Qin Mian didn't move at first.
She stayed where she was, breathing slow, hands steady in her lap, letting the thought settle without panicking it away.
If I keep waiting, he breaks.
If I move the wrong way, we both do.
There had to be a third option.
Not escape.
Not resistance.
Transfer.
The Idea She Shouldn't Have
The Anchor stirred when the thought formed.
Not eager.
Cautious.
It felt different this time—less like a tool waiting to be used, more like a wound that remembered how to reopen itself.
"…Just a little," she whispered.
"Just enough to change the load."
She wasn't trying to stabilize Yin Lie.
She wasn't trying to correct the city.
She was trying to become the heavier side.
Preparation Without Ceremony
She stood slowly, body protesting at every joint.
Her left leg trembled.
Her vision dimmed briefly.
She waited for it to pass.
Then she moved—deliberate, unhurried—into a recessed maintenance alcove, away from the open concourse. No cameras obvious. No traffic.
Privacy wouldn't protect her.
But focus might.
She pressed her back against the cool wall and closed her eyes.
"Okay," she breathed.
"Anchor… don't wake. Just listen."
The silence inside her shifted.
Not activation.
Attention.
Reverse Alignment
She didn't push outward.
She pulled inward.
Not force—
acceptance.
She allowed the pressure she'd been resisting to settle into her instead of skirting around her. The ache in her chest deepened, sharp and immediate. Her heartbeat stuttered.
She gasped, fingers digging into the wall.
"Too much," she hissed.
She adjusted—smaller.
Slower.
The Anchor responded by doing almost nothing.
Which was exactly what she wanted.
Across the City
Yin Lie felt it instantly.
Not relief.
A shift.
The compression inside his chest eased by a fraction—barely noticeable, but real enough that his next breath came easier.
He stiffened.
"No," he murmured.
Kai looked up sharply. "What?"
"She moved," he said.
"And she shouldn't have."
The Cost Arrives Fast
Qin Mian's knees buckled.
She slid down the wall, breath coming in short, ragged pulls. Pain flared through her spine, white-hot and blinding for a second.
Her Anchor trembled.
Warning.
Not from the city.
From her own limits.
"…Stay with me," she whispered—to herself, to her body, to the fragile balance she was trying to hold.
Her hands shook violently now.
But the pressure—the invisible grind of the city's test—shifted.
She felt it.
Like weight being dragged off a beam.
What She Steals From Him
Across the city, Yin Lie staggered as the internal backlash changed direction.
The pain didn't vanish.
But it stopped compressing.
His heartbeat steadied, just enough to be dangerous.
Kai swore.
"She's taking it," she said.
"She's pulling the strain onto herself."
Yin Lie clenched his jaw.
"She can't," he said.
But the resonance told him she already had.
The Anchor Pushes Back
Qin Mian cried out softly as a new pain bloomed behind her eyes. Her vision fractured, edges doubling, then snapping back.
Her Anchor surged reflexively—sharp, protective.
"No!" she gasped.
She forced it down with raw will.
The backlash hit immediately.
Her body arched, breath knocked from her lungs as nausea rolled through her in a brutal wave.
This wasn't stabilization.
This was misuse.
A Balance That Shouldn't Exist
She lay there, cheek pressed to cold concrete, shaking.
Every instinct screamed to stop.
But she focused on the resonance instead.
It was still there.
Strained.
But holding.
"He can breathe," she whispered hoarsely.
"That's enough."
Across the Distance, He Knows
Yin Lie straightened slowly, hands shaking.
The drift inside him calmed—not safely, but temporarily.
He felt it.
Not as rescue.
As theft.
"She's hurting herself," he said quietly.
Kai didn't deny it.
"She chose to," she replied.
Yin Lie closed his eyes.
The urge to move surged again, stronger now—angrier, more desperate.
"This can't continue," he said.
"No," Kai agreed.
"It just changed the countdown."
The New Fault Line
Qin Mian pushed herself into a sitting position, chest heaving.
Her body was worse.
Her head throbbed.
Her limbs felt wrong.
But the pressure outside—the city's careful test—had been disrupted.
She had introduced noise.
Costly noise.
She wiped blood from her nose and laughed weakly.
"…Found it," she whispered.
"The third option."
Not safety.
Not victory.
Just time.
And time, right now, was the most dangerous thing either of them could afford.