Chen ran faster.

  They darted through another doorway—and the world seemed to shift. The corridor’s suffocating narrowness gave way to a cavernous darkness that swallowed Chen’s footstep.

  Chen set Yan Qing gently on his feet, his golden eyes sweeping the darkness—narrowed, alert, every muscle in his body coiled with tension.

  The atrium of the old factory yawned before them, a vast, echoing space where time itself seemed to have settled in the dust. Metal beams and skeletal walkways hung suspended overhead, crisscrossing the air like the ribs of some long-dead leviathan. The emptiness was immense, yet every step seemed to press down with invisible weight—a paradox of space and oppression, as if the air itself had thickened with memory.

  The floor was a patchwork of cracked concrete and islands of debris, littered with the remnants of machinery whose purpose had been forgotten.

  On the far side of the atrium, a crumbling wall gaped open, its bricks slumped and fractured, as if the building had simply given up holding itself together. Through this jagged wound, the world changed: beyond lay the city’s old sewage system, a concrete channel slick with moss and age. The roar of rushing water filled the air, a constant, urgent sound that drowned out the hush of the atrium. The current surged past, vanishing into a dark tunnel that led—somewhere—outside, carrying with it the detritus of the world above.

  Yan Qing’s hand instinctively reached for his hip, fingers brushing only the empty fabric where his holster should have been. The absence of weight there left him exposed, a hollow ache settling in his chest. He hated the way it made him feel—unarmed, dependent, a liability instead of a partner.

  Beside him, Chen’s voice dropped to a low murmur, syllables curling in a language Yan Qing couldn’t decipher. “Kuo’la, sath’…” The words slipped out in a clipped, urgent rhythm as Chen tapped at his bracer, the device’s surface flickering with alien symbols. Yan Qing watched, heart pounding, trying to read meaning in the tension of Chen’s jaw, the way his eyes darted to the shadows. He didn’t need to understand the words to know what they meant: Chen was calling for backup, and Yan Qing could only stand there, feeling the weight of his own helplessness settle like lead in his bones.

  Yan Qing only noticed it after a few steps—Chen’s hand, warm and steady, had slipped into his without a word. Embarrassment prickled at the back of his neck; he wasn’t used to being led. Yet as Chen’s grip tightened just slightly, a quiet reassurance settled over him. He felt exposed, but also—unexpectedly—safe, the awkwardness softened by the certainty that, it pressed down, anchoring Yan Qing in place.

  Chen slowed, and Yan Qing felt it at once—a subtle drag, as if the air itself had thickened around them. Each step grew heavier, the floor seeming to pull at his feet, as though gravity had quietly deepened its hold. The world ahead pressed down, invisible but undeniable, and Yan Qing’s breath caught, sensing the shift not as resistance, but as a silent, gathering weight.

  “Wait,” Chen said.

  The word arrived already too late.

  A man stepped out from behind a rusted storage tank, his presence resolving itself into the space with the inevitability of something that had never truly been absent.

  He was tall—taller even than Chen—and broad-shouldered, his proportions balanced in a way that made the surrounding ruin feel incidental. Grey-gold hair, threaded through with pale metallic sheen, was combed back from his face with meticulous care, untouched by dust or decay. His coat was immaculate, the fabric unwrinkled, unmarked, as though the environment itself had declined to lay claim to him.

  He smiled.

  “Still hanging out with the human I see,” Lian said, his voice mild, almost conversational, as if remarking on the weather.

  The air in the factory seemed to thicken, humming with a tension that vibrated in Yan Qing’s bones. The silence was broken only by the distant drip of water and the faint, metallic groan of the building settling on its decaying foundations.

  Chen moved first, his boots scraping sharply against the gritty concrete as he shifted in front of Yan Qing. The floor beneath them felt uneven, cold through the soles of their shoes. Lian’s own steps were eerily soft, the brush of his coat barely audible as he advanced.

  “Behind me,” Chen said, his voice low and resonant. The word seemed to vibrate through the floor, and Yan Qing felt the tremor in his feet—a subtle shudder, as if the concrete itself was warning them.

  Yan Qing did as Chen instructed, positioning himself behind Chen with quiet obedience. His gaze remained firmly set on the unfamiliar man who now barred their passage, taking in every detail with wary intensity. The stranger loomed above even Chen, his stature imposing, while his expression was twisted into a smile that radiated menace—a silent warning of the threat he posed.

  “Oh, how cute. He also listens.” Lian’s words hung in the air, taunting, his tone mocking as his eyes flicked from Chen to Yan Qing. Without further warning, he lunged—a blur of motion, the air filled with the hiss of fabric and the rush of a single, sharp exhale.

  Chen moved instantly, stepping between Lian and Yan Qing. Their bodies collided with a heavy, dull thud, flesh against flesh. The impact sent a tremor through the room, momentarily silencing the distant sounds of dripping water and groaning steel.

