The reply came sooner than Lin Xing expected.

The next morning, on the train, he pulled out his phone. A new unread in the notification bar. From that jumbled ID. Time: 3:47 AM. The carriage was packed with rush-hour commuters. He sidestepped a young man glued to short videos, thumb hovering over "unread" for a few seconds. 3:47. Had the other person stayed up waiting, or stumbled across it sleepless?

He tapped in. The message was short:

What game are you playing? Can you describe it? Don't be too specific. I want to confirm it's the same one.

Lin Xing slipped the phone back into his pocket. The train lurched; he gripped the handrail. Confirm. The other person was confirming. As cautious as him—no game name, no "disconnect" or "load back," just a probe. Forums were full of trolls and catfishers. Someone who asked like this had either really been through it, or was a seasoned scammer.

He took a deep breath. Outside, tunnel lights flickered past the windows. The same line as that night.

---

At the office, he hid in the stairwell. The fire door closed; the corridor lit only by green exit signs. He leaned against the wall and typed.

Handheld emulator. A pixel-style one. First stage is called Homeward.

Delete. Too specific? Was "Homeward" too specific? He typed again.

Handheld emulator. A pixel-style one. First stage is called Homeward. When you Game Over, there's a strange… experience.

He stared at the word "strange." How strange? Consciousness disconnecting, people around you not remembering, reality rewritten—those words would sound like fiction even to him. But the question was "confirm it's the same." If the other person had really been through it, these few words were enough.

Send. He watched "Delivered" all morning.

In the requirements review, his manager called on him. "Lin Xing, what do you think about this interaction flow?" He snapped out of it; his mind was full of that DM. "I'll… think about it." The manager frowned but said nothing. At lunch he sat alone at his desk, refreshing seven times. Still no reply.

He was distracted through the afternoon code review. Colleagues debated interface design; he stared at comments on screen, suddenly remembering the silhouette's words—You've come too. That word "too." Not just him. Not just the other person. How many more?

Just before leaving, his phone buzzed. New message.

Lin Xing was packing up; his hands stopped. He unlocked, tapped in.

Tomorrow 2 PM. Warm Light Fast Food, outside Exit 3 of Jiangwan Station. Second table by the window. Come alone. I'll be there first, with a coke, no ice. If you see someone sitting like that, it's me. Don't greet me first. Sit across from me, act natural.

Lin Xing stared at the screen. Jiangwan. Where he'd "died" once. The last train. The plastic cup. Game Over. Coincidence, or had the other person researched?

Why there?

He sent. Waited three minutes. Reply came.

Crowded. Public. And… there's a place nearby I think you'll want to see. I'll explain when we meet.

Lin Xing didn't ask more. He sent one character: Okay.

He closed the tab. Outside, dusk was falling; office lights switched on one by one. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd meet a stranger who might have experienced the same things—"disconnected," loaded back, discovered reality could be changed by the game.

He didn't know if they were male or female, how old, what they looked like. Didn't know if they were sincerely seeking help or setting a trap. The pothos on his desk drooped, unwatered for two weeks, like his mood. He grabbed his bag, swiped out, rode the elevator down. On the train he didn't open GoGBA. The game sat quietly in the list, like a ticking bomb.

But he'd go. From the moment he sent that DM, he'd known he would. Searching alone wouldn't yield answers. The cup. The notebook. Slots were limited. He needed to confirm—he wasn't the only one.