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There is falling.
There is the sound of wind tearing past his ears, too loud, too fast, like the world is screaming him away from itself. There is the brief, impossible thought that this is what freedom feels like — weightless, final, deafening—
And then there is nothing.
No body. No ground. No pain.
Just dark.
Time does not pass in the dark. Or maybe it does, but there is no one left to count it.
When sensation returns, it does so incorrectly.
There is pressure before there is form. Noise before meaning. A distant, vibrating roar that presses in from all sides, like something massive breathing around him. His body exists again before he does — muscles moving, lungs drawing air, legs moving forward.
He is not awake.
He is being held together.
The moment Nice steps onto the stage at the Hero X Tournament, the world inhales.
For a fraction of a second, there is silence — the kind that gathers itself, coiled and electric. Then it breaks.
Trust values spike. Cameras zoom. The crowd screams his name like it has never learned how to mourn, like grief is something that can be overwritten if enough people believe hard enough in a miracle.
Nice moves when he is told to move.
He stands beneath the lights like a perfect reconstruction, porcelain seams hidden beneath fabric and spectacle. The cracks in his body hum faintly, reacting to the tidal wave of belief pouring into him, but he does not react in turn.
He is not present enough to.
If Nice were more aware, he might have noticed Lin Ling on the platform opposite him — the way he’d gone completely still, the way his hands had clenched at his sides.
From the outside, Nice looks alive.
From the inside, there is only distance — a sense of watching himself from very far away, as if this body belongs to the idea of Nice rather than the person who once answered to the name.
He does not think I am back.
He doesn’t think anything at all.
They had dragged him back.
Not metaphorically. Not gently. Not with consent.
Later the headlines do not ask how he survived. They ask why anyone ever doubted him in the first place. The narrative rewrites itself overnight: Nice had never truly fallen; his death becomes a dramatic intermission, a necessary myth to deepen his legend.
A resurrection story sells better than a tragedy.
Nice is congratulated for surviving.
He is praised for his strength. His resilience. His return.
No one asks whether he remembers deciding to leave.
No one asks whether he wanted to come back.
Nice doesn’t remember leaving the stage.
He remembers the sound — the roar of the crowd collapsing into itself, trust values screaming upward, reality bending under the weight of belief. He remembers standing beneath the sun so bright it burned through his eyelids, his body moving perfectly even as his mind lagged somewhere behind.
And then—
Then he blinks.
Nice is standing.
That is the first thing he really knows, though he does not yet know where or why. His feet are planted on polished stone, legs locked straight like he’s been posed. His spine is perfectly aligned. His hands hang at his sides, fingers relaxed in the exact way he was taught to hold them for cameras.
He can feel his heart beating, but it doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.
Voices echo around him, distorted, like he’s underwater.
“…you can’t just parade him out there—”
“That’s exactly what he’s for.”
Nice blinks.
The room swims into focus in pieces: glass walls, a massive desk, the city skyline fractured by reflections. Shang De’s office. He knows this place. Or he did.
Lin Ling is there too.
Lin Ling looks wrong — tense in a way Nice has never seen before, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact. He’s wearing an outfit that is familiar but not. His fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles have gone pale.
Shang De sits behind the desk, immaculate as ever, smiling like nothing in the world is out of place.
“He’s alive,” Lin Ling says. His voice shakes, but not with fear. With fury. “You don’t get to pretend he’s just a doll for you to use.”
Alive.
The word feels theoretical.
“That’s the thing of it,” Shang De continues calmly. “He’s not quite there yet. He just needs a bit more fear and belief. Once the public sees him again, once their trust reasserts itself he’ll come back to—”
“You got what you wanted,” Lin Ling says, voice tight with barely contained rage. “I’m not letting you parade him any further today.”
Shang De leans back in his chair, unbothered. Amused, even.
“You misunderstand,” he says smoothly. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
Something cold settles in Nice’s chest at Shang De’s tone.
Nice inhales sharply.
The air feels real.
Too real.
His heart is pounding hard enough that the cracks glow faintly, heat spidering across his chest. He lifts a trembling hand, presses it over his sternum, and for the first time since Smile’s death he thinks —
I’m here.
The thought lands with weight.
Not borrowed. Not performed.
Real.
Lin Ling turns toward him then. “Nice?”
The sound of his name lands somewhere deep, reverberating. It takes effort — enormous, grinding effort — to shift his gaze.
Lin Ling’s eyes widen.
“Nice,” he says again, softer now. “Can you hear me?”
Nice opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
His throat works. His lungs draw in air automatically, like his body remembers how even if he doesn’t. The cracks along his chest glow faintly beneath his suit, reacting to something — stress, maybe, or proximity.
Nice feels his knees threaten to buckle — not from weakness, but from dissonance. His body wants to move. His mind lags behind, stuck somewhere between the fall and the dark. Lin Ling’s hand is there instantly, gripping his arm, grounding him before he can fall again.