  Lian tried to twist free, but Chen’s grip was unyielding. There was a sudden, sickening crack as Lian’s wrist bent under the strain, the noise sharp and wet, echoing around the vast, empty factory. Above, a support beam groaned—a metallic shriek reverberating through the structure, the force of their struggle threatening to tear the building apart.

  Yan Qing staggered, thrown off balance by the shockwave of the clash. His teeth rattled with the impact, and he stumbled sideways, shoulder scraping painfully against the jagged edge of a rusted conveyor belt. The cold bite of metal cut through his jacket, the pain sharp and immediate, grounding him in the present moment as the confrontation escalated around him.

  Lian was forced backwards, his boots scraping loudly and skidding against the thick layer of dust on the factory floor. He let out a laugh that echoed through the cavernous space—too loud, startling in its proximity, reverberating off the cold steel beams overhead. “Oh, no telepathy?” he said, his breath hanging in the chill, sharp and unpleasant. “This is different.”

  “Shut up.” The words were bitten off, Chen’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle along his jawline twitched with the effort of restraint. His eyes never left Lian for a second, the tension in his body wound tight as a drawn bowstring.

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  Chen inhaled sharply.

  He didn’t look at Yan Qing this time.

  The air around him tightened.

  It wasn’t the focused compression he’d used in the corridor—it was broader, rougher, driven by urgency rather than control. The factory answered immediately. Steel beams screamed overhead as pressure rippled outward, dust and rust peeling from the skeleton of the building in choking sheets.

  Yan Qing felt none of it inside his head.

  No distortion. No pressure behind the eyes. No wrenching pull at bone or thought. The distance between them—small but real—was enough.

  But the world around him reacted violently.

  A support beam tore loose above him.

  “Yan Qing—!”

  He barely had time to register the warning before concrete and twisted metal came down in a roaring cascade. Yan Qing threw himself sideways as debris slammed into the floor where he’d been standing, the impact shuddering through his ribs. Something clipped his shoulder hard enough to spin him, pain flashing white-hot down his arm as he hit the ground.

  Dust swallowed everything.

  Yan Qing coughed, gasping, palms scraping against broken concrete as he dragged himself clear. His head rang, lungs burning—but his thoughts were his own. Clear. Intact.

  Chen staggered. The backlash hit him instead.

  His breath hitched, body locking as the force he’d released folded back on itself, uncontrolled, punishing. The air around him warped, then snapped flat, leaving him momentarily rigid, jaw clenched hard enough that Yan Qing heard his teeth grind.

  Lian laughed softly.

  “Oh?” he said mildly. “You really do care about your pet.”

  Lian abruptly shifted his approach, allowing Chen to commit to the movement before pivoting sharply. The snap of Lian’s coat cut through the heavy air as his hand darted out, closing tightly around Yan Qing’s throat. The chill of Lian’s grip was unyielding, skin pressed against skin. Yan Qing’s pulse beat frantically beneath Lian’s palm, and in that moment, the world faded to nothing but the cruel pressure and the quiet rasp of Lian’s breath in Yan Qing’s ear.

  Chen responded without hesitation, the muscles in his arms tensing as he prepared to act. Yet his body was halted abruptly, movement arrested mid-stride, his breath trapped and strangled in his chest. The silence that followed was overwhelming, pierced only by Yan Qing’s faint, desperate wheeze as Lian’s hold grew tighter.

  “Predictable,” Lian whispered, his voice low and deadly, the words slipping out like a blade.

  “Don’t,” Chen choked out, his protest thin and broken.

  After a tense pause, Lian held Yan Qing in place, who already started breathing shallow, struggled violently. The sound was harsh, tearing at his throat and echoing through the cavernous space. Lian advanced, his shoes making a muted thud on the concrete, nearly drowned out by Yan Qing’s ragged gasps for air.

  “You want him intact, come here.” Lian’s words cut through the air, cold and casual, as if he were ordering a dog to heel. The command left no room for doubt—he expected obedience, and he relished it.

  Chen’s body tensed, every muscle drawn taut beneath his golden hair. Still, he obeyed, each step deliberate, the soles of his boots echoing on the concrete as he approached Lian. The air between them felt charged, thick with the scent of dust and fear.

  “On your knees,” Lian said, almost lazily, as if the act were beneath his notice. “Slowly.”

  Chen hesitated, jaw clenched so hard it ached, the tendons in his neck standing out. For a heartbeat, defiance flickered in his eyes. Lian tilted his head, a cruel smile ghosting across his lips. “I could misjudge human tolerance,” he mused, voice mild but edged with threat. “I hear the margin is very small.”

  The words hung like a blade. Chen dropped.

  The motion was immediate and absolute—one knee struck the concrete with a sharp, echoing crack, then the other. Dust puffed up around him, stinging his eyes and catching in his throat. He kept his spine rigid, hands open at his sides, but his jaw was locked so tightly his teeth threatened to splinter.

