Shi Yao's breath was steady, but his pulse was anything but.
His aunt's grip remained gentle yet unwavering, as if she wasn't restraining him—just insisting he stay.
The glow beyond the window pulsed again—twice, three times, exactly as before.
Shi Yao's stomach twisted. Something was waiting. Observing.
Carefully, he pulled his wrist away, his voice measured. "I need fresh air."
His aunt's smile didn't falter. "You don't need fresh air."
Shi Yao stiffened.
The words repeated in his mind—not a denial, not a warning. Just a statement, absolute and immovable.
Then, in that moment of silence—the world flickered.
The ceiling shuddered. The table blurred at the edges, distorting for half a second before reforming—like an image trying too hard to stay intact.
Shi Yao's breath hitched.
This was the moment.
The dream was crumbling, fighting to maintain its hold.
And whatever force controlled it wouldn't let him go without a fight.
His aunt moved, standing with unnatural fluidity. "Stay, Shi Yao. You haven't finished eating."
Her voice was soft, gentle—and utterly wrong.
The glow outside flared violently, as though reacting to his defiance.
And suddenly, his surroundings collapsed inward—warping, distorting, breaking apart.
Shi Yao fell.
Shi Yao fell through the collapsing void, his breath caught in his throat as gravity twisted around him. The world shattered into fragments, shards of light and shadow spinning wildly in the abyss.
And then—sudden stillness.
He blinked.