Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

The second the key slid into the lock and the door swung open, chaos met them.

Da Bing was pacing near the entrance, his thick fur puffed up to full volume, tail bristled like a bottlebrush, his entire body language screaming distress. His ears were flattened to his skull, and his normally calm, icy-blue eyes were wide, glowing with the kind of panic that animals didn't fake. The moment they entered, the Maine Coon let out another deep, yowling cry and turned, bolting down the short hallway leading to Yao's room.

And then they heard her. It wasn't a call for help. It wasn't a coherent sound. It was a broken whimper. A strained, panicked sob. Followed by something that turned all their blood to ice.

A scream.

The kind not meant for waking ears, the kind not formed from conscious fear, but the kind dragged from the depths of someone's mind when everything has gone dark and the only thing left is terror.

Sicheng was gone before the others could react, his strides long, fast, sharp as he charged down the hallway and slammed into her bedroom door with zero hesitation. It flew open, crashing against the inside wall.

And what met them wasn't violence.

It wasn't an intruder.

It was worse.

It was Yao.

She was tangled in her sheets, her limbs locked in panic, her hands twisted into the blankets like she was holding on to them for dear life, her chest heaving, her face soaked with sweat, and her breath coming out in short, choked gasps. She was crying—openly, freely, but without awareness. She wasn't awake. Not truly. She was lost in whatever horror had her trapped. Her lips moved, but no words formed. Her body trembled violently, her back arching and then curling, trying to pull away from something that wasn't even there.

Da Bing leapt onto the bed with the kind of urgency that defied his usual regal pacing, shoving his nose against her jaw, his deep purring replaced with a distressed series of short, insistent meows. He nudged her, licked her cheek, curled beside her like he could wrap himself around her panic and protect her from it.

But she didn't wake.

Not for him.

And that—that was what broke something in Sicheng. He crossed the room in two strides, his hands reaching out with a firm steadiness that didn't waver, even as his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. "Yao." His voice cut through the noise, but she didn't hear it. He shook her shoulders gently but with weight, enough to draw her back if she was close. "Tong Yao. Wake up." Still nothing. Her breath hitched, another soft, terrified whimper escaping her lips, one that sounded far too much like someone remembering something they had tried too hard to forget. His voice dropped lower, steadier, the kind of tone that brokered no argument, no refusal. "Tong Yao. Wake up. Right now."

Her body jolted. Her breath caught. Then, all at once, she gasped—loud and panicked—and her eyes flew open. For a long second, she wasn't there. Not truly.

Her gaze was glassy, wild, scanning a world only she could see, her chest rising and falling so fast it looked painful. She blinked once. Twice. And then, finally—finally—her eyes found him. Recognition hit like a slow wave. Not immediate. Not all at once. But steady. Real. And then came the tremble. Her shoulders curled inward, her hands rising to her face as if to block the light, her voice breaking in a whisper, fragile and stuttered. "S-Sorry... I didn't... I didn't mean to wake anyone..." She looked like she was trying to disappear. And that—that was what broke the others.

Lao Mao, standing just behind the door, folded his arms slowly, his expression unreadable but tight. Yue, already piecing things together faster than anyone else, stepped forward slightly, his voice low but cutting straight to the heart of it. "How long has this been happening?"