The child was pushed out through a fire escape door.
The door closed behind him without a sound.
He stood in a narrow corridor. Half the lights were broken, and the few that remained flickered with unstable white light, dimming and brightening, as if they could go out at any moment.
It didn't feel like being underground.
The air was too dry, dry enough to tighten his throat.
On the walls, old evacuation maps were posted, the corners curling up, with the arrows scribbled over multiple times with a pen. The colors varied, and the directions conflicted with each other, as if the map had been rewritten by different people over and over.
He walked a few steps forward, only to realize the ground wasn't level.
The corridor was slowly slanting to the left.
It wasn't the building's fault.
It felt more like the space itself was shifting.
The child stopped, leaning against the wall, catching his breath.
His chest tightened, not from running.
But from that familiar feeling of foreboding—things had crossed a certain point.
He remembered the room underground.
He remembered those who had chosen to stay.
In their eyes, there was neither hope nor pity, only a kind of almost-confirmed calmness.
As if he had simply arrived a step too late.
Footsteps came from ahead.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just ordinary.
The child instinctively stepped back, hiding in a section of the wall that recessed inward.
The footsteps grew closer.
Then stopped.
Someone stood in the center of the corridor.
The person had their back to him.
They wore a light-colored coat, the length just covering their thighs. The hem was a bit wet, as if they had just come in from the rain and hadn't had time to dry.
The child's heartbeat skipped.
Not out of fear.
But because—that was the style of coat his mother used to wear.
Not a specific one.
But a long-formed habit.
The person stood for a while before slowly turning their head.
The face was unfamiliar.
The features were normal, even somewhat handsome.
But the expression was wrong.
It was too vacant.
Like it hadn't been filled with anything yet.
She opened her mouth but stopped.
As if waiting for some kind of prompt.
The child held his breath.
She looked down at her hands, her fingers curling slightly.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she raised her head.
"...Xiaoyu?"
Her voice was very soft.
But the pronunciation was exceptionally clear.
The child's fingertips tingled.
That name wasn't his.
It was the name of an old neighbor.
A child who had moved away many years ago.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
Her tone was natural, almost casual, like a question asked without any real concern.
The child didn't move.
She waited for a moment.
When no response came, her brows furrowed slightly.
Not out of anger.
More like brief confusion.
"This isn't right," she murmured.
She turned and continued walking.
The footsteps resumed, quickly fading into the distance of the corridor.
The child stood against the wall for a long time.
Only when he was sure the person had really walked away did he straighten up slowly.
His throat felt dry.
In that brief moment, he almost responded.
Not because of the name.
But because the tone she used sounded too familiar.
Like a template that had been repeatedly used.
Accurate, gentle, with no doubt.
He continued forward.
The corridor grew narrower.
The signs on the wall started to become confusing.
Some said "Exit," but the arrows pointed to a blank wall.
Some said "Safe Zone," but beneath them was a human figure that had been repeatedly erased.
The child began to realize this was no longer the original path.
This place had been rewritten.
Ahead, there was an office.
The door was ajar, and the lights inside were on.
The child hesitated for a moment, then reached out and pushed the door open.
Inside, three people sat around a table.
Two men and one woman.
They were gathered around a table, where several sheets of paper lay scattered, with sketches of human figures on them.
The lines were thick.
The proportions were off.
But they repeatedly emphasized the same feature—
The eyes had been drawn over and over again.
"You're here," one of the men said, looking up.
The child froze.
"She just left," the woman said, "faster than last time."
"She's learning," the other man added.
The child stood at the door, not sitting down.
"What is she learning?" he asked.
The man pushed a paper toward the center of the table.
There was a string of names written on it.
Some were crossed out.
Some had a small circle drawn next to them.
"She's testing," the man said. "Seeing which name produces a response."
"As soon as someone responds, she'll remember."
"Once she remembers, she'll use it."
The child's stomach tightened.
"What happens if she remembers the wrong name?" he asked.
The woman looked at him.
"That person will be treated as you," she said.
"Not a replacement."
"An overlay."
The child's mind went blank for a moment.
"What about me?" he asked.
The three of them fell silent.
That silence was more unsettling than any answer.
"You're still moving," the man spoke first. "As long as you're not fixed, she can't fully align with you."
"But she's getting closer."
"Because she's no longer just looking for you."
The lights in the office flickered suddenly.
The paper shook slightly.
Someone looked up quickly.
"She's started again," the woman whispered.
Voices came from a distance.
Not footsteps.
But someone was opening and closing doors.
With great patience.
Each door was opened, paused, then closed again.
Then the next one.
"She's not in a hurry anymore," the man said. "She knows someone will eventually respond."
The sounds grew closer.
The child's back felt cold.
He suddenly realized a cruel truth—
She didn't need to find the right child.
She just needed someone to acknowledge her.
Even if only once.
"You have to go," the woman said, standing up.
"Where?" the child asked.
"To where she hasn't learned yet," she said.
"Where?" the child pressed.
The woman looked at him, and for the first time, her gaze wavered.
"To the place without a name," she said.
The sound of doors being opened in the hallway stopped.
A brief silence.
Then, a voice, soft and slow, came from the wall.
Gentle.
With a clear, practiced pause.
"...Is anyone there?"
It wasn't his mother's voice anymore.
But it was close enough.
The lights began to flicker erratically.
The man cursed softly.
"She's using a new name," he said.
The child turned and ran out of the office.
Behind him, a faint sigh echoed.
It was like something had finally confirmed its direction.
He didn't know where he was running.
He only knew—
She was no longer just his nightmare.