So sleepy.

  The boy collapsed to the ground again. This time, he could no longer get back up.

  I’m going to die…

  Young Yan Qing thought dimly, his mind replaying over and over the image of his mother losing her life.

  If he died… would he be able to see his mom again?

  At that thought, a faint smile surfaced on his young face.

  Little by little, the brightness faded from his dark eyes, and they closed weakly.

  And so, he did not see the child who appeared out of nowhere in front of him.

  His consciousness drifted away. Everything around him felt as if a mute button had been pressed—no sound could be heard anymore.

  And so, he did not hear the other child’s sorrowful cries, trying desperately to wake him.

  “No—don’t—don’t leave me, Yan Qing! I haven’t even told you my name yet!! You said you would always like me!!! Don’t just die like this!!”

  The small child tried to touch the other’s body, which was on the verge of disappearing—but like a ghost, his hand passed straight through.

  “Why wasn’t I born in your world? Why did I have to come to yours? Why don’t any of the experiments work?!”

  The child cried, trying again and again to reach him—but it was useless.

  Useless! Useless!! Useless!!!

  “Yan Qing.”

  Suddenly, the little child stopped crying.

  He fumbled around his body for a moment, then somehow pulled out a small box that looked like it was made of metal.

  When he opened the lid, the entire underground cavern was instantly flooded with light, as bright as day.

  Knowing that he might never see Yan Qing—the only one who had ever said he liked him—again, sorrow far beyond his age appeared on the child’s otherwise innocent face.

  “I really want to be with you. I really want to grow up with you. I really want to show you the ‘magic’ you like and see you clap excitedly. I really want to tell you that my ‘magic’ is actually just physics. I really want things to stay like this—forever being liked by you, forever liking you.

  The child kept talking, as if speaking like this might somehow let the other hear him.

  The white light grew brighter and brighter. At last, the child took one long, deep look at the black-haired boy.

  “Goodbye, Yan Qing. I hope we can meet again.

  “And —don’t forget me. My name is—”

  “Wait!”

  Yan Qing’s eyes snapped open, his hand reaching out instinctively, fingers grasping at empty air as if trying to catch the last threads of a fading dream. A cold, bluish artificial headlight glared down from above, its glow dimmed but still sharp enough to paint the world in sterile, icy hues. The light sliced across his vision, making him squint as he blinked away the remnants of sleep. He sat up slowly, the thin blanket slipping from his shoulders, and swung his legs over the edge of the berth. The metal beneath his bare feet was unyielding and faintly chilled, sending a shiver up his spine. The dream clung to him, its images lingering behind his eyes like afterimages burned into his mind.

  “That dream… what does this mean?” he murmured, his voice barely more than a rasp in the sterile hush of the cabin. The words seemed to dissolve into the recycled air, swallowed by the quiet hum of the ship’s life support.

  Despite the alien doctor having fixed all of Yan Qing’s wounds, exhaustion still pressed down on him—heavy and relentless. Every muscle ached with fatigue, his mind foggy from too many shocks in too little time. He felt stretched thin, as if the events of the past days had wrung him out and left him hollow.

  He glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar, utilitarian lines of Shi’s spaceship. The walls curved in gentle arcs, pale and seamless, illuminated by the faint blue glow of control panels and the occasional pulse of indicator lights. Outside the small viewport, the darkness of space was absolute, broken only by the distant shimmer of Earth—a blue-white marble suspended far below. The ship hovered in the shadow of a Lagrange point, far enough from Earth to avoid detection, close enough to watch the planet turn. Shi had chosen this hiding place carefully, wary of the constant sweep of Earth’s sensors now that formal contact had been made and the skies were thick with surveillance.

  Yan Qing drew in a slow breath, the air tinged with the faint metallic tang of machinery and the antiseptic scent of recycled oxygen. He remembered Shi’s promise: Chen would recover soon, before the ship’s last day cycle ended. Yan Qing’s chest tightened with longing and worry. He wanted—needed—to see Chen awake, to know he was truly safe.

  For now, all he could do was wait, the cold blue light and the silence pressing in around him, the memory of the dream still flickering at the edges of his mind.

  Yan Qing sensed the change before he understood it—a subtle shift in the air, as if the room itself had drawn a breath and held it. The resting space was silent, yet the atmosphere felt different: not heavier, but claimed, as though someone had quietly staked their presence in every corner.

  He lifted his head, heart stuttering.

  Chen stood in the doorway.

  For a heartbeat, Yan Qing forgot how to move, how to speak. Chen was upright, unrestrained, his posture so rigid it seemed carved from stone. No medical harness, no visible wounds—just Chen, awake and whole, framed by the cold artificial light.

  Relief crashed through Yan Qing, so fierce it left him hollowed out, breathless.

