He ran.
No time to process what the Red Room had done to his mind—only the thunder of footsteps, the flicker of fluorescent signs, and the wet hiss of neon bleeding through alley mist. Lin Xun didn't know how long he'd been running. Didn't care. Somewhere behind him, the system was watching. Always watching.
Cameras blinked to life as he passed.
[USER DEVIATION DETECTED.]
He ducked into a service tunnel. Rusted grates, the stench of iron and mildew. Heart pounding. The coin from the Red Room still burned faintly in his palm. Not hot—but charged. Like memory clinging to metal.
Then—light. Not white. Not red.
Blue. Sterile. Calming. Terrifying.
He froze.
At the far end of the tunnel stood a man. No weapon, no raised voice—just a clipboard, a pristine lab coat, and calm eyes like still water.
Too calm.
"Lin," the man said softly, stepping forward. "You've wandered quite far off your trajectory."
Lin's breath caught. "You're…"
"Curator. Psychological Recovery." He held up a badge—digitally tagged, no photo. Just a symbol: a hollow eye.
"I'm here to help you realign."
"Stay back." Lin's voice cracked.
The Curator didn't flinch. "I'm not here to harm you, Lin. Only to reorient your trajectory. You're experiencing moral overcompensation and residual guilt bleed. It's not uncommon."
He said it gently. Like a doctor explaining a fever.
"Have you ever considered," the Curator continued, voice calm and coaxing, "that the guilt isn't yours—but you've made it so? That's a dangerous habit, Lin."
Lin stepped backward, heart thudding louder than his thoughts. The man's words didn't shout—they slid under his skin, wrapped in clinical softness.
"You're hallucinating," the Curator said. "Stress-induced schema collapse. The woman you saw—Tang Yuyan—she was a symbolic echo. She never survived calibration."
"No." Lin's hand clenched around the coin. "I saw her. I touched her."
"A cognitive projection," the Curator replied. "Residual imprint. Quite compelling, but not real."
Lin hesitated.
"Memories lie," the Curator added, taking another slow step forward. "Especially when seeded improperly. It's not your fault."
Behind Lin, a pipe creaked. He turned instinctively—nothing but shadow.
When he looked back—the Curator was closer.
He hadn't moved. Not really.
Or had he?
"System flagged you as a high-recursion anomaly," the Curator said, voice still smooth. "That makes you… unique. But unstable."
Click.
The Curator pressed a small remote. Lin's surroundings pulsed with soft light. A low hum throbbed in his skull.
[MEMORY STABILIZATION ATTEMPT #1 INITIATED]
Something inside Lin's mind strained. Fractured. A familiar childhood image flashed—his mother's face? No—Tang Yuyan, but younger. Laughing. No sound. Then—gone.
Lin screamed.
Suddenly—a blur. Something collided with him from the side. A figure. Masked. They rolled behind a rusted pipe as a bolt of light arced past, striking the wall where Lin had stood.
Static burst into the air.
"Move!" the figure shouted.
They bolted through an access hatch into a drainage corridor. Lin's ears rang. His head burned.
Behind them—calm footsteps.
"Deviation confirmed," the Curator's voice echoed. "Beginning reintegration."
They ran. Past tagging on the walls, past the stench of rot, through a maze of forgotten tunnels. Lin stumbled more than once. His rescuer never looked back.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a dim chamber. Makeshift camp. Empty food wrappers. A flickering neon tube overhead.
The masked figure turned.
Female. Sharp eyes. Breathless.
"I'm called Jun," she said, pulling down her scarf. "We don't last long. But we pass messages."
Lin sat down hard. His legs were shaking.
"Why help me?" he asked, throat raw.
Jun studied him. "Because you still remember. That's dangerous."
She handed him a cracked mirror.
He stared into it.
And saw nothing.
No reflection. Only the dark.
⸻
Elsewhere.
The Curator stood beneath a ceiling-mounted lens. The red record light blinked once.
"This one still remembers," he said calmly.
He closed the folder in his hand.
"That's dangerous."
He smiled. Just slightly.
Then walked into the dark.