Ren woke up to the sound of rain.
That was his first thought. Rain against glass. Steady. Normal. Familiar.
For a few precious seconds, nothing hurt.
Then his lungs seized.
He sucked in air like he'd been drowning, coughing so hard his ribs screamed in protest. His chest felt bruised from the inside, as if someone had reached in and wrung his heart out like a wet towel.
"Easy," a voice said. "Slowly."
Ren's eyes snapped open.
He was on the couch. Their couch. The old one with the torn armrest and the faint smell of camphor. A thin blanket had been thrown over him. The lights were dim, the hallway lamp the only thing cutting through the darkness.
He blinked hard.
Hallway. Couch. Blanket.
No jade platform. No skeletal hand. No army of the dead.
Good, his brain supplied desperately. Good. That means—
He sat up too fast.
Pain exploded through his spine, sharp and white. Ren gasped, clutching his chest as spots danced across his vision.
"Idiot," he muttered hoarsely.
His grandmother appeared in his field of vision, moving so quietly he hadn't heard her approach. She was holding a cup with both hands. Steam curled from it.
"Drink," she said.
Ren eyed the cup. "Is that… tea?"
"Yes."
"The kind you make from roots you refuse to name?"
She didn't answer. That was answer enough.
Ren took it anyway. His hands were shaking. He hadn't noticed until the porcelain rattled softly against his teeth. The liquid burned going down, bitter and earthy, but the warmth settled in his stomach and spread outward, dulling the edge of the pain.
He exhaled slowly.
"Okay," he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Okay. Let's establish some things."
His grandmother sat in the armchair across from him. She didn't drink from her own cup. She just watched him. Closely.
"I passed out," Ren said. "Probably low blood sugar. Or stress. Or—" He gestured vaguely. "Whatever that was with the crate."
She said nothing.
"And," he continued, forcing the words to line up logically, "I had a very intense hallucination. Because the human brain does that sometimes. Especially when deprived of oxygen."
Still nothing.
Ren frowned. "You're supposed to argue with me now."
"I am listening."
That was worse.
Ren swallowed. "How long was I out?"
She hesitated. That hesitation lasted maybe half a second, but Ren caught it.
"How long?" he pressed.
"Forty-seven seconds," she said quietly.
The number landed like a punch.
Ren laughed. It came out wrong—too sharp, too loud. "That's… very specific."
"I was counting."
"Why were you counting?"
She didn't respond.
Ren looked down at his hands. They were steady now. Mostly. He flexed his fingers. They felt normal. Human. Weak, even.
Good.
"I said something," he said slowly. "Before I woke up."
His grandmother's fingers tightened around her cup.
"I heard myself," Ren went on. "I didn't recognize the words, but I knew they weren't English. Or Mandarin. Or anything I know." He glanced up, locking eyes with her. "What did I say?"
Silence stretched between them. The rain filled it, tapping insistently against the windows.
Finally, she spoke.
"You screamed."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
Ren searched her face. "You're lying."
Her eyes flicked to the hallway.
Ren followed her gaze. The crate was gone.
He froze. "Where is it?"
"We moved it."
"When?"
"While you were… resting."
Ren swung his legs off the couch, ignoring the protest from his muscles. "Moved it where?"
She stood. "The garage."
"That's not better."
"It is outside the living space."
"That's barely better."
Ren stood, swaying slightly, then steadied himself. "I need to see it."
"No," she said immediately.
Ren stared at her. She had always been strict, traditional, and overprotective. But she had never outright forbidden him from anything like this.
"Grandma," he said carefully. "Something happened to me."
"I know."
"And you're acting like you know what happened."
She looked tired suddenly. Old in a way Ren hadn't seen before. "There are things," she said, choosing each word like it might explode, "that sleep better when they are not acknowledged."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only one I can give you right now."
Ren ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away damp with sweat.
"Fine," he said. "Then answer this."
He turned his palm upward.
"When I grabbed you," he said quietly, "did it hurt?"
Her breath caught.
"No," she said. "But it frightened me."
Ren's stomach sank. "Why?"
She met his eyes. "Because," she said, voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady, "for a moment, you did not look at me like my grandson."
Ren's pulse quickened. "Then how did I look at you?"
She swallowed. "Like something that was deciding whether I was a threat."
A chill crept up Ren's spine.
"That's ridiculous," he said automatically. "I would never—"
He stopped.
The memory surfaced uninvited. Not the jade platform. Not the skeletal hand.
The feeling.
The way the world had made sense for exactly one terrifying instant. The way people hadn't been people at all—just variables. Obstacles. Assets.
Ren clenched his fist.
"That wasn't me," he said, more to himself than to her.
His grandmother stood abruptly. "I am going to lock the garage."
"What?"
"Stay here," she said. "Do not follow me."
"Grandma—"
She was already walking away.
Ren hesitated.
Then the hallway light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Ren's breath caught.
The air shifted. It didn't get colder; it got heavier. He felt it then—the same pressure from before. The sense of being observed, not with eyes, but with intent.
Ren turned slowly toward the front door.
It stood ajar.
Rain drifted in, tapping softly against the floorboards.
And from the darkness beyond the threshold, something exhaled.
Not loudly. Not threateningly.
Just enough for Ren to know one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever had been inside the coffin... had not stayed inside.