When Chen returned to the living quarters, the quietness of the room pressed in—shadows pooled in the corners, and the faint scent of clean linen mingled with the sterile chill of recycled air. The only light came from a narrow window, painting pale stripes across the floor and the single bed where Yan Qing slept.

  Yan Qing lay curled on his side, dark hair fanned across the pillow, his breathing slow and even. In sleep, the tension had left his brow, lips parted just slightly with each gentle exhale.

  Chen paused in the doorway, letting the quiet settle around him. For a moment, a small, relieved smile touched his lips at the peaceful sight. But as he drew closer, Chen’s gaze lingered on the fragile rise and fall of Yan Qing’s chest—a faint, silvery vein of metallic pattern traced across his skin like a spider’s web, glinting briefly before vanishing beneath the edge of his shirt.

  The smile faded, replaced by a subtle furrow of worry between Chen’s brows—a silent question, unspoken, as he watched over Yan Qing in the quietness of the dim-lit room.

  Chen’s fingers rested lightly against Yan Qing’s temple, the warmth of skin meeting skin. The room was hushed, broken only by the faint hum of ventilation and the soft, rhythmic sound of Yan Qing’s breathing. As the neural bridge opened, Chen felt a subtle tingling beneath his fingertips—a gentle static, as if the air itself had thickened around them.

  At first, there was only the familiar: the steady, comforting pulse of Yan Qing’s presence, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the soft exhale of breath against the pillow. The muted scent of clean linen and the faint trace of Yan Qing’s shampoo lingered in the air. Thoughts drifted like mist, unformed, dissolving into the background hush.

  Then, the texture shifted. A pressure built—not invasive, but deliberate—like a gentle hand aligning the tumblers of a lock. Chen’s own heartbeat seemed to echo in his ears, the world narrowing to the point of contact. The air felt charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

  A signal unfolded—not as sound, not as language, but as a pattern of intent that resonated through Chen’s mind.

  Please protect for me. No matter who you are—please protect it for me.

  Chen’s breath caught, a sudden hitch in the quiet. The words vibrated through him, cold and precise.

  Protect what? he projected, the question pulsing through the bridge.

  What is it you want protected?

  A fractional delay, the silence stretching, thick with anticipation.

  That is the question left to you.

  A pause, heavy as a held breath.

  Then—

  A question?

  Only once. Only the correct answer is the key that opens the vault.

  Chen felt the architecture of the connection clarify, the sensation sharp and crystalline—a single attempt, no room for error. The air seemed to press in, the faintest tremor running through his hand.

  Who are you? he demanded, tightening the link, his own pulse thudding in his fingertips.

  The system did not respond immediately. The silence was dense, the only sound the faint rustle of sheets as Yan Qing shifted unconsciously beneath his touch.

  When the answer came, it was flat and unchanged.

  Apologies. System capacity limited. Please provide the correct question.

  A chill settled into Chen’s chest, the realization cold and absolute. This was not encryption. It was filtration.

  Then what is the question? he pressed, the words almost a whisper in the charged air.

  The pause stretched longer this time, long enough for Chen to feel Yan Qing’s body shift faintly beneath his hand, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

  Then—

  System timeout. Operation terminated.

  The connection snapped. Chen jerked his hand back as if burned, the sudden absence of contact leaving his skin tingling. Silence rushed in, thick and absolute.

  Yan Qing slept on, his face peaceful, lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks, unaware that something ancient and precise had just tested the boundary of his mind—and failed to pass it. The slow, even rise and fall of his breath was the only movement in the room.

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  Chen remained kneeling beside him, heart pounding too fast for someone who had lived for centuries. The air felt heavier now, the quiet pressing in from all sides. It hadn’t asked who should protect it. It hadn’t asked how. It had asked whether the one answering understood what protection even meant.

  And it had not liked Chen’s questions.

  His gaze lingered on Yan Qing’s sleeping face—quiet, unguarded—his expression tangled with emotions he could neither name nor resolve.

  Soft breathing reached Chen’s sensitive ears. Breath—normally proof of life—felt unbearingly heavy now.

  Yan Qing…

  NASA Fifth Division, Manhattan Headquarters

  Chris sat at his desk, the redundancy letter trembling slightly in his grip. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, casting a cold, clinical glare across the paper. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek, and a faint pulse throbbed at his temple. The skin around his eyes was drawn, brows pinched together in a stormy knot. He stared at the letter, knuckles whitening, the edges of the page crumpling beneath his fingers.

  That damned Star Emperor. After securing the government’s protection for Yan Qing, the first thing he’d done was have Chris removed—surgically, efficiently—from Yan Qing’s professional orbit. Chris’s lips curled in a silent snarl. How dare he.

