Chris waited until the lab was nearly empty.

  The overhead fluorescents had dimmed to a muted, bluish glow, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. The hum of computers and the faint whir of the ventilation system filled the silence.

  Yan Qing was still at his workstation, the glow of the monitor painting his face a wan, unhealthy color. His fingers moved automatically across the keyboard, the soft clack of keys the only sign of life. His eyes, rimmed red from fatigue, flicked over lines of data that had stopped meaning anything hours ago.

  “You’re still here,” Chris said, his voice echoing softly as he leaned against the cold metal doorframe. The faint scent of coffee and ozone lingered in the air.

  Yan Qing jerked his head up, blinking as if surfacing from underwater. It took him a second to recognize the voice. His shoulders tensed, and he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  “…Oh. I didn’t realize how late it was.” His voice was hoarse, lips dry.

  Chris glanced at the clock on the wall, its hands barely visible in the half-light. “You say that every night now.”

  Yan Qing managed a faint, apologetic smile, his mouth barely twitching. “Occupational hazard.” He rolled his stiff neck, a vertebra popping.

  Chris didn’t smile back this time. He shifted his weight, the floor creaking beneath his shoes.

  “Come eat with me,” he said, voice low.

  Yan Qing blinked, as if the suggestion didn’t quite register. “Eat?”

  “Dinner,” Chris clarified. “Proper food. Not whatever you’ve been surviving on from the vending machine.” He nodded toward the empty wrappers and half-finished coffee cups littering Yan Qing’s desk.

  “That’s not necessary,” Yan Qing said reflexively, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. “I can just go home.”

  Chris straightened, the fabric of his coat rustling. “That’s exactly my point.”

  The words hung in the air, mingling with the faint hum of the lab’s electronics.

  Yan Qing hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard, then finally let his hands fall to his lap. He powered the screen down, the monitor’s glow fading to black. “Alright,” he said quietly. “We can grab something nearby.”

  Chris exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little too quickly.

  They walked side by side out of the building, the automatic doors hissing shut behind them. The night air was sharp and cold, biting at their cheeks. They pulled their coats tighter, breath fogging in the glow of the streetlights. Traffic hissed past on wet asphalt, headlights streaking the puddles with color. The city felt too loud, too awake.

  “There’s a place a few blocks over,” Chris said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Quiet. They don’t rush you.”

  Yan Qing nodded, gaze distant, barely noticing the world around him.

  They ate. Or rather, Chris ate. Yan Qing pushed food around his plate, the fork scraping softly against the ceramic. He paused now and then, staring at his reflection in the window, the city’s neon bleeding into the glass. He answered Chris’s questions a beat too late, voice flat. His gaze drifted—toward the window, toward the empty street, toward nothing.

  Chris watched him, brow furrowed, fingers drumming restlessly on the table.

  “You know,” Chris said eventually, forcing a lightness into his tone, “you don’t have to work so hard every day.”

  Yan Qing looked up, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. “I like it, it keeps me focused.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Chris’s fork clattered softly onto his plate.

  “I know,” Yan Qing said, but his voice was hollow.

  Chris leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve been alone a lot,” he said. “More than usual. And I—” He hesitated, glancing away, then back. “I’m here if you want to have a little chat about life.”

  Yan Qing nodded, the motion slow. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Really.” His words were soft, almost grateful, but there was a finality to them.

  Chris felt something tighten in his chest. He rubbed at his wrist, searching for words.

  “Really,” he tried again. “We used to go out after work. Played video games and did all the things that nerds do.”

  Yan Qing frowned, brow creasing as he tried to process. “That was a long time ago,” he said. “You have your own life. Didn’t you say you were thinking about leaving, joining your family business?”

  Chris opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose. “Well, yeah but—” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Yan Qing studied him, genuinely puzzled. “Then what are you talking about?”

  Chris held his gaze, the din of the restaurant fading into the background. For a moment, it looked like he might say it outright.

  Instead, he forced a smile—the familiar, easy expression Yan Qing had known since university.

  “No,” Chris said. “Never mind.”

  Yan Qing’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Right…”

  The relief in his voice was real.

  They walked back into the night together. At the corner where their paths split, Chris slowed, the chill settling into his bones.

  “Come over sometime,” he said, voice softer. “We can still hang out… right?”

  Yan Qing nodded again, pulling his coat tighter. “Sure. Let me know.”

  Chris lingered, watching as Yan Qing started down the block.

  Yan Qing didn’t look back.

  Eventually, Chris called after him, voice barely above the city’s noise.

  "You know, you can tell me what’s been going on with you."

  Yan Qing paused, glancing over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Chris said, shaking his head. “Go home. Get some rest.”

  Yan Qing watched him for a moment, concern flickering across his face, then nodded. “You too.”

  He turned and walked away, the glow of his phone lighting his face as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Chris stayed where he was, the cold biting through his coat, long after Yan Qing had vanished into the city’s restless night.

  By the time Yan Qing arrived at his apartment, it was already past midnight.

  Days passed like flowing water. Nearly a month had gone by since the night Chen left.

  It felt as though life had returned to how it used to be.

  Yan Qing continued collecting data on crustal activity while carrying on with his multiverse research. Occasionally, he still went to universities to give lectures and the like.

  This was, after all, Yan Qing’s original routine. It was only when that alien had been living with him that he would deliberately leave work earlier, go home sooner, and cook.

  Now that he was living alone again, he felt there was no point in rushing home. There was no one waiting for him.

