Since they had to get off the train earlier than expected, Lyra Smith, who had already been suffering from insomnia for days, didn't sleep at all that night. Her mental state had almost reached its breaking point.
On top of that, the jet lag only added to the chaos of her daily routine.
At midnight, Dylan Lee came into the compartment and lifted Lyra from her bed. Dazed and confused, she didn't even resist, and woodenly let him comb her hair and wipe her face like a puppet on strings.
It wasn't until his hand reached the collar of her shirt that Lyra finally reacted, slapping away his hand with a cold, hoarse voice: "Don't touch me!"
"I thought you wouldn't say a word to me from today on," said Dylan, looking down at the back of his hand, slapped red by Lyra, but not feeling any pain. Instead, he felt pain in his heart for her.
Lyra said, "I thought you could tell that I'm dying."
Dylan frowned slightly, scolding, "Don't talk like that. It's bad luck."