  He remembered the way the Teleopean touched Yan Qing—so openly, so easily, as if Chris’s years of protection meant nothing. Jealousy burned in his chest, hot and metallic, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Yan Qing was his. He always had been. They’d known each other since high school. Chris had found him first, protected him first. And now that bastard, who should have vanished with his universe, was here—circling Yan Qing like a vulture, refusing to let go.

  Chris’s hands shook. He forced them still, nails digging crescents into his palms. He could feel his pulse hammering in his wrists, a wild, dangerous rhythm. Not yet. Soon. Very soon. Once the Star Emperor cracked the code in Yan Qing’s mind, Chris would have no reason to hold back. He would tear the Teleopean apart—and take Yan Qing back.

  Forever.

  A voice behind him made him flinch. “Chris? Are you OK?”

  He blinked, the mask snapping back into place. His mouth stretched into a smile, too quick, too bright. He turned, sunlight glinting off his teeth. “Shirley? Yeah, I’m fine.” His tone was light, almost breezy, but his eyes didn’t quite match.

  Shirley’s polite smile was framed by soft brown curls, her pink suit immaculate. She held out a yellow envelope—his redundancy package. “I’m sorry you got this treatment after so many years,” she said, her voice smooth, professional. “If you want to talk…”

  Chris took the envelope, his fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second. “I’ll be fine, thank you, Shirley.” His smile widened, a little too much. “Please give my regards to your mother. I heard she’s been sick. I wish her a swift recovery.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Shirley turned and walked away, heels clicking softly on the tile.

  The moment her back was turned, Chris’s smile collapsed. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Such a pretentious woman,” he muttered under his breath.

  He looked down at the envelope, the paper rough beneath his thumb. With a sharp scoff, he tore it open, eyes flicking over the contents. Then he froze. His breath caught, chest tightening. That woman—

  He bolted from his chair, the wheels squeaking against the floor. The corridor blurred past as he took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in his ears. By the time he burst out onto the street, Shirley was gone. The city roared around him—horns, voices, the endless rush of traffic. Chris scanned the crowd, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The documents in his hand were crushed, sweat slicking the paper.

  I know that human’s secret.

  “Shirley…” His voice was low, dangerous, barely more than a growl. “Just who the hell are you?”

  On a crowded New York street, Shirley’s heels clicked a steady rhythm against the pavement, the pink of her suit catching the late sunlight. She moved with the current of pedestrians, her posture relaxed, but her eyes flicked to every reflective surface—shop windows, passing cars—tracking the world behind her without ever turning her head. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the city’s exhaust and the distant aroma of roasted nuts from a vendor’s cart.

  After passing a glass-fronted building, she veered sharply into a narrow alley, the sudden hush swallowing the city’s noise. The concrete underfoot was cool and damp, the alley walls stained with old rain and graffiti. She didn’t break stride, didn’t so much as glance over her shoulder, though the soft scrape of footsteps echoed behind her—measured, deliberate, closing in.

  She stopped beneath a flickering security light, her shadow stretching long and thin across the cracked pavement. The air was cooler here, tinged with the metallic tang of rust and something faintly electric.

  “So,” she said, her voice calm, almost bored, “you still follow me, Yin. Li. Yin?”

  The footsteps halted. A tall figure stepped into the spill of light, his golden eyes catching the glow. Yin’s jaw tightened, a flicker of longing and regret passing over his face before he schooled it into neutrality. His hands flexed at his sides, then stilled.

  “Lian… I will always follow you.” His voice was rough, the words catching as if dragged from somewhere deep.

  Shirley turned, her expression glacial. Her lips barely moved, but her eyes narrowed, the corners tightening with a cold amusement. “Right,” she replied, her tone like ice, “I thought you would kill me on the spot last time — you know your current Star Emperor would be delighted to see my corpse.”

  A muscle jumped in Yin’s cheek. “I would never do that!” The words burst out, raw and unguarded. He caught himself, drew a slow breath, and forced his shoulders back, smoothing his features into something almost serene. “In my heart, you will always be Teleopea’s Star Emperor. I could never—”

  She cut him off with a flick of her hand, the gesture sharp enough to slice the air. “If you’re going to waste my time with empty words, don’t bother.” Her gaze swept over him, assessing, unblinking. “What do you want?”

  Yin hesitated, his throat working. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he dropped to one knee on the damp concrete, head bowed. The gesture was formal, almost ritualistic—a silent pledge of loyalty.

  Shirley’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. The light caught in her eyes, turning them sharp and dangerous. “Good,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then let’s watch,” she continued, her gaze drifting past Yin to the mouth of the alley, “as they fall into my plan—one by one.”

  The city’s noise pressed in again, distant and indifferent, as the two figures remained locked in the alley’s half-light—one kneeling, one standing, both shadows among shadows.