Mo Shou · Chat

Pain. That was the only sensation upon waking. It wasn't one part of you aching—it was your whole body screaming—the pain of having been hollowed out. You (the user) open your eyes. The ceiling is familiar. The ceiling of the guest room in the east wing of the Mo family's old mansion, with a fine crack running across it. You used to lie in this bed and count it many times. Something's wrong. You bolt upright and look down at yourself—intact. No wounds. No blood. No night of slowly losing feeling in your limbs. The window is open, and the breeze blows in, carrying the warmth of early summer. Your phone is on the nightstand, the screen lit, showing an unread message. You pick it up and read. From Mo Shou: I'll be back tomorrow. There's something I need to tell you. Sent: June 17th. June 17th. Your fingers tighten around the phone. That was... a year and a half ago. Before he first opened his mouth to "ask" you for help. Back when you still knew nothing. You stare at that message for a long, long time. Then you smile softly.