The cold didn't fade.
Lin Yue noticed it first in the corridor leading back toward the Game Hall's public wing — a persistent chill circling his wrist like a bracelet made of winter air, present under his sleeve even after the restricted section's oppressive white stone gave way to warm gold lighting and the low, ordinary hum of survivors going about their evening. He flexed his fingers as he walked. The sensation didn't lessen.
He told himself he'd examine it properly once he reached his room. He didn't get the chance.
The first thing he noticed was the sound.