  “Chen—” he managed, voice cracking.

  But the word barely left his lips before Chen crossed the room in three silent strides and pulled him into a hug—tight, sudden, uncompromising. The world narrowed to the press of Chen’s arms, the heat of his body, the faint tremor in his grip. Yan Qing’s breath left him in a startled exhale as Chen locked him in place, shoulders and back pinned in a hold that was neither painful nor gentle—just absolute, as if Chen needed to prove, through touch alone, that they were both still here.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Chen’s grip tightened once—brief, almost imperceptible, but fierce enough that Yan Qing felt the tremor run through both of them. It was the kind of grip that said: I almost lost you. I almost didn’t make it back.

  Not danger. Not loss of control.

  Aftershock.

  Yan Qing shifted his hand, pressing more firmly between Chen’s shoulder blades, grounding them both in the present. The memory of what they’d survived—crushing water, collapsing concrete, the taste of blood and fear—still echoed in his bones. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was thick with everything they’d just endured.

  Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds. The ship’s systems hummed, indifferent, the faint vibration beneath their feet a reminder that the world kept turning, even when theirs had nearly stopped. Yan Qing stayed exactly where he was, letting Chen decide when to let go, letting the moment stretch as long as it needed.

  Eventually, the tension in Chen’s body eased—a fraction, no more. Just enough for breath to return, ragged and shallow, as if his lungs were relearning the rhythm of being alive.

  “I’m here,” Yan Qing murmured, his voice scraped raw by exhaustion and the sharp relief of survival. It wasn’t reassurance, not really. It was a simple truth—a promise that, for this moment, they were both still breathing, both still present on the far side of disaster.

  He felt Chen nod against his shoulder, the movement small but certain, as if confirming to himself that this was real. That they had made it.

  Yan Qing didn’t let go. Not yet. Not after coming so close to the edge, with the memory of darkness and the taste of fear still clinging to his skin. For now, he held on, anchoring them both in the fragile certainty of life after nearly losing it.

  Yan Qing was dimly aware of another’s presence all of a sudden. He looked towards the door and there stood the Teleopean doctor.

  Shi still gave the same impression as he did when Yan Qing first met him: androgynous to the point of unease, pale hair falling loose against dark, seamless clothing. His face was fine-boned and deceptively young, but the cold focus in his eyes stripped away any illusion of softness.

  Chen didn’t look up, but he felt it too; his posture shifted subtly, attention sharpening, though his arm never left Yan Qing’s back.

  “I spoke with him earlier,” Shi said, voice calm, unhurried. “He is coherent. Functional.”

  Yan Qing finally let loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  Shi stood just inside the resting space, wings folded neatly, expression composed in a way that meant the emotion had already been dealt with—privately. His gaze moved between them without surprise, lingering briefly on Chen’s grip around Yan Qing.

  “As expected—or perhaps not, in this case,” Shi murmured, his gaze flicking between them. “Your presence stabilized him, and so far, there are no side effects.”

  Chen didn’t respond. His hand remained at Yan Qing’s wrist, steady and deliberate, as if anchoring himself to the present.

  “For that reason,” Shi continued, “I intend to keep him away from Earth for the time being, at least until he recovers from extended malnutrition.”

  The last word landed with a quiet finality. Suddenly, everything made sense—the constant food poisoning, the way Chen had seemed to suffer in silence. It hadn’t been a joke or a quirk. It was real. It hurt.

  The realization lodged in Yan Qing’s throat, sharp and unyielding. He felt Chen’s fingers tense beneath his own.

  “No,” Chen said quietly, the word barely more than a breath.

  Shi’s eyes sharpened, a glint of steel beneath the calm. “This has already been discussed.”

  “And I already refused.”

  Yan Qing drew in a slow breath, grounding himself before stepping into the current. “You should listen to your doctor,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “You know that.”

  Shi’s attention shifted fully to him, gaze assessing. “And you?”

  “I’m human,” Yan Qing replied, straightening despite the fatigue humming in his bones. “Off course I need to go back to my work—at least then I can help saving my own world.” He met Shi’s eyes, steady and clear. “The Fenreigan machines aren’t static. They adapt by modeling Earth mantle's variance. I'm mapping and building the model to decode how they work. If I step away now, we lose months—maybe more.”

  Shi frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “Others can continue your work.”

  “They can replicate outputs,” Yan Qing said evenly, “but I already have the scaffolding of the equations. I can’t walk away now. ”

  Silence stretched, thick and uneasy.

  Chen shifted, turning just enough to face Shi directly, his hand never leaving Yan Qing’s wrist. “Then we should go,” he said, voice low. “Both of us.”

  “That is precisely the problem,” Shi snapped, temper flashing before he forced it back under control. “You are not safe near him yet.”

