Gao Lin's fingertips were centimeters from the gap.
The air there was not just cold. It was hungry. It felt like a vacuum, pulling at the heat of his skin, drawing the very breath from his lungs.
"There you are," the voice whispered.
It was no longer a plea. It was a recognition. It sounded like a secret shared between two people who had known each other for a lifetime, a tone of intimate, terrifying familiarity. It didn't sound like it was coming from inside the coffin anymore; it sounded like it was vibrating inside Gao Lin's own skull.
Lin Yue stood several paces back. He did not move. He did not call out. He watched Gao Lin's shoulder blades tense, the way the man's breathing had become shallow, erratic.
Lin Yue's mind flickered to the rule. Do not respond to voices from the coffin.
He had seen what happened when players asked questions. He had seen Zhang Wei's ashes. He had seen the fading silhouette of Liu Fang. He knew the cost of curiosity in this hall.