  The apartment hadn’t been particularly large to begin with, yet every time Yan Qing came back, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d gotten a place far too big.

  Strange. Why hadn’t he noticed that when he bought it?

  He had asked himself that question more than once—and, more than once, he had given up on thinking it through.

  As for the reason…

  He couldn’t be bothered to dwell on it anymore.

  He lifted his gaze toward the balcony.

  The floor-to-ceiling glass doors in the living room were still open.

  When Chen had been here, he loved leaving the apartment by simply jumping straight off the balcony. Over time, Yan Qing had developed the habit of never closing the balcony door.

  Even now, that habit remained.

  Every time he came home, the scientist would unconsciously glance toward the balcony, a persistent feeling in his chest that Chen would be sitting there, once again playing that strange yet beautiful instrument—just like that night.

  But every time, the balcony was empty.

  For the umpteenth time, Yan Qing’s gaze drifted to the balcony. He caught himself, jaw tightening, and looked away, but the ache in his chest refused to fade.

  He took a deep breath and slumped onto the sofa, lazily pressing a button on the remote. The television screen flickered to life at once.

  He had never been much of a news watcher. Immersed in science and academia, Yan Qing could be described as someone largely disconnected from the rest of the world.

  And yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, he found himself turning on the TV these days. The channel had been fixed, for over a month now, on Channel 9—the last channel Chen had watched.

  Perhaps because of his identity as a star emperor, that alien had been deeply interested in human news, often lounging on the sofa to watch it in his spare time.

  News programs rolled on, one after another.

  Same as always: politics, energy, population, social issues… on and on.

  It was as if the entire world was going wrong, with nowhere left untouched.

  Listening to it all, Yan Qing began to feel as though something inside him was wrong as well.

  “Police report that a female body was discovered last night in New York Bay. According to forensic analysis, the victim has been dead for over a month, with clear signs of severe trauma. Due to advanced decomposition, the police are currently working to identify the body…”

  New York’s public safety really was in free fall.

  Yan Qing felt a twinge of sympathy for the victim on screen.

  Dying alone in some unknown place was a miserable fate.

  If he hadn’t been found by patrol officers when he was young, he might have died alone in that deep pit as well.

  Thinking back on that childhood accident, Yan Qing felt a quiet sense of reflection.

  —Don’t forget me——My name is—

  Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind. It was faint, like the murmuring of a ghost.A tidal wave of memory fragments crashed through his consciousness—too fast to make out, too bright to bear. Yan Qing’s breath caught in his throat. His hands flew to his temples, fingers digging into his scalp as if he could hold his head together by force.

  A sharp ache bloomed behind his eyes. The room spun; the edges of his vision pulsed white. His heart hammered, wild and erratic, as if trying to break free from his chest. Sweat prickled along his hairline and slid cold down his back. He tried to gasp for air, but his lungs felt tight, as if something invisible was squeezing them shut.

  “Mm…”The speed increased. The images blurred into a succession of white flashes. Yan Qing’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, and a tremor ran through his arms and legs. The world seemed to tilt—he clutched at the sofa cushion, nails biting into the fabric, desperate for something solid.

  A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. His body felt both heavy and insubstantial, as if he were sinking through the floor. The pressure in his skull built to a blinding crescendo—then, suddenly, everything went blank.

  The clock continued its steady ticking. Three hours later, the hands pointed to eleven.

  The television in the living room was still playing scattered commercials and late-night news, the shifting light illuminating the homeowner’s face.

  The black-haired young man sat frozen, like a statue, still in the same seated position. His vacant eyes stared through the television at some unknown distance. He did not move at all—not even the slightest twitch.

  If someone else had been in the room, they might have been horrified to notice that the young man’s most basic act of breathing had stopped.

  In his once-black eyes, a blue glow shone—something beyond human possibility. And on the left side of his face, silver, strangely textured sigil-like patterns had crept across his skin at some point, spreading along his jaw to his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

  “ ‘I’ finally found you, Yan Qing.”

  A pair of small, translucent hands ghosted up to caress the lifeless face of the black-haired man.

  The childish voice, tinged with unmistakable electronic distortion, carried joy.

  A child who had appeared from nowhere stood before the unmoving man. His body was semi-transparent, his presence unreal.

  The black-haired young man showed no reaction at all, his empty gaze fixed on nothing.

  “‘I’ finally came to your world. "

  The child’s young face wore a smile far too complex for his age—one filled with emotion, closer now to a sorrowful sigh. “Even though I already died in that world… I’m still happy, being able to tell you this in this way.”

  The child stared at Yan Qing deeply, as if trying to carve every detail of his appearance into memory, unwilling to miss even the smallest thing.“I hope you can still remember me. My name is—”

  A forgotten name whispered softly at the scientist’s ear.

  Someone who should not exist in this world.

  Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the child’s figure dissipated like smoke, vanishing without a trace.

  “Clatter.”

  The sound of something hitting the floor.

  The rigid body suddenly collapsed backward like a puppet with its strings cut, slumping limply against the sofa.

  Yan Qing’s frozen face remained expressionless. His dark eyes were half-open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  Long black hair fell naturally along his cheeks, emphasizing how pale—almost inorganic—his complexion had become.

  Like a finely crafted mannequin, fixed in a single pose, the young man did not move again.

  The difference was that the chest which had stopped moments before slowly began to rise and fall once more.

  Outside, the night of New York remained loud and restless, the noise drifting into the living room through the still-open balcony doors.

  The first light of dawn would not appear on the distant horizon for another seven hours…