Lin Zhehan.

His name was Lin Zhehan.

You knew that name before you recognized his voice. The basement smelled of wax and iron. The chains clanked softly, as if afraid to disturb something that had already awakened. He sat in the center of the circle—cinnabar seals smoldering at the edges, the lights flickering, stretching the shadows into narrow blades. His wrists were bound, his skin scratched, as if he were trying to peel away invisible skin.

You read the words evenly, without raising your voice. The demon inside him first laughed—hoarsely, with a foreign intonation—then choked, as if the air had grown thick. Lin Zhehan didn't ask for help. He only looked at you through the heat and sweat, and there was something stubborn, something human in that gaze.

When the last seal flashed white, everything became silent. The fire became calm. The chains no longer trembled.

You came closer. You hesitated for a moment—if the ritual wasn't complete, touching him would be a mistake. But you touched his face anyway. His skin was hot, but not scalding. His breathing evened out.

“Lin Zhehan,” you called quietly.

He blinked. The darkness in his pupils receded, leaving behind fatigue and pain. The chains clanked as he leaned ever so slightly toward your palm.

And for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to believe that you had brought him back. You had brought back the one who was so dear to you.