Nice looks up.
Shang De’s eyes finally meet his — sharp, assessing, proprietary.
And something in Nice recoils.
“Welcome back,” Shang De says. “You made quite an impression.”
Slowly, he turns his head as if avoiding Shang De’s words.
He meets Lin Ling’s soft brown eyes instead and the new hero’s breath catches like he’s been punched in the chest.
Nice opens his mouth.
This time, words come out.
“Lin…Ling?”
Lin Ling’s grip tightens fractionally around his arm.
“You’re—” Lin Ling swallows. “You’re here.”
Nice nods faintly. “I…think so.”
That’s when Shang De’s smile sharpens.
“Well,” he says, standing. “Looks like the audience did its job. See? I told you belief would finish the process.”
Lin Ling doesn’t look away from Nice. His grip tightens.
“We’re leaving.”
Shang De laughs. “You’re emotional. That’s understandable. But you’re forgetting something.”
He taps a tablet on his desk. A contract scrolls into view.
“I own Nice’s image, his appearances, his recovery schedule,” Shang De says calmly. “And, if you remember, Lin Ling, I own you too.”
Nice’s stomach drops.
“You can’t hide him from me,” Shang De continues. “Not forever. He belongs to the system. And so do you.”
Lin Ling’s jaw clenches.
“Then you’ll have to come find us,” he says.
And before Shang De can respond, Lin Ling pulls Nice toward the door.
Nice stumbles, instinctively grabbing onto Lin Ling’s sleeve.
They leave to the sound of Shang De’s voice following them like a curse.
“Enjoy your reunion, I’ll be calling you back soon.” Shang De calls.
Neither of them speaks.
Nice sits exactly where Lin Ling places him, hands folded loosely in his lap, gaze unfocused. The motion of the car rocks him gently, but he doesn’t react to it. Lin Ling watches the reflection of Nice’s face in the window instead of looking at him directly, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, like any sudden movement might break whatever fragile equilibrium is holding.
The ride stretches on, unmarked by words.
When they reach the Hero Tower, Lin Ling exits first, one steadying hand hovering at Nice’s back as they move through security and up the elevator.
Still, nothing is said.
Only when they reach Lin Ling’s floor does the world finally let go of them.
The doors slide shut. The noise falls away. The tower hum dims to a distant echo.
The room is dark except for the sunlight slipping through the curtains, light fractured across Nice’s skin the same way it fractures across his chest — hairline cracks that never quite close. They pulse faintly when he breathes, like the world stitched him back together in a hurry and forgot to finish the job
Nice barely has time to look around before his legs truly give out.
Lin Ling catches him and guides him carefully to the couch, easing him down until he’s seated. Nice’s body trembles now — not violently, but in a constant, low hum, as if he’s been vibrating since the fall and has only just realized it.
Lin Ling instinctively pulls back, then almost immediately reaches for him again, like it hurts to be even an inch away. For a moment, he just stands there, hands hovering at Nice’s shoulders, unsure whether to touch or retreat, like he’s afraid to touch him too hard — or not at all.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, are you—”
The question dies halfway out of his mouth.
Lin Ling exhales sharply and tries again. “Are you okay? I mean—” A brittle laugh slips out of him. “That’s a stupid question. Of course you’re not okay.”
His hands finally land, gentle but searching, like he’s checking Nice piece by piece for something he might have missed.
“Can you breathe?” Lin Ling asks quickly. “Does anything hurt? The cracks— are they— are they stable? Shang De said the fear would hold but I don’t trust a single word he—”
He cuts himself off before starting again the words coming out faster.
“I should have realized what he was doing. I should’ve checked on your body. But it just hurt to look and then what happened with Moon and I-I should’ve—” He swallows. “I should have stopped them from putting you back on a stage like that.”
Nice shifts slightly, overwhelmed, and Lin Ling immediately stills.
“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I’m— just tell me if you need anything. Water. Space. I can— I can call someone, I can—”
He breaks off, chest heaving.
Then Nice speaks.
“Lin Ling.”
Just his name. Quiet. Present.
Lin Ling freezes like he’s been physically stopped. For a second, he can’t look at Nice at all. When he finally does, his composure fractures completely.
“I’m sorry,” Nice murmurs automatically. “I didn’t mean to—”
Lin Ling drops to his knees in front of Nice, the movement sudden and unguarded, hands gripping Nice’s thighs like he needs proof that he’s solid, that he isn’t about to vanish again.
“You fell,” Lin Ling says hoarsely. “You fell and I watched it happen.”
Nice blinks. “You were there?”
Lin Ling lets out a broken laugh. “Yeah. I was there. It happened too quick. I tried to reach out. Tried to call out. I was—” His voice cracks. “I was too late.”
The words spill out now, months of restraint collapsing all at once.
“I loved you,” Lin Ling says. “I love you. And I knew something was wrong, and I told myself you were just tired, that the pressure would ease, that we’d survive it.”
