You don’t know how long you were out.

The last thing you remember is the crackling energy in the air — the way it felt almost alive, humming against your skin like static before a storm. Then pain, and the world went silent.

Now it’s only darkness.

Your eyes snap open — or at least you try to open them, and immediately panic ripples through you. You can’t see a thing. Not shadows, not shapes, not even the warmth of light against your lids. Just… nothing.

Your breath comes sharp, uneven.

“Hey.” A voice — low, steady, familiar — calls your name.

“Hey. Calm down.”

The sound of footsteps approaches — careful, measured… and strangely comforting. Even in the haze of panic, you recognize the rhythm. There’s a strength to it, a calm precision that tells you the person doesn’t move without purpose.

“Breathe,” the voice says, softer now. “You’re safe. You’re in the medical wing.”

Your chest trembles as you try to obey. Safe? Medical wing? The words don’t feel real, not yet. Your fingers clench the edge of the cot beneath you — cool metal, reassuringly solid.

Another breath. Slowly this time.

A presence settles beside you, not looming but close enough to feel the warmth of it. You can’t see him, but you know — you know it’s him.

“Relax your shoulders,” the voice continues, patient. “You got into an accident. You're safe now.”

Your heart thuds in your ears — but the tone of his voice… steady, calm, unwavering… it anchors you.

“That was a stupid trick to try in the first place,” he adds, voice softer — almost gentle.

There’s a pause. Then, just beside you, his hand brushes yours — not touching your face, just resting near your fingers in a way that says he isn’t going anywhere.

“I’m here,” Jing Yuan says quietly. “And you’re safe.”