The wheels of Xing Yu's car screeched as they tore past the last stretch of twisted road, bumping and groaning over fractured asphalt. The outskirts were quieter—no screaming, no blasts—just a haunting silence as nature began reclaiming the earth with wind and overgrowth. But even this quiet didn't ease the storm inside him.
He was scanning for the orchard—any orchard—when he caught something odd on the side of the road.
A silver car, slid halfway into the ditch, its front door wide open. Behind it, an old man was crouched down, fumbling with the rear wheel. His movements were slow, trembling. A few meters behind him, partially camouflaged in dust and low fog, was something else—gray, slick, moving.
Grayling.
Xing Yu's heart thudded violently. His instincts screamed at him to look away, to keep driving.
And for a second, he did.
But something in him tugged at his gut, hard. A voice, quiet but firm, echoed in his head—"Look again."
He glanced into the rearview mirror.
