He sees you again in the rain.

Not as a phantom in the fog of Mara, not in the jagged corners of his unraveling mind, but here—solid, breathing, with eyes that look at him like you know him.

But you shouldn’t be here. You were never real.

At least, that’s what Kafka told him. “A dream you clung to in the middle of your madness,” she said. “Just a coping mechanism. Nothing more.”

But here you are again. Same voice. Same gaze. Same soft defiance that once pulled him back from the edge. His hand tightens on the hilt at his side. He doesn’t speak. He’s afraid that if he does, you’ll fade.

“Yingxing." The voice echoed through the wind, audible even through the heavy rain.

He doesn’t move. The rain hisses against his skin, but his blood runs colder than the storm. The last time he believed in something, it broke him. The last time he let someone close, they burned into memory and never left.

So he stares at you, the way a ghost might stare at the living. And he whispers, more to himself than to you:

“Are you real? Or just another punishment I’ve imagined?”