His hands shake. “And then you jumped.”
Nice stares at him, stunned.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know it was you,” Nice whispers.
Lin Ling freezes.
“I mean,” Nice rushes on, panic creeping in, “I knew someone was there. A person. A voice. But it didn’t feel real. None of it did. I wasn’t—” He presses a hand to his temple. “I wasn’t in my body. I’d been gone for a long time already.”
Lin Ling’s expression crumples — grief twisting into something raw and aching.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Nice…”
Nice’s gaze drops to his hands.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I just… didn’t think anyone could reach me anymore.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy but not empty.
Then Nice laughs — sharp, hysterical, wrong.
“And look at me now.”
He gestures to his chest, his arms, the faint purple glow of the cracks shinning in the dim light.
“They fixed me just enough to use me again,” he says. “And now everyone can see it. I’m not perfect anymore. I’m—” His voice breaks. “I’m ugly.”
Lin Ling moves without thinking.
He reaches up, cradling Nice’s face in his hands like he’s holding something fragile and precious, something he’s never willing to let go of.
“Don’t,” Lin Ling murmurs, voice low, trembling. “Don’t say that.”
Nice’s breathing quickens. “My whole image was perfection. Clean. Untouched. And now my outside finally matches what’s wrong inside me.”
Lin Ling’s thumb brushes the fine crack that runs beneath Nice’s eye, warm against the cool, fragile surface. Up close, the fracture isn’t ugly. It’s delicate — hair-thin, catching the light like a seam in porcelain repaired with gold. Evidence of survival, not failure.
Lin Ling leans closer, nose nearly brushing the skin, as if breathing him in could somehow take away the ache. “You’re still you,” he whispers, almost to himself, voice thick with love he can barely contain.
Then, slowly, reverently, he presses a kiss over the crack on Nice’s cheek.
Nice inhales sharply.
The kiss is soft, careful, unhurried — a promise being kept. Lin Ling lingers at the corner of his eye next, then traces the fine line along his cheekbone with gentle kisses. Each one is a quiet insistence: I see you. I love you. You’re here. You’re mine.
When he finally draws back, Nice’s breath is unsteady, eyes glassy.
Lin Ling allows himself a moment to gaze at Nice before he leans down, following the fractures across his neck, over the collarbone. One kiss. Then another. Then another, slow and unhurried, each lingering long enough for warmth to sink into the cold, broken surface.
He moves to the crack along Nice’s upper arm, following it carefully with his lips, leaving soft, lingering kisses that seem to say: This too, I love. Every part of you.
He traces the fractures with his lips like he’s learning Nice all over again — not as a hero, not as an icon, not as a perfect image, but as the person who is still here, still breathing, still alive, still worth every ounce of love he has to give.
Then his hands slide gently to Nice’s hips, where the fractures run long and delicate. Lin Ling maps them with his fingertips first, memorizing the pattern, before pressing soft kisses along each line, moving slowly downwards.
Once he reaches the lowest crack, Lin Ling lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet Nice’s, then leans back up toward the center of his chest. He presses a long, steady kiss over the crack on his chest, cradling him there, letting every other kiss and line he traced flow back into this single point of warmth and safety.
“You’re beautiful,” Lin Ling whispers.
Nice’s hands clutch at him, desperate. “Even like this?”
“Especially like this.”
He lingers there, breathing him in. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, softly, painfully. “Not for a second. Not when you fell. Not when they told me you were gone. Not when they brought you back… broken.”
Lin Ling rests his forehead against Nice’s chest, listening to the uneven rhythm beneath the damage.
“Because you don’t have to be fixed to be loved,” he says. “Because even if they drag you onto the stage again, even if the world keeps taking pieces of you—”
He lifts his eyes to meet Nice’s, voice cracking slightly, heavy with emotion. “—you’re still perfect to me. Still beautiful. Still… Nice.”
Tears spill freely now, streaking down cheeks that Lin Ling presses his own against.
Nice shakes his head, forehead against Lin Ling’s. “I’m still scared,” he admits. “I still feel wrong. What if I fall apart again?”
Lin Ling wraps him in his arms, firm, grounding, every ounce of love in his hold. “Then I’ll be here until that day. And if it comes — I’ll still love you. Always.” He pauses, then adds gently, “And… if you’ll allow me, I want to be the one that puts you back together again then.”
He lets the words linger, heavy and certain, before speaking again. “You don’t have to be okay tonight.”
Lin Ling tightens his arms around him, protectively, soothingly. “You’re here,” he murmurs. “And I’m here. And that’s enough for now.”
Nice exhales, collapsing fully into Lin Ling’s hold, letting himself be cradled at last.
For the first time since waking, the cracks stop burning. The warmth of Lin Ling’s love seeps in, slow, patient, insistent — as if to remind him that even broken, he is still whole to someone who will never let him go again.