"Hey! What're you zoning out for? You're alive, plain as day! Just a joke—don't let it get to you."
Xiao Yuji's voice carried a deliberate lightness, but in her cool, clear eyes, a flicker of doubt lingered, faint as a shadow cast by a candle.
She peeled the talisman off Ryan's forehead with a quick, crisp rip, the paper crinkling like dried leaves as it came away. Muttering to herself, she decided the color must be wrong—next time, red would be the way to go, no question.
The moment it lifted, a sudden chill prickled across Ryan's skin, sharp as a breath of winter wind sneaking through a crack.
"Hey, girl~~~ You sure about that?"
He sank back into the sofa, his heart still hammering against his ribs—angry, insistent, fighting to break free, as if it knew how close it had come to silence.
Kolson's sneaky grin, those cold gears spinning in that prosthetic eye like a rusted machine, the searing lash of fire tearing through his chest... and that pocket watch, its hands jabbing at twelve o'clock like a judge's gavel, slamming down on a death sentence.
None of it felt like a dream. Too vivid, too raw—like a scar still stinging. Or maybe it was "sensory overload," whatever messy label that was.
"Zero-point rebirth... You saying I actually died? In that godforsaken hole?"
He mumbled the strange phrase, his jaw tightening. It felt like an ice pick had been driven into his temple, the dull throb spreading cold through his skull, down to his spine.
"Theoretically? It's a consciousness thing. Your mind, under deep hypnosis, might've gotten tangled up in the talisman's hum—synced with the Sanxingdui divine tree, y'know?" Xiao Yuji paused, her tone gaining the kind of conviction that comes from convincing yourself first. "Maybe it brushed a node of high-dimensional info. Or worse—somehow, you got crammed with a 'death memory' that never belonged to you.
End result? Your memory entropy increase—chaos unspooling like a frayed rope, order dissolving into dust. Yeah. That's it."
She nodded, impressed by her own logic, as if the words had woven a net tight enough to hold even her own doubts.
"Memory entropy increase?"
Ryan clutched his head, his thoughts scattering like shards of glass in a storm—buzzing, clattering, slicing at the edges of his focus.
"F=ma+qe?! I only know the second law of thermodynamics! ...ʕ(ⓛᗝⓛ)ʔ...
Ugh, hell. What am I even rambling about? My brain's turned to sludge, I swear."
"How about... I take you out? Wander a little, grab something good to eat? Let the fog clear?"
She offered a wide, warm smile, the kind that feels like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—bright enough to make you squint, soft enough to make you lean in.
Xiao Yuji had known the first hypnosis would be a minefield of glitches. This was damage control, plain and simple—distraction as a lifeline.
"You go on. I'm just... drained."
Ryan propped his forehead in one hand, every muscle in his body heavy as wet sand. No spark, no urge to move—like his bones had turned to lead.
"But you're in Guanghan! You can't skip the local eats—they're unreal. I have to take you.
Hotpot? Dry pot? Fried skewers that'll make your tongue sing with spice? Or Lianshan's twice-cooked pork—thick slices, glossy with sauce, tender enough to melt? Golden thread noodles, so fine they dissolve on your tongue like mist... And we'll grab souvenirs on the way back, yeah? Little bits of this place to take with you?"
She ticked them off on her fingers, her voice brightening with each name, and her stomach rumbled in harmony—a low, greedy growl, as if it were chiming in to urge him on.
"...Sounds all right, I guess."
Ryan hadn't been hungry a minute ago, but watching the girl's eyes light up—like stars coming out one by one in a dark sky—something in his gut shifted. A slow, quiet rumble answered hers, soft as a secret.
Then it hit him. Not pain, not dizziness. A strange, stretching expansion, as if the walls of his senses were being pulled outward, thin as silk, until the world felt wider, brighter, closer.
Far outside, car tires screeched against asphalt, a high, sharp whine that cut through the air. Downstairs, the milk tea shop blared a tune—cheerful, tinny, unapologetically loud. Next door, a parent's shout clashed with a child's wail—fractured, human, alive.
And closer—so close he could almost count the beats—Xiao Yuji's blood hummed in her veins, a soft, liquid rhythm, like a stream murmuring over smooth stones.
Heartbeats thudded on, steady as a metronome, marking time in a way that felt suddenly precious.
His vision, too, had sharpened into something uncanny. A tiny moth, strayed into the room, huddled on the windowsill—he could see every tremor of its wings, the fine fuzz that dusted them like powdered sugar, the way its legs curled tight with fear, as if bracing for a storm. Clear as a photograph, and twice as vivid.
A strange tide of feeling swelled in him—tenderness, protectiveness, a quiet ache to cup it in his palm and keep it safe from harm.
"You... you doing okay?"
Xiao Yuji caught the shift in him, sharp as a bird spotting a flicker of movement in the grass. She stopped short, tilting her head, her gaze lingering on his face as if trying to read a hidden text.
In the glow of the overhead light, his pupils held a faint, golden shimmer, like sunlight caught in a pool of honey.
His breathing had slowed, deep and even, rolling off him in waves of calm—a peace so steady it felt almost alien, nothing like the panic that had clawed at him moments before, ragged and desperate.
"I..."
Ryan opened his mouth, his voice dry as old parchment left in the sun.
He'd meant to snap, "No! It's a disaster!!!"
Meant to say, "Xiao Yuji, your half-baked hypnosis nearly torched my mind!"
But when the words came, they were soft, warm, as if filtered through a veil of light. A current of warmth had unfurled in his chest, melting away the fear and frustration like snow in spring, leaving only a quiet hum.
Looking into her eyes—curious, a little worried, bright with life—he wanted nothing more than to smooth that tiny crease between her brows, to make the worry lift.
"I'm fine."
He heard himself say it, and the tone surprised him—gentle, almost tender, like he was speaking to something fragile.
"Just... muddled. Thanks, Xiao Yuji."
The "thanks" slipped out, honest and unguarded, and Ryan froze.
On Wall Street, gratitude was a weakness—you didn't thank, you watched your back, sharp as a blade. But here, faced with the hypnotist who'd nearly "killed" his consciousness, he couldn't summon an ounce of anger. Not even a flicker.
Baffling. Utterly baffling.
"Whoa... Is that—an angel I'm looking at?"
She wasn't exaggerating. Not even a little.
For a flash, she could've sworn she saw them—wings, gilded and glowing, unfurling behind him, soft as starlight caught in silk. Something had shifted in him, that much was clear.
Even if that quiet, almost holy calm felt as absurd as a fish learning to fly.