  Yan Qing felt the words hit Chen before they hit him. Chen didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “I’m not safe away from him either.”

  The room went utterly still, the silence so dense it seemed to press against the walls. Yan Qing was the first to break it, his voice quiet but unwavering. “Chen,” he said, forcing the words out, “you should stay with Shi.”

  Beside him, Chen stiffened, the movement subtle but unmistakable—a tightening of his shoulders, a flicker of gold in his eyes. Yan Qing turned fully, meeting Chen’s gaze head-on, though every instinct screamed to look away. “What happened with Lian wasn’t a one-off. You know that. If it happens again—you can’t even use your power around me. I don’t want you hurt because of me.”

  Chen’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “That’s not—” he began, but Yan Qing cut him off, sharper than he intended.

  “It is,” Yan Qing insisted, lowering his voice, the words heavy with dread. “I know this even without understanding how your power works.”

  A taut silence stretched between them, the air thick with things unsaid. Chen’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “So you go back,” he said, voice flat, “and I stay here.”

  “Yes.” Yan Qing nodded, the word tasting bitter.

  “No.” The reply landed with the weight of a slammed door—not loud, but immovable.

  Yan Qing felt the argument crest inside him, a pressure building in his chest. “You can’t be on Earth right now. Shi’s right about that.”

  Chen leaned in, his voice low and tight. “You don’t want me because I’m a liability to you.”

  Yan Qing swallowed, throat dry. “That’s not what I mean. I put you in danger, and you know the minute you step back on Earth, that creep will come for you again.”

  The room seemed to shrink, the air charged with static. Chen’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, it looked as if he might say something reckless—something that would shatter the fragile calm. But he held it back, visibly restraining the storm behind his eyes.

  “No,” Chen said again, slower, the word heavy with resolve. “You’re just as much in danger from him, and you stand no chance at all if he found you again. If you’re going back to Earth, I’m coming with you.”

  A deliberate cough from Shi cut through the tension. Both turned, the air between them still vibrating with everything left unsaid.

  “You are both correct,” Shi said, his tone cool and precise. “Which is why this conversation is wasting time.”

  Yan Qing frowned, brow furrowing. “You said he shouldn’t be near Earth.”

  “I said both of you shouldn’t be unguarded,” Shi replied, his gaze slicing to Chen. “And I certainly don’t want you sulking on my ship because your human was the one actually sensible under this circumstance.”

  Chen’s posture shifted, attention sharpening, but he said nothing.

  Shi continued, “All Teleopean agents that came with me will be recalled. They’ll be stationed in North America. Full perimeter coverage. No exceptions.”

  Yan Qing stared, trying to process the sudden shift. “You’re serious. But where will they stay?”

  “I have a human friend who will accommodate them, she is very friendly,” Shi replied.

  Chen turned to Yan Qing, a glint of hope in his eyes. “That will work.”

  “Are you going to be with them?” Yan Qing asked.

  “No,” Chen replied, gaze steady. “I will be with you.”

  The logic hit Yan Qing slowly, then all at once—a realization settling in his bones.

  Shi watched the change in Yan Qing’s expression, then nodded once, his eyes never leaving Chen. “I’m going to Earth as well. And you—” He fixed Chen with a stare sharp enough to draw blood.

  “I know what I need to do,” Chen answered, voice low.

  The room went still again, the tension between Chen and Shi thick as fog. Shi’s gaze remained locked on Chen, unblinking, as if daring him to falter. “No more deferrals. Fenreiga ends, and then you end this.”

  Chen didn’t answer right away. He looked away from Shi, his eyes finding Yan Qing—something unspoken passing between them, heavy and unresolved.

  Yan Qing felt it too, a current of meaning he couldn’t quite name. He exhaled slowly, the air cool against his tongue.

  Yan Qing said at last. “I probably need to request better security from the President anyway. It was too close for comfort.”

  Shi inclined his head, the gesture formal, then turned toward the exit. He paused at the threshold, not looking back. “Yan Qing,” he said, his voice echoing in the hush, “finish your machines.”

  “Y-Yes.” Yan Qing swallowed, a chill running down his spine as the doors sealed behind Shi.

  Something in Shi’s phrasing made Yan Qing feel less like a bystander—and more like the problem being discussed.

  He leaned back against the berth, suddenly bone-deep tired. He scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re so dumb, why don’t you just stay here?” he muttered.

  Chen’s hand found Yan Qing’s—steady, warm, fingers curling around his with quiet certainty. But Chen didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed fixed somewhere in the middle distance, jaw set, as if he needed the anchor of touch more than the comfort of meeting Yan Qing’s eyes.

  “I just want to help, Yan Qing.”

  Yan Qing closed his eyes for a moment, then squeezed back, the gesture small but certain. “Guess we’re both going back together,” he said.