Lin Xing didn't go to work the next day.

He sent his supervisor a message saying he was unwell and needed a day off. The supervisor replied instantly with "Rest well" and a smiley face. He stared at that emoji for a few seconds, then closed WeChat.

Seven in the morning. His roommate left for work, the door clicking shut. Lin Xing listened to the footsteps fade before stepping out of his room.

The cup was still on the dining table.

He hadn't touched it last night. Hadn't touched it this morning either. It sat in the center of the table, mouth up, a faint ring of moisture at the base—left from yesterday. His roommate hadn't asked about it. Hadn't put it away. As if it had always belonged there.

Lin Xing picked up the cup and turned it over to check the bottom. Convenience store logo. Production date two weeks ago. Exactly like the one in his memory.

He set it back in place and opened his laptop.

---

GoGBA's install directory was on his phone, but he had a data cable. He connected it, opened the file manager, found the app data folder, and dug layer by layer.

Game library path. ROM storage location.

Save Point had a .gba extension. File size: 2.3 MB. Creation date showed three days ago—matching when he'd first seen it in the list. But he hadn't downloaded anything three days ago.

Lin Xing pulled up his browser download history. Shopping app cache. Cloud sync records. Nothing.

This ROM had appeared out of nowhere.

He checked GoGBA's update log. The latest update was a week ago, fixing a few compatibility bugs. No mention of "preinstalled games" or "mystery ROMs." No discussion on the official forum either.

Lin Xing leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen.

Out of nowhere. No one downloaded it. No one uploaded it. It just lay in the list, like a card waiting to be drawn.

He thought of the silhouette's words.

You came too, huh.

"Too."

He opened a search engine and typed "GoGBA Save Point mystery game." The results were all irrelevant—forum spam, an article about GBA classics, generic discussions of the save point concept. No one mentioned a ROM called Save Point. No one described the bizarre experience of "what you save becomes real."

Lin Xing tried different keywords. "Save changes reality." Nothing but fiction, films, philosophy. No games. No GoGBA.

He paused, then typed "Game Over died revival three seconds."

The first result was a post on an overseas forum, title in English. He clicked in and skimmed the machine translation—people discussing "near-death experiences," feeling like time had rewound a few seconds. Replies suggested brain self-preservation, memory glitches. No games. No saves.

Lin Xing closed the tab.

Either very few people knew, too few to leave a trace online. Or someone had deliberately erased it.

He glanced at his phone. GoGBA's icon sat quietly on the home screen. He hesitated a few seconds, didn't tap it.

---

That afternoon, Lin Xing went to a convenience store.

Not the same one. He'd deliberately taken a detour to one near the office. The girl at the register was on her phone. He bought a bottle of water and a pack of candy—the same mint flavor the office worker had given him. After paying, he stood by the entrance, tore open the pack, and popped one in his mouth.

Sweet. Cool. Same taste as last night.

Clutching the wrapper, he suddenly thought of the cup. Convenience store coffee. The one he'd had last night was from the store near the subway station, not this one. Same logo, but—

He pulled out his phone and checked the map. The convenience store near the station was two stops from his apartment. If he went there tonight, bought another cup, drank it, threw it away, then went home and opened Save Point—

What would happen?

Would another cup reappear?

Lin Xing stuffed the wrapper in his pocket and walked toward the station. He wasn't going to test it. Not yet. He just wanted to walk. To clear his head.

His head didn't clear.

Passing a secondhand bookstore, he wandered in on impulse. The shop was tiny, books stacked to the ceiling, aisle wide enough for one person. The owner was an old man in reading glasses, hunched behind the counter with a newspaper, not looking up.

Lin Xing browsed the shelves. Game magazines. Old strategy guides. Yellowed publications from the handheld era. He stopped at the "gaming" section and pulled out a book.

The cover was faded. A strategy guide for some classic RPG, published over a decade ago. He flipped through and suddenly saw a word.

Save point.

Not a game title. A line in the guide: "Players will encounter a forced battle here. Recommend saving at the save point beforehand."

Lin Xing stared at those three characters for a long time.

Save point. The most mundane game term. Every player had seen it countless times. No one would find it strange.

But when it became a game's name, when it connected to "what you save becomes real"—

He closed the book, put it back. Left the store. The sky was dimming. He walked to the station, swiped in, boarded Line 3.

Same line as last night. Same route—no, it was still evening, the carriage much more crowded. He gripped the handrail, watching the tunnel walls flash past.

