Ren woke up to the smell of burning paper.
He kept his eyes closed for a moment, cataloging the damage. His shoulder was a stiff, hot knot of pain, but the sharp, sickening agony of the dislocation was gone. Grandma's "old ways" worked, even if they felt like torture.
He opened his eyes.
The red paper talisman on the wall was gone. A faint smudge of ash stained the plaster where it had been.
Ren sat up slowly, guarding his right arm. The house was silent.
Downstairs, breakfast was waiting. A bowl of congee and a hard-boiled egg. No note. No Grandma. Just the food and the oppressive silence of a house that felt more like a bunker than a home.
Ren ate with his left hand. He checked his phone.
Mom: [Call Failed] Dad: [Call Failed]
The signal bars were empty. The "Fracture" wasn't just isolating him spiritually; it was cutting the wires to his old life one by one.
"School," Ren whispered to the empty kitchen. "Just go to school. Math doesn't care about ghosts."
He grabbed his bag, threw on his raincoat, and stepped out into the grey morning.
It was pouring again. The city was a wash of slate-grey clouds and wet asphalt.
Ren walked to the bus stop, keeping his head down. He practiced the rules Jian had drilled into him.
Don't look at shadows. Don't listen to whispers. Walk with purpose.
The bus stop was a small metal shelter with a cracked plastic bench. Usually, it was crowded with commuters. Today, because of the rain, it was empty.
Ren stepped under the shelter, shaking out his umbrella.
Then he froze.
It wasn't empty.
Sitting on the far end of the bench was a little girl. She looked about six years old, wearing a yellow raincoat and holding a bright pink backpack.
Ren's first instinct was relief. Just a kid.
Then he looked closer.
The rain wasn't hitting her. The drops were passing through her yellow coat, splashing onto the bench beneath her. And while the world around them was vibrant—green trees, red stop signs—the girl was desaturated. She was a greyscale image pasted into a color photograph.
Ren stopped breathing.
Rule #1: Ignore them.
Ren turned his body away. He stared intently at the bus schedule on the wall. The 8:05 is coming. Just wait for the 8:05.
Sniff.
The sound was wet and miserable.
Ren tightened his grip on his umbrella. Don't look. Don't look.
Sniff.
Ren's heart hammered against his ribs. It wasn't the screech of the Smoke Monkey. It wasn't the hungry whisper from his bedroom wall. It was just a child crying.
He risked a glance out of the corner of his eye.
The girl was looking down at her feet. One foot was clad in a small, white sneaker. The other was bare, her sock muddy and wet.
A few feet away, lying in a puddle near the curb, was the missing shoe.
She was crying because she couldn't reach it. The puddle was deep, and she was... stuck. Anchored to the bench by some invisible rule.
Ren looked at the bus down the street. It was two blocks away. He could just get on. He could leave.
She is dead, Jian's voice warned in his head. She is a trap.
Ren looked at the shoe. Then at the girl.
A strange sensation rose in his chest. It wasn't fear. And it wasn't exactly kindness.
It was annoyance.
It was the feeling of seeing a picture frame hanging crooked. It was the irritation of a system that wasn't working efficiently.
Order must be maintained, a cold voice in his mind whispered.
Ren didn't think. He stepped out from the shelter.
He walked over to the puddle. He didn't pick up the shoe—he wasn't crazy enough to touch a spirit object with his bare hands.
Instead, he used the tip of his umbrella.
He hooked the muddy white sneaker and slid it across the pavement. It skidded over the wet concrete and came to a stop right in front of the girl's bare foot.
Ren stepped back quickly, heart pounding.
The crying stopped.
The girl looked at the shoe. Then she looked up at Ren.
Her eyes were black—solid black, no whites—but they weren't scary. They were just... thankful.
She didn't speak. She slowly leaned forward and slid her foot into the shoe.
Click.
The sound was audible, like a lock snapping shut.
The girl stood up. She looked at Ren, placed her hands by her sides, and bowed. A deep, formal bow that looked far too old for a six-year-old.
Then, she burst into mist.
She didn't fade; she dispersed, like steam from a kettle, vanishing into the rain.
The heaviness in the air lifted instantly. The bus stop felt lighter. Even the rain seemed less oppressive.
Ren stood there, gripping his umbrella, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
The bus screeched to a halt in front of him. The doors hissed open.
"You getting on, kid?" the driver asked, looking impatient.
Ren looked at the empty bench. Then at the puddle where the shoe had been.
"Yeah," Ren whispered. "I'm getting on."
He climbed the steps, his mind racing.
Jian was right about the monsters. But he was wrong about one thing.
They weren't all hunting him. Some of them were just waiting for orders.