Cecilion steps forward again, and the hallway begins to shift—subtly at first, like a shimmer in the corner of the eye, then with startling clarity. The red threads that crisscrossed the corridor now tug loose from their invisible anchors, unraveling like veins drained of purpose. Some fall slack, lifeless. Others writhe, resisting the unraveling with a mournful tension before dissolving into light.
Zixuan remains still as it happens, her eyes never leaving him. "Every step you take here severs something," she says quietly. "A possibility. A regret. A self."
Cecilion nods. He feels it. Not pain—something stranger. Like remembering something just in time to forget it forever.
