[Welcome to Yeming General Hospital]
Motion came before anything else.
Lin Yue felt it in his spine before he felt it anywhere else — a low, mechanical sway, the kind that belonged to wheels rather than footsteps. Something hard and cold pressed flat against his back. His wrists wouldn't move. Neither would his ankles.
He didn't open his eyes yet.
Assess first. Panic later, if at all.
Wrists — restrained, some kind of woven strap, not rope. Ankles — the same. Breathing — even, unobstructed, no mask over his face. Clothing — his own, unchanged, still the plain dark set he'd worn onto the departure platform. No hospital gown. No IV line he could feel.
Then, wheels.
Click. Click. Click.
Rhythmic. Unbroken. A wheel with a flat spot rolling over old tile, over and over, patient as a metronome.
Lin Yue opened his eyes.
