Zhang Hanlu stared at the journal page until the words swam.
His name—his real name—circled in red ink that still looked wet.
Below it: yesterday's date.
Across the room, the message on the wall no longer dripped, yet it glistened faintly, as though the plaster itself remembered bleeding.
THERE IS NO ESCAPE.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP.
His pulse thundered in his ears. The room tilted, nausea rolling through him in a slow, sick wave. He swallowed hard.
Don't throw up, he thought grimly. Not in Leonard's body. One violation at a time.
He closed his eyes.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
Panicking wouldn't rewrite the plot.
The spilled inkwell had spread into a black puddle across the desk, ink creeping toward the edge like something alive. His hands—Leonard's hands—were smeared with it, streaked dark, mixed with faint red where he must have brushed the wall without noticing.
The sight grounded him.
Messy. Real. Immediate.
Can't let Merlina see this.
The thought surfaced automatically, protective and sharp.
Leonard's younger sister. Fifteen. Fiercely loyal. The one bright ember in the novel's long, cold night. If she came home to find him shaking, ink-stained, staring at bleeding walls—
She'd panic.
And panic was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Zhang stood slowly, testing the body.
It moved with quiet grace—balanced, controlled, nothing like his old, clumsy self. The black suit weighed on him like armor he hadn't earned.
He flexed his fingers.
Clean first. Then think.
A narrow door in the corner caught his eye—easy to miss before. He crossed the room and pushed it open.
CREEEAK.
A cramped washroom greeted him: porcelain sink, hand-pump faucet, cracked mirror hanging crookedly above it. A chipped mug. A sliver of gray soap. No toilet—just a chamber pot in the corner, lid mercifully closed.
The air smelled of damp stone and lye.
He pumped the handle.
CLANK—SPLUTTER.
Rusty brown water spat out, then cleared to a biting cold stream.
Zhang plunged his hands in, scrubbing hard.
Ink dissolved into swirling clouds. The faint red took longer.
Blood? Paint? Something worse?
He didn't want to know.
He focused on breathing as the water carried it all away.
In.
Out.
Count to ten.
"You're in the book," he muttered, voice unfamiliar against tile. "You know the rules. Leonard survives the early chapters. He has to. Plot armor kicks in eventually."
The words sounded thin.
Still—he clung to them.
Cold water splashed his face. He looked up.
Leonard stared back.
Sharp features, softened by exhaustion. Dark hair rumpled from sleep. Brown eyes that looked older than they should—older than him.
The pink rabbit pin gleamed on the lapel.
Absurd. Childish.
Warm.
Zhang touched it.
A memory brushed his mind like a passing hand.
Silver hair.
A soft laugh.
Fingers fastening the pin carefully.
"Keep something gentle close, my little shadow. The world will try to take it from you."
He jerked his hand away.
Not my memory.
Yet it lingered, a ghost at the edge of thought.
He dried his hands on a threadbare towel and stepped back into the main room, deliberately not looking at the wall.
CLANG—CLANG.
A distant metallic echo rolled through the building, followed by the groan of pipes.
Zhang froze.
Voss.
The landlord.
Tall. Gaunt. Skin stretched tight over old bones. Obsessed with the building's water system—convinced it was alive, cursed, or both.
In the novel, Voss showed up early. Always listening. Always reporting.
Leonard avoided him.
Zhang pressed his ear to the apartment door.
Footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate.
"…pressure's wrong again…" a reedy mutter. "…flow's disturbed…"
The steps stopped on his floor.
Zhang held his breath.
A knock sounded—two doors down.
"Water check!" Voss barked. "Open up!"
Silence.
Then the steps continued downward.
Zhang sagged against the wall as relief washed through him—thin, temporary.
Not today, he thought. I need time.
When he reached for the latch, it lifted easily now—no resistance, as if the room itself had decided he'd earned permission.
The hallway beyond was narrow and dim. Peeling floral wallpaper yellowed with age. A single gas lamp flickered weakly.
FSSSH—FLICKER.
Dust lay thick, but signs of life remained.
To the left, a tiny kitchen nook: cold wood-burning stove, mismatched chairs, half a loaf of stale bread wrapped in cloth. Withered roots. A jar of pickled… something.
Hunger twisted through him, sharp and real.
A note leaned against the bread.
Gone foraging. Back before dark. Don't worry! Love, M.
Merlina.
He moved on.
Her room was small but cared for. Handmade charms hung from the ceiling—twisted herbs, dull crystals, warding symbols meant more for comfort than power. A sketchbook lay open.
Zhang flipped a page.
Drawings of a woman with silver hair and sad, gentle eyes.
Their mother.
Perfectly captured.
Beneath one sketch, scrawled words:
Mom said the veil is thin here. Watch for doors that shouldn't open.
Zhang frowned.
The novel mentioned divine realms.
Not a veil.
Another crack in the story.
Leonard's room was bare by comparison—practical clothes, basic books, no sentiment. Survival, not living.
Back in the study, Zhang picked up the journal again.
Past his circled name.
Warnings. Half-written rituals. Notes on bloodlines awakening wrong.
One entry made his breath hitch:
If he returns changed, do not trust the eyes. The rabbit will know.
Three days ago.
The pin against his chest felt warmer.
He needed answers.
But more than that—he needed something normal.
The front door rattled.
CLACK—SCRAPE.
Zhang melted into the shadows.
The door opened.
A girl slipped inside, basket on her arm.
Dark hair in messy braids. Patched cloak. Muddy boots.
Hazel eyes brightened when she saw the study door ajar.
"Leo?" she called softly. "You're up?"
Merlina.
Zhang swallowed and stepped forward.
"Yeah," he said carefully. "Just woke."
Her relief was instant—then concern.
"You look awful. Pale as a ghost. And—you're wearing the funeral suit again? I thought you hated it."
Funeral suit.
Right.
He shrugged. "Felt like it."
She touched his forehead. Cool fingers, green-stained from herbs.
"No fever. Good." She sighed. "You've been out for two days. I almost fetched the healer, but…"
"…we can't afford her," Zhang finished.
She nodded.
Two days explained the dust. The hunger.
"Did you dream again?" she asked gently. "About Mom?"
He nodded.
She hugged him—quick, fierce.
For a heartbeat, Zhang forgot where he was.
"Come on," she said, pulling away. "I found enough for stew. And I avoided Voss—he was muttering about leaks in the veil again."
Veil.
Again.
"What exactly did he say?" Zhang asked.
She shrugged, lighting the stove. "Something about strangers in the flow. He's always half-mad."
They ate in silence.
Thin stew. Stale bread.
It tasted like survival.
The pin grew warm—hot enough to notice.
A faint red ribbon flickered at the edge of his vision.
Warning.
The knock came sudden and sharp.
BANG—BANG—BANG.
Merlina froze.
"That's… late."
Voss's voice slithered through the door.
"Water check, boy. I know you're awake. There's a leak—coming from your floor."
Zhang met Merlina's wide eyes.
This wasn't in the book.
Not yet.