Lin Xing tucked the notebook into his pocket and left.

His roommate would be back at seven. He had to confirm one thing before then.

---

He went to the office. He'd used up his sick days; his supervisor had messaged him once on WeChat. On the subway he clutched his phone, didn't open GoGBA. The carriage was packed; he stared at the tunnel walls flashing past the windows, that line running through his head over and over.

Save Point 003. If you can see this, you've cleared Stage 2.

003. The same number as the stage he'd just finished. Not a coincidence. Some kind of—correspondence.

He got off the train, swiped out. The office was on the twelfth floor of an old building, AC humming, the spider plant at his desk hadn't been watered in two weeks, leaves drooping. Lin Xing turned on his computer and mechanically replied to a few emails. At lunch he took his takeout to the stairwell, pulled out the notebook.

Brown leather cover. Palm-sized. He'd read the words on the title page many times. He flipped to page two. Page three. All blank. The paper edges were yellowed, like it had sat for years. He held a corner up to the light—no water stains, no creases. As if it had never been opened.

Except the title page.

Lin Xing closed the notebook and stared at the fire escape diagram on the door. If this thing was like the cup—something that "appeared" in reality after clearing a stage—then where did it come from? The "person before" from the memo? Or the game itself?

He thought of the cup. His roommate had never asked. Lin Xing hadn't mentioned it either. When the cup turned into a notebook last night, his roommate was probably asleep. When he left this morning, the things on the table—

Lin Xing stopped.

Could his roommate have… never seen the cup at all?

He swallowed his rice. If the cup only "existed" for Lin Xing, if from his roommate's view the table had always been empty until this morning when a notebook appeared—no, that would be stranger. An old notebook appearing out of nowhere—how could his roommate not ask?

Unless. His roommate hadn't seen it either.

Lin Xing tossed his lunch box and went back to his desk. There was a requirements review in the afternoon; he drifted through two hours. The moment the workday ended, he shut down his computer and was the first one out.

---

The shared apartment. 6:40 PM. Roommate not back yet.

Lin Xing placed the notebook on the dining table—same spot as the cup yesterday. Then he went to his room, closed the door, left a crack.

6:52. A key turned. His roommate's footsteps. Bag down. Shoes off. Heading to the kitchen.

Lin Xing held his breath.

The footsteps stopped. A few seconds. Then—the faucet turned on. The kettle hummed. His roommate was making instant noodles.

No surprise. No "whose notebook is that." No knock on Lin Xing's door asking "did you leave this?"

Lin Xing waited until the boiling water settled, then pushed his door open. His roommate had his back to him, tearing open a seasoning packet in the kitchen. The dining table was at the far end of the living room, the notebook spread open there. From his roommate's angle, one turn of the head and he'd see it.

Lin Xing coughed. His roommate turned.

"You're back?" his roommate said.

"Yeah." Lin Xing's gaze went past him to the table. "That notebook—"

His roommate followed his eyes. Paused. "Oh, that's yours? It was there this morning, I thought you'd left it."

It was there this morning.

Lin Xing's throat tightened. "Did you… touch it?"

"Nah." His roommate poured the seasoning in. "Looks old, didn't want to move it. Why?"

"Nothing." Lin Xing walked over, picked up the notebook. "It's mine."

He went back to his room. Closed the door. Leaned against it, fingertips cold.

His roommate had seen it. Said "it was there this morning." So the thing—existed for his roommate too. It hadn't appeared out of nowhere in Lin Xing's mind. It was real. On the table. Like the cup.

But his roommate didn't know where it came from. He assumed "you left it." He didn't remember the cup from yesterday at all.

Lin Xing stuffed the notebook in a drawer and opened his laptop. He had to search differently.

---

His earlier search terms were too specific. "GoGBA Save Point," "save changes reality"—what would that find? Either nothing, or fiction. He needed something vaguer. More—hidden in corners.

He opened an old gaming forum. One of the biggest domestically, many sub-forums, posts sank fast. He clicked into "Emulators," sorted by newest. Spam. Resource requests. Compatibility complaints. Twenty pages, nothing.

He tried another forum. Smaller. Dedicated to retro handhelds. Few posts, could scan the front page. Still nothing.

He thought, clicked into "Paranormal" and "Urban Legends" sections. Some forums grouped that stuff together. He typed "game reality change." A heap of posts, titles like "I crossed over while gaming" or "my save came true," all obviously fabricated, replies full of haha.

Lin Xing closed a few tabs, leaned back. Maybe no one had ever posted. Maybe those who knew didn't dare. Maybe—

He changed approach. Don't search for the game. Search for the experience.

He typed: "play halfway suddenly disconnect wake up people around don't remember."

Enter.

First result. Some obscure forum. Post date: two weeks ago. Replies: 3. Title—

"Has anyone experienced suddenly 'dying' once while playing a game and then loading back?"

Lin Xing clicked. His mouse hand was shaking.

---

The poster's ID was a string of random characters. Blank avatar. The post wasn't long, paragraphs clear:

Not sure if this belongs here. Want to ask if anyone's had something similar.

I was playing a game on a handheld emulator recently. Got to some point, suddenly Game Over, and then—I don't know how to describe it—my own consciousness seemed to cut out for a few seconds. Everything went black, felt like I was floating. Then I suddenly woke up, found myself where I'd been a few seconds ago, everything in my hands unchanged. But the people around me acted like nothing had happened.

I've looked it up, couldn't find anything similar. Wondering if anyone knows what this is. Some kind of neurological response or…

Also. After clearing the stage I noticed some things in reality had changed. Small things. Not sure if I'm imagining it.

If anyone else has had this, DM me. Let's talk.

Don't leave details in the thread. I'm not sure how safe this is.

The last reply was two days ago. Some rando: "OP having an edgy phase?" The poster never returned.

Lin Xing stared at the screen. Thin sweat on his palms.

Game Over. Consciousness cut out for seconds. Woke up a few seconds earlier. People around didn't remember. Reality changed after clearing the stage.

Every word. A match. Lin Xing felt the hair on his neck stand up.

He scrolled down. Next to the poster's ID was a "Send DM" button. He moved the cursor over it. Stopped.

Don't leave details in the thread. I'm not sure how safe this is.

The poster knew to be careful. The poster was waiting. Waiting—for someone like Lin Xing.

Lin Xing clicked Send DM. The input box opened. He typed a few characters, deleted. Typed again. Deleted again.

Finally he sent just one line:

I've had it too. Can we talk?

Sent. The page showed "Delivered."

He stared at those words for a long time. Outside, car sounds. The apartment's walls were thin; he could hear his roommate slurping noodles in the living room.

Lin Xing closed the page. Didn't refresh. He didn't know if the other would reply. When.

But he knew—he wasn't the only one.