Lin Chuan didn't remember leaving the door.
His feet carried him on their own, through the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses. The Eclipse had transformed while he'd been outside. The amber lighting had dimmed to something darker, more intimate. Bodies pressed together on the dance floor. Perfume and cologne and sweat mingled in the warm air. A woman's laugh cut through the bass line, high and sharp. None of it reached him.
The conversation echoed inside his head.
'Someone who loved me that much wouldn't suddenly change.'
'He'll come crawling back eventually.'
The words lingered long after the voices disappeared.
Then something cracked.
A crushing sadness rose from somewhere deep inside his chest. It didn't belong to him. He was sure of it. He'd been sad before. Hungry sad. Lonely sad. Tired sad. But this was different. This was a weight, a pressure, an ocean pressing down on his ribs. His vision blurred. His throat tightened until breathing became a struggle. Each inhale felt like swallowing glass.
"..."
A tear rolled down his cheek.
Lin Chuan froze.
Another followed. Then another. They traced warm paths down his cold skin, dripping off his jaw, landing on his collar. He lifted a trembling hand and touched his face.
Wet.
He was crying.
No. He didn't cry. Not when he went to bed hungry at nine years old. Not when his father sold his school computer for alcohol. Not when his mother collapsed from exhaustion and the ambulance took forty minutes to arrive. Not when he died alone in a library, surrounded by books he'd never get to finish.
He hadn't cried once. He'd told himself he was stronger than that. He'd told himself tears didn't fix anything. He'd told himself he was fine.
His heartbeat quickened. These weren't his emotions.
"Ling Mu..."
The name escaped in a whisper.
The grief wasn't his. It belonged to the boy whose body he now wore. The boy who'd stood in front of that mirror and cut his wrists because someone he loved had told him he was worthless. The boy who'd believed every word. The boy who'd died believing he deserved it.
Lin Chuan stumbled toward the restroom.
---
The music outside became muffled the moment the bathroom door closed. The silence was abrupt, almost violent. Marble counters gleamed under soft lighting. Large mirrors reflected his pale face back at him. The fixtures were gold. The soap dispensers were crystal. Expensive enough to resemble a hotel lobby rather than a public restroom.
Lin Chuan gripped the edge of the sink. His knuckles went white. The face staring back at him looked painfully familiar. It was still his face, only softer not much suffering . The eyes were red, the rims puffy. His cheeks flushed with the heat of unexpected tears. He watched himself cry in the mirror, almost detached, as if observing a stranger.
They continued to fall despite every attempt to stop them. He wiped at them with the back of his hand. They kept coming. He pressed his palms against his eyes. The tears seeped through the cracks between his fingers.
"So..."
"This is what crying looks like."
His voice sounded hoarse. Foreign. He barely recognized it.
He splashed cold water onto his face. It didn't help. The sadness remained. Not overwhelming anymore, not the crushing weight of before. Just heavy. A persistent ache, like mourning someone he'd never met. The ghost of Ling Mu's final moments clung to him, refusing to let go.
He looked at his reflection again. The face was his. The body was his. But the grief, the love, the desperate need for validation, those belonged to someone else. Someone who would never get to feel them again.
The restroom door swung open.
A man staggered inside. Late twenties. Designer suit, probably worth more than Lin Chuan's entire wardrobe. The tie hung loose around his neck, undone. His face was flushed red with alcohol, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He stumbled toward the urinal, then noticed Lin Chuan. His gaze traveled from the tear-streaked face to the trembling hands to the narrow shoulders.
His eyes brightened.
"Well, well. A pretty one. What's a little thing like you doing in here all alone?"
Lin Chuan looked at him once before returning his attention to the sink. He didn't have the energy for this. He clearly was drunk and had entered the wrong bathroom.
"I'm leaving."
He moved toward the door. The man's body shifted, blocking his path. His breath hit Lin Chuan's face, sour and hot, reeking of whiskey and something cheaper underneath.
"Don't be like that. You've been crying. I hate seeing pretty omega's cry. Let me make you feel better."
"I'm not interested."
The man laughed. It was a wet, sloppy sound.
"They all say that." He stepped closer. His hand reached toward Lin Chuan's shoulder, fingers curling. "But they always change their minds."