  Yan Qing stared, eyes wide with horror. “Chen—don’t—”

  “Quiet,” Lian murmured, and the air itself seemed to thicken. Pressure spiked, invisible and suffocating, stealing the rest of Yan Qing’s protest from his lungs. The silence that followed was absolute.

  Lian’s other free hand rose, fingers spreading as they pressed against Chen’s temple. The touch was deceptively gentle—cold, electric, a jolt that shot straight through Chen’s skull. He inhaled sharply, a gasp torn from somewhere deep inside, then his breath vanished. His body went rigid, not from physical restraint but from something deeper, more final. The only sound was the faint, stuttering hitch of his breath, the tremor in his knees as he began to fold, the humiliation and pain radiating through every nerve as Lian’s cruelty pressed down, unrelenting.

  With a small flick of his wrist, Lian released Yan Qing.

  The scientist hit the concrete hard, the impact jarring breath from his lungs. Pain flared along his side as his palms scraped against grit and rust. For a heartbeat the world spun—but Yan Qing forced himself upright, gasping, refusing to stay down.

  He was already moving when he reached Chen.

  “Chen.” His hands closed on the Teleopean’s shoulders. “Chen, look at me.”

  Nothing.

  Chen’s eyes were open, fixed at a precise angle, pupils unreactive. He did not blink when Lian shifted his weight. The present simply wasn’t reaching him.

  Lian tilted his head, observing with idle interest. “There it is.”

  Yan Qing swallowed hard. “What did you do to him?”

  “Oh,” Lian replied mildly. “He’s still alive. Just… elsewhere.”

  Yan Qing’s chest tightened. His gaze flicked around the atrium, mind racing—not for a weapon, but for leverage. The space was littered with it. Corroded tanks. Warning placards half-peeled from the walls. Pipes running low along the floor, valves crusted with rust and mineral bloom. The air still carried a faint chemical sting.

  Lian stepped closer.

  Yan Qing didn’t wait.

  He hauled Chen sideways, the dead weight nearly pulling him off balance as his knees slammed into concrete. Fabric tore under his grip. Chen offered no resistance—no assistance.

  Lian lunged.

  Yan Qing twisted hard, shoulder slamming into the floor as he rolled. Pain detonated down his arm, sharp and white—but his boot connected with the valve.

  Metal screamed.

  The floor buckled with a violent shudder. A jet of corrosive fluid burst free, hissing as it hit concrete. Acrid fumes burned Yan Qing’s nose and eyes. The surface beneath them foamed and smoked, eating itself away with an ugly, chemical sound.

  Lian recoiled a step, more startled than hurt.

  That was enough.

  Yan Qing wrapped both arms around Chen and ran.

  They plunged through the opening together.

  The water swallowed them whole.

  Cold slammed into Yan Qing’s chest, stealing his breath in a sharp, involuntary gasp. The water was glacial, biting through his clothes and skin, making his muscles seize. The current seized him instantly, wrenching him sideways, dragging him under in a violent tumble of darkness and noise. Water roared in his ears, muffling every other sound, and the world shrank to a blur of pressure and panic. He clung to Chen with desperate strength, arm locked around him as the river battered them, the taste of rust and chemicals burning his tongue.

  Suddenly, something struck the water behind them—hard. Not a splash, but a jarring impact that sent a shockwave through the current. The water surged violently, bucking as if a giant had dropped a boulder into the channel. Yan Qing was yanked sideways, his shoulder slamming into jagged stone. Pain flared, white-hot, as his grip on Chen nearly slipped. He swallowed a mouthful of filthy water, choking, lungs burning as he fought to surface, the taste acrid and metallic.

  A sound tore through the channel—raw, furious, not human. It reverberated off the concrete walls, a guttural roar that vibrated in Yan Qing’s bones. He broke the surface long enough to gulp a ragged breath, the slap of cold air stinging his face, and saw it: upstream, water exploded outward as a figure thrashed against the current, movements sharp and violent but wrong—too heavy, too fast, then abruptly dragged under again. A pale hand broke the surface, fingers clawing at empty air before vanishing beneath the churning water.

  The current did not slow. It pulled, relentless, dragging them farther from danger—or deeper into it. Yan Qing’s stomach dropped with sudden understanding: whatever was behind them, it didn’t float. Another roar echoed down the channel, distorted by water and concrete, stripped of its earlier composure. The sound was incandescent with anger, but beneath it, Yan Qing heard something else—frustration, sharp and wild.

  He kicked harder, heart hammering, muscles screaming as the current hauled them away. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Behind them, the water surged violently once more, then smoothed, relentless and uncaring, carrying them onward while whatever had followed fought the channel itself.

  Yan Qing clung to Chen, breath ragged, skin numb, every muscle burning as he let the current take them—cold, battered, and alive, the world reduced to water, pain, and the desperate need to hold on.