The knock came without sound.
Not on the door.
Inside my head.
I sat up instantly, breath caught halfway through my chest. The pressure inside me tightened, coiling like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
The door slid open.
No alarm. No warning.
She walked in alone.
The first thing I noticed wasn't her appearance.
It was the silence that followed her.
The room didn't hum anymore. The faint vibration I'd felt since arriving vanished, as if everything had decided to behave while she was present. Even the symbols carved into the walls dulled, retreating into stillness.
She stopped three steps inside the room.
Not close.
Not far.
Perfect.
She wore no uniform. No obvious markings of rank. Her clothes were simple—dark fabric, clean lines, nothing flashy. Her hair fell loosely down her back, black threaded with faint silver strands. Her face was calm, almost gentle.
Almost.
Her eyes met mine.
And the pressure hit.
Not like the others.
There was no crushing force, no instinctive command to kneel.
This was worse.
It felt like being seen through.
"Sit," she said.
Not loudly.
Not softly.
Just… precisely.
I sat.
My muscles obeyed before my thoughts finished catching up. I hated that. I forced my breathing to stay steady, my expression blank.
She studied me without speaking.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
I became aware of every detail—the faint sound of my heartbeat, the cool air against my skin, the control band resting too lightly on my wrist.
Finally, she smiled.
A small one.
"You're calmer than most," she said. "Especially after what you experienced today."
My throat tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
She tilted her head slightly. "You collapsed in a public district. Caused a spatial fluctuation inside a regulated facility. Triggered a response from systems that don't react to men."
Her gaze never left my face.
"And yet," she continued, "you're sitting here pretending nothing is wrong."
I kept my voice even. "I don't understand power. I don't have any."
She nodded once, as if accepting that answer.
Then she asked, "Do you know how many men have said that to me?"
I stayed silent.
"Every single one," she said gently. "Right before they died."
My heart skipped.
She watched closely.
I let my fear surface—but only a little. Enough to be believable. Enough to look weak.
"I haven't done anything," I said quietly. "I just want to live."
"That," she replied, "is exactly what worries me."
She walked closer.
Each step was unhurried. Controlled. The distance between us vanished too quickly, and suddenly she was standing right in front of me.
She reached out.
I tensed.
Her fingers stopped inches from my chest.
"May I?" she asked.
It wasn't a request.
I nodded.
Her fingertips touched the fabric over my heart.
The pressure inside me reacted instantly.
Not violently.
Defensively.
My skin prickled. The air shifted. A faint, almost inaudible sound rippled outward, like something deep below the ground had turned in its sleep.
Her eyes sharpened.
Just for a moment.
Then she withdrew her hand.
"Fascinating," she murmured.
I swallowed. "What… are you?"
She smiled again. This time, it didn't reach her eyes.
"My name is Lian Yue," she said. "I oversee anomaly regulation for this region."
Regulation.
Not investigation.
Not protection.
Erasure.
"I was told you noticed something strange earlier," I said carefully.
She nodded. "I notice many things."
She turned and sat on the chair by the table, crossing her legs with effortless grace. The room seemed to arrange itself around her presence.
"Tell me," she said, "what do you know about history?"
I frowned slightly. "Men don't study it."
She laughed softly. "Correct."
Then her tone changed.
"That was a test."
I stiffened internally.
"In the official records," she continued, "men have always been as they are now. Weak. Dependent. Peaceful."
She paused.
"But records are written by the winners."
I didn't respond.
She leaned back, studying me like a puzzle she already half understood. "Long ago, men were different. Not equal to women—but dangerous in their own way."
My breath caught.
I forced myself not to react.
"They didn't cultivate harmony," she went on. "They cultivated conquest. Their power grew through conflict, through will, through refusal."
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"The world didn't like that."
The pressure inside my chest stirred.
Barely.
"So," she said calmly, "we removed it."
My fingers curled against my palm.
"Every trace," she continued. "Techniques. Bloodlines. Memory. History. Any man who showed signs was erased before others could notice."
She leaned forward slightly.
"You understand now why you're here."
I met her gaze.
"I fainted," I said. "That's all."
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she smiled again.
"Very good," she said. "That was the correct answer."
Relief flickered through me—dangerous, premature.
She stood.
"Most anomalies panic," she said. "They overreact. They try to prove something. They betray themselves."
She stopped at the door.
"You didn't."
She looked back at me over her shoulder.
"That's why you're still alive."
My pulse pounded.
"So… what happens now?" I asked.
She considered the question.
Then, unexpectedly, she said, "Nothing."
The word hit harder than any threat.
"For now," she added.
The door slid open.
Before stepping through, she spoke one last time.
"Do not cultivate," she said softly. "Do not test yourself. Do not draw attention."
Her eyes gleamed faintly.
"If you do… I won't be the one who comes next."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
I sat there, unmoving, sweat cooling against my skin.
She knew.
Not everything.
But enough.
And for reasons I didn't understand—
She had chosen not to erase me.
Yet.
The pressure inside my chest settled slowly, heavily.
Waiting.
So was she.