The touch never landed.
Lin Chuan moved instinctively. His foot drove into the man's knee with all the force his thin body could muster. A sharp crack echoed through the restroom. The joint buckled.
"Agh! You little fucker!"
The drunk collapsed with a curse, clutching his leg. He rolled on the floor, spitting curses. His face twisted with pain and rage. The fall had knocked the breath out of him, but only for a moment. He scrabbled at the floor, trying to stand.
Lin Chuan didn't wait. He slipped past the writhing body and ducked into the nearest stall, locking the door behind him. His hands were shaking. His heart pounded in his ears.
"Little bastard!" The man's voice was thick with fury. He'd gotten to his feet. His footsteps were uneven, favoring the injured knee. "You think you can kick me? You think you can just walk away?"
Bang.
His fist slammed against the stall door. The metal rattled in its frame. Lin Chuan flinched backward.
"You want to play games? Fine. I can play games."
Bang. Another punch. The lock groaned.
"Come out. Come out now and I'll go easy on you."
Bang! Harder this time. The door vibrated.
"You think anyone's going to help you? This is my club. I know everyone here. Security won't lift a finger. You hear me? No one's coming."
Bang!
Lin Chuan's breathing stopped.
The sound, the shouting. The locked space. It all blurred together. The marble walls of the expensive restroom disappeared. Instead, he saw something else. Filthy tiles. The smell of bleach and stale beer. A nightclub from years ago, the kind that didn't ask for ID.
He'd been nineteen. Working nights to pay tuition. The tips were good, but the customers were worse. One of them had cornered him after closing. A man in an expensive suit, just like this one. Drunk. Laughing. Demanding. When Lin Chuan had tried to leave, the man had grabbed his wrist and twisted until something popped.
The manager hadn't helped. He'd looked away and said it was just a misunderstanding. The security guard had claimed he hadn't seen anything. Lin Chuan had locked himself inside a supply closet. He'd pressed his back against the wall and listened to the man pound on the door. Promising everything. Money. Violence. Worse.
He'd waited two hours before anyone came. Two hours of watching the door shake on its hinges. Two hours of hearing the man's voice. Two hours of waiting to be found.
Bang!
The stall shook again. Lin Chuan flinched so hard his shoulder struck the wall. The pain was sharp, but it barely registered. His chest was too tight. His lungs couldn't seem to fill.
"No..."
He whispered to himself. His voice was barely audible over the pounding.
"It's different. This isn't then. I'm stronger now. I can fight."
He knew it logically. The man outside was drunk. Injured. Slower. He could probably knock him unconscious with one well-placed hit. He'd learned that skill, too, in the years after the nightclub. He'd made sure he'd never be helpless again.
But his body refused to listen.
His hands shook uncontrollably. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Every bang made him smaller. Every shout dragged him deeper into memories he'd thought he'd buried years ago. The smell of bleach came back to him, sharp and unmistakable. The sound of the door rattling. The laughter.
His vision blurred again. Not from Ling Mu this time. From fear. Raw. Humiliating. Irrational. The kind of fear that didn't care about logic or training or how strong you'd made yourself.
His phone.
He fumbled for it. His fingers slipped twice before he managed to unlock it. The screen blazed too bright. He blinked tears away and scrolled through his contacts.
Mother. No. She was dead.
Professor. Useless.
Hospital. They'd take too long.
His thumb stopped on one name.
'Uncle.'
Ling Xu.
He didn't think. He pressed call.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times.
It connected.
A familiar, calm voice answered immediately. There was an edge to it, a sharpness that wasn't usually there.
"...Mu'er?"
Lin Chuan opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. His throat had closed up entirely. The muscles wouldn't work.
Another kick slammed against the stall door. The metal lock bent inward, the latch groaning. Through the gap, he could see the man's red, furious face.
"Come out, you little bitch. I'm going to make you regret this. I'm going to—"
Bang.
Lin Chuan's voice broke.
It wasn't his. It didn't sound like him. It was small, desperate, terrified. The voice of a child. The voice of a nineteen-year-old hiding in a supply closet. The voice of a boy who'd died alone in a library, surrounded by books he'd never get to finish.
"...Uncle?"