"Who left this box on my coffee table?" I snapped. Light answered me. It wasn't a bulb, not the yellow kitchen light that drifts through my blinds. It was clean and white and all edges, and it poured out like water from a broken faucet. The box sat open and the light climbed the back of my hand. "That's not funny," I said to the empty sofa. The light touched my palm. The skin went cold like dipping into a sink of ice. The bracelet inside the box hummed. It was a thin band, black like burned thread, not mine and not something anyone sensible should own. It started to ring—soft, like a phone in another room—then louder. My phone didn't buