The silence was worse than the sound. Gao Lin realized that almost immediately — the way it stretched, thin and deliberate, the way a held breath stretched right before someone decided whether to scream.
Step.
He hadn't moved. Beside him, Xin Yu hadn't either. They'd both gone rigid the second the first footfall landed in the hallway outside Room 206, and neither of them had said a word since, as if speaking might tell whatever was out there exactly where to listen.
A narrow strip of hallway light bled beneath the door, pale and steady, undisturbed by any shadow crossing it. That should have meant something. It didn't feel like it meant anything good.
"Is that it?" Gao Lin finally whispered, so quietly the words barely left his mouth.
Xin Yu didn't answer.
Another step came. Closer.
