Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

Yao swallowed hard. "I didn't want to fight with her."

"I know."

"I just... wanted her to listen."

"I know that too."

Madam Lu's voice softened further, warmth woven through every syllable. "You didn't lash out. You didn't insult her. You stood your ground without being cruel. And that takes strength most people never learn."

Yao's lips parted. "But it still hurts."

"That's how you know you did it with your heart intact."

There was silence again, but this one wasn't heavy. It was... settling. Yao leaned slightly forward, resting her elbows on her knees, phone pressed gently to her ear. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me."

"I do."

A faint hum of amusement filtered through the speaker. "Then next time, come have tea with me in person and let me fix your hair. That towel twist is going to ruin the roots."

Yao blinked, looking in the mirror across the room. She immediately winced. "That was uncalled for."

"I'm being honest, not cruel."

Yao laughed softly. Just once. A little breath of sound that made Da Bing's ears twitch. "I'll come visit," she said after a pause. "Soon."

"I'll be waiting."

And with that, the call ended.

Yao set the phone down beside her, reaching up to finally undo the towel, fingers moving slowly through her damp hair. She didn't feel better. Not entirely. But she felt understood. And sometimes, that was enough.

A Week of Avoiding and Withdrawing and something finally cracks.

It was long past midnight when the quiet settled into its usual rhythm inside the ZGDX base, the soft hum of machines finally fading, the lights in the hallway dimmed to a low glow, and the last murmurs of laughter drifting off into silence as doors closed and the world stilled. Most of them assumed Yao was already tucked away in her loft apartment, either lost in the meticulous depths of her dissertation or curled beneath a blanket fast asleep, her fox curled nearby and the glow of her desk lamp the only light left burning.

But then, something shattered that peace.

It came suddenly, cutting through the stillness with such sharpness that for a moment, no one moved—because none of them had ever heard that sound before.

A single, low yowl.

Followed by another.

Then another—louder this time, more desperate, more frantic, laced with a pitch that didn't belong to hunger or boredom or the usual dramatics of Da Bing's oversized feline theatrics. It was something raw. Something panicked. Something that immediately struck a nerve.

And when the fourth yowl came—high, keening, broken—there was no hesitation left in any of them.

They moved.

Fast.

Doors slammed open, feet thundered down hallways, sleep forgotten in an instant as panic took over. No one asked questions. No one joked. The sound had cut through bone, and their instincts—honed through matches, through emergencies, through months of learning what silence and noise meant when it came to one another—didn't fail them now.

Rui was already halfway up the stairs, his fingers digging for the emergency key—the one Yao had handed him weeks ago, tucked into his palm with quiet trust and soft certainty, her only condition being that it should be used only if absolutely necessary. And this, without question, was that moment.