The truth didn't follow me.
It stayed behind.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
Like a gravity well I'd stepped out of but never escaped.
Every step away from Leon's words felt wrong—like I was breaking some unspoken rule, like the world expected me to stop, to fold inward, to finally shatter under the weight of what I'd just learned.
I didn't.
I kept walking.
Not because I was strong—
but because if I stopped now, I wasn't sure my body would ever agree to move again.
We left the inner corridors of the facility.
The air changed.
Not colder.
Not warmer.
Hollower.
The lights overhead dimmed gradually, strips of illumination growing farther apart, shadows stretching longer between them. The walls lost their pristine sheen, replaced by matte surfaces that swallowed reflections instead of returning them.
I glanced around.
Something felt… off.
The space beyond the glass walls looked wrong—not dark, not night—
Empty.
Like depth without distance.
My sense of balance faltered.
Not enough to make me stumble—just enough that my body kept trying to correct itself. Like standing at the edge of a pool and misjudging how far down the water actually was. My feet felt planted, but the space around them refused to confirm it.
I couldn't tell how far away the glass walls really were.
They looked close.
They felt far.
Both at the same time.
Depth existed without scale. Distance without measurement. My body kept searching for reference points—corners, horizons, edges—and finding none that behaved the way they should.
It was the kind of disorientation that didn't make you dizzy.
It made you unsure whether "here" meant anything at all.
"Why is it so dark outside?" I asked quietly. "It feels like… space."
Leon slowed.
Not stopped—slowed.
Just enough that I noticed.
"…You wouldn't notice yet," he said after a moment. "Not until you understand where you are."
That answer settled badly in my chest.
Before I could push further, a soft chime sounded at his wrist.
Leon raised his arm.
A device rested there—sleek, angular, silver edged with black. Thin blue lines pulsed along its surface, not glowing so much as breathing.
I hadn't seen him wear it before.
Or maybe I had—and simply hadn't known what I was looking at.
"Duty calls," Leon said calmly. "See you later."
Later.
The word felt absurd in a place where time itself felt optional.
He tapped the device.
A translucent panel unfolded in midair.
Not projected—
anchored.
As if space itself had agreed to host it.
> [ X-CODER — INITIALIZED ]
[ TELEPORT — ACTIVE ]
The air around Leon bent.
Not violently.
Deliberately.
Like reality was being pinched shut between invisible fingers.
There was no sound. No flash.
Just absence.
And Leon was gone.
The space he'd occupied didn't collapse back into place immediately.
It lingered.
Like the air itself hadn't decided whether to close the gap or leave it open.
My eyes burned faintly as I stared at it, vision slipping in and out of focus. For half a second, I could swear I saw outlines there—afterimages that didn't belong to anything solid. Not light. Not shadow.
Possibility.
I blinked.
Once.
Then again.
The second blink came half a beat late—like my eyes were waiting for something to finish happening. A faint pressure bloomed behind them, not pain, not strain—recognition. The space Leon had occupied didn't feel empty.
It felt… remembered.
Like reality itself was still accounting for his absence, recalculating where something important had been removed without permission. The air shimmered faintly at the edges of my vision, not light, not distortion—afterimage.
My eyes burned for a moment.
Then it passed.
Too quickly.
Too neatly.
As if whatever noticed me had decided not to linger.
My stomach twisted.
That wasn't normal.
I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes once, then again. The sensation faded slowly, reluctantly, like something letting go only because it had to.
"…Did you see that?" I asked.
Yuna didn't answer.
Which meant she had.
I stared at the empty space where he'd stood.
"…X-Coder," Yuna muttered beside me.
My heart kicked.
"What the hell was that?!" I snapped. "That's the same thing I—!"
"Teleport," Yuna cut in flatly. "That's not your power."
I turned on her. "Then why does it feel the same?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes stayed on the space Leon had vacated, expression unreadable.
"Because it copies the same laws you break naturally," she said finally. "It's a crutch."
She glanced at me.
"You're the real thing."
The words hit harder than praise ever could.
"The device follows rules," she continued. "Coordinates. Stabilizers. Permission layers."
She turned away, already walking.
"You overwrite them."
I swallowed.
My stomach twisted—not with pride, but unease.
"And because," she added over her shoulder, "we're not walking anywhere."
I frowned, quickening my pace to match hers.
"Why not just… walk?"
She stopped.
Slowly turned.
Looked at me like I'd asked why gravity existed.
"You idiot," she said. "You still don't get it?"
Something about the way she was smiling bothered me.
Not the expression itself—Yuna smiled all the time.
It was the timing.
The smile wasn't for me.
It was for the situation.
I'd seen that kind of smile before.
Not often.
And never from people who lost control.
It was the same expression coaches wore right before pushing someone past what they thought was their limit. The same calm I'd seen on Arata's face in the split second before he stepped between danger and something he intended to protect.
Not excitement.
Not cruelty.
Confidence—backed by certainty.
The kind that came from knowing exactly how much chaos could be unleashed without letting it spiral.
My stomach dropped.
That smile wasn't asking if I was ready.
It was acknowledging that whatever came next was already inevitable.
My body remembered something before my mind could label it. That sick drop in my gut. The way the world had vanished under my feet back in the white room. The way gravity had felt optional, negotiable.
I took a half step back without realizing it.
"Yuna," I said carefully, "whatever you're about to—"
She tilted her head.
"Oh relax," she said. "If you break here, it's not permanent."
That was not reassuring.
My pulse spiked.
"What do you mean, not permanent?"
She didn't answer.
She never did, when the answer wouldn't help.
✦ END OF CHAPTER 26 — X-CODER ✦