Next stop, Jiangwan.

Where he had "died" last night.

Lin Xing didn't get off. He rode two more stops, alighted near his apartment. On his way out, he instinctively glanced at the trash bin.

Empty. freshly cleaned. Nothing to see.

He looked away and walked home. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out—a message from his supervisor asking if he could come tomorrow, there was a deadline to meet.

Lin Xing replied "Yes." Then pocketed the phone.

He'd play another round tonight.

---

Eleven at night. His roommate's door was closed, light on. Lin Xing locked his own door and sat on the edge of his bed.

Phone. GoGBA. Save Point.

He chose continue game.

The screen loaded. Pixel town. Where he'd cleared last time—the tower entrance. The figure stood there, motionless. Lin Xing pressed the D-pad. The figure walked into the tower.

Inside was a spiraling staircase. Pixel-brick walls, a small window every few steps letting in gray-blue light. The figure climbed. First floor. Second. Third.

No enemies. No traps. Just endless stairs.

Lin Xing climbed for about five minutes—five in-game minutes; he wasn't sure how long in reality. The stairs finally ended. A door. Slightly ajar, light inside.

The figure pushed through.

Stage 2 · The Tower.

The scene changed. A circular room. A table in the center with a—monitor? No, a handheld. Pixel-style handheld, screen lit, showing a game on pause.

Another silhouette stood by the table.

Same black outline as the first stage. No features. But this time it wasn't at the door—it stood by the table, head lowered as if watching the handheld screen.

Lin Xing's figure approached. The silhouette looked up.

A dialog box appeared.

You made it here too.

The one before you came as well.

They left something. Want to see?

The one before.

Lin Xing's thumb hovered on the screen. Before—who? The silhouette from stage one? Another player?

He chose "Yes." The dialog disappeared. The silhouette stepped aside, revealing the handheld. The figure walked up. The screen zoomed. Pixel handheld display filled the view.

It was a memo. Pixel font, white text, line by line:

If you can see this, you're not the first.

This game changes reality. Use it wisely.

Slots are limited. When they're gone, they're gone.

—Someone like you

Lin Xing stared at that last line.

Someone like you.

Someone had been here. Someone had cleared it. Someone had left a warning. And then? What happened to that person? What happens when the slots run out?

The memo said no more. The view zoomed out. The figure exited. The silhouette still stood there, silent. Lin Xing steered the figure toward the door on the far side of the room.

He pushed through. White flash.

Stage 2 · The Tower — Complete

Lin Xing set down his phone.

He didn't exit immediately. He sat on the bed, staring at "Complete," his head full of that warning.

Slots are limited. When they're gone, they're gone.

He only had two left. The first death had used one. If he used another overwrite—or experienced another Game Over load-back—what then? The memo didn't say. He could only guess.

He checked the time. 12:13 AM.

From opening the game to now, about an hour. Same as last time. Felt like barely fifteen minutes.

Lin Xing exited, turned off the phone. Lay down. The crack in the ceiling was invisible in the dark, but he knew it was there. Twenty-three centimeters. Corner to ceiling lamp.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd figure out who "the one before" was. And—when the silhouette said "left something," was there more than the memo?

---

The next morning, Lin Xing was woken by a noise.

In the living room. Something had fallen. He sat up groggily, checked his phone—7:20 AM. His roommate should have left.

He threw on a jacket and pushed open the door.

The plastic cup was gone from the dining table.

In its place was a notebook.

Lin Xing's steps froze. Brown leather cover, palm-sized, lying open in the center of the table. Yellowed pages, like something dug from an old trunk. Morning light leaked through the curtains, landing on the title page.

He walked over. His fingertip touched the cover. Cool. As if it had sat there a long time.

He opened it.

On the title page was a line of handwritten text, the ink faded to light brown:

Save Point 003. If you can see this, you've cleared stage two.

Don't ask why. Just keep playing.

Lin Xing turned the page. Blank. Flipped further. All blank.

Only the title page had text. Just that one line.

He stared at "Save Point 003," fingertips cold. 003. Exactly the same number as the stage he'd just cleared. The cup had vanished; the notebook had appeared—same logic as the plastic cup materializing after stage one.

Someone had cleared it before him. Someone had left this. Someone had crossed the boundary between game and reality, passed these words into his hands.

This wasn't coincidence.

Who had left it?