The party hadn't changed.
Same music, same low conversations, same carefully controlled laughter drifting through the room like nothing in the world could go wrong. Lin An stood near the entrance for a moment, her hand still resting lightly on the strap of her bag, her gaze moving across the space without focusing on any one person. It looked exactly the same as she remembered. That didn't make it feel familiar.
She hadn't planned to come back.
But the ring had been here.
And right now, that was enough.
She stepped inside.
No one paid attention. No one noticed the shift in her expression or the way her eyes lingered just a little longer on certain details, certain faces, as if she were trying to match them to something she couldn't fully see yet. The memory from earlier was incomplete, blurred at the edges, but one thing had stayed clear.
The man by the window.
She found him almost immediately.
He was exactly where she remembered. Standing slightly apart from the rest, a glass in his hand that he hadn't touched, his posture relaxed but not careless. There was something about the way he held himself that didn't match the room, like he wasn't part of it, just passing through.
Lin An slowed slightly as she approached.
He didn't turn.
Not until she stopped in front of him.
"Excuse me."
Only then did his gaze shift.
Dark eyes met hers, steady, unreadable, taking in more than they showed. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then he said, "Yes?"
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
Lin An didn't look away. "We met last night."
A pause.
"I don't think so."
The answer came easily.
Too easily.
Her gaze dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to his hand.
The ring was there.
Black. Simple. Unmistakable.
She looked back up.
"I think you remember me," she said.
This time, he didn't respond immediately.
Something in his expression shifted, not enough for most people to notice, but enough.
"Should I?" he asked.
Lin An held his gaze. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On which version you saw."
The silence that followed was different.
Sharper.
His eyes didn't leave hers.
"What did you say?" he asked.
She didn't repeat it.
Instead, she stepped slightly closer, lowering her voice just enough that it wouldn't carry. "The video," she said. "What did you see?"
For the first time, something real moved behind his expression.
Not shock.
Recognition.
It was brief. Controlled. Gone almost immediately.
But she saw it.
So she had been right.
"You shouldn't be asking that here," he said quietly.
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
Lin An watched him for a second longer, then tilted her head slightly. "In mine, I killed you."
The words landed cleanly between them.
No hesitation.
No attempt to soften them.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then—
he let out a quiet breath.
"Interesting," he said.
That wasn't the reaction she expected.
"You don't seem surprised."
"Should I be?"
"I just told you I'm going to kill you."
"No," he said. "You told me you saw a version where you did."
That pause.
That distinction.
It mattered.
Lin An didn't respond right away. She studied him instead, more carefully this time, the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way nothing in his expression fully matched the situation.
"What did you see?" she asked again.
This time, he answered.
"You weren't holding the knife."
Her fingers stilled slightly at her side.
"Then who was?"
He didn't reply immediately.
Instead, his gaze dropped briefly, not to her face, but to her hand, as if checking something that wasn't there.
When he looked back up, his expression had shifted again.
More distant.
"Does it matter?" he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because one of us is wrong."
Another pause.
Then, quietly, "Or both of us are."
The words settled between them.
Neither of them moved.
Around them, the party continued as if nothing had changed, voices rising and falling, glasses clinking, footsteps crossing the floor. It all felt distant now, like background noise that didn't belong to them.
Lin An broke the silence first. "I got a message."
That caught his attention again.
"No sender," she continued. "It said I already did it once."
Something in his gaze sharpened.
"And?" he asked.
"And if I want to live, I should find you."
A faint shift.
Small.
But real.
"And yet you came anyway," he said.
"I wanted to see if you were real."
"And?"
Lin An held his gaze.
"You are."
Another pause.
Then she added, quieter this time, "That makes this worse."
For a second, it almost looked like he might smile.
He didn't.
Instead, he said, "You shouldn't stay here."
"That's the second time you've said something like that."
"And you ignored it both times."
"That's because you're not explaining anything."
"Not here."
His tone changed slightly on the last word.
Not louder.
Just more final.
Lin An glanced briefly around the room, then back at him. "Then where?"
He studied her for a moment.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
"Somewhere quieter," he said.
"That sounds vague."
"It's supposed to be."
She almost argued.
Almost pushed again.
But something in the way he said it made her stop.
A different kind of instinct took over.
"Fine," she said.
Another pause.
Then, before he could speak again—
"I want to marry you."
This time, he did react.
Not visibly.
But the silence shifted.
He looked at her more carefully now, as if reassessing something he had already decided.
"Why?" he asked.
Lin An didn't hesitate.
"Because in one version, I kill you," she said. "And in another, someone else does."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"I want to know which one you're trying to prevent."
The words hung there.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then—
"Three months," he said.
Lin An frowned slightly. "What?"
"A contract," he continued. "Three months."
Her pulse slowed.
Not from calm.
From focus.
"And after that?"
A faint pause.
Then, almost casually—
"We see which version wins."
Something about the way he said it made the air feel thinner.
Lin An held his gaze for another second.
Then she nodded.
"Deal."
Across the room, unnoticed by both of them, someone else was watching.
Not casually.
Not by accident.
His attention didn't waver as he lifted his phone slightly, the screen reflecting faintly in the low light.
The video playing there had already ended.
But he didn't stop it.
Because in his version—
neither of them walked away alive.