The first headache arrived at dawn.
It was subtle—a thin thread of pressure coiling behind his left eye, the kind that could be attributed to poor sleep or the recycled air of the Game Hall. Lin Yue catalogued it and filed it under irrelevant, the same category he had assigned to the voice the night before.
He got up. He washed his face. He drank two cups of water in efficient succession.
Lin Yue slowly lifted his right hand, bringing it toward his face. Beneath the edge of his thumbnail, the grey ash remained. He had scrubbed it until he bled, yet the residue persisted, a stubborn, powdery stain.
He looked at his knuckles in the harsh bathroom light—the grey tint also embedded in the creases, faint as a bruise but somehow more permanent. He pressed his thumb over it, as if pressure alone could erase it. The skin reddened, but the ash did not move.
He put on his jacket and left the room.
