humanity was nearly erased. And me—” his words slowed, weighted—“I came back. From years ahead.”

  Silence fell heavy across the room.

  Zhang Han’s hand trembled as she reached for him, clasping his fingers as if she could smooth away every unseen scar. Her chest ached; at last, the strange instincts, the reflexes, the way he bore wounds without flinching—all had a name.

  Mark sat wordless for a long time before exhaling, the sound half a sigh, half surrender. “No wonder,” he murmured. “No wonder everything before… made sense.”

  YiChen inclined his head faintly.

  Then Mark’s voice lowered, cautious. “While you slept… someone came.”

  YiChen’s eyes sharpened. “Who?”

  “John Mitchell. Chief of Public Security.” Mark’s tone grew grave. “He saw the footage. Reviewed the hospital surveillance. He wants you as an advisor—to guide them against these… supernatural incidents.”

  Zhang Han’s grip tightened on YiChen’s hand. “But your father refused him. We said nothing until you woke.”

  “I only told him we’d wait for your word,” Mark added. His eyes locked on his son’s. “What do you think?”

  YiChen didn’t answer at once. His gaze drifted to the window. Sunlight spilled across the room, warm and gentle—as though the terror of that night had been only a dream.

  But he knew better.

  This was only the beginning. Spirits would not stop. Ordinary people had no defense. And if no one stepped forward, countless lives would fall.

  At last, YiChen turned back. His voice was low, steady, resolute.

  “I’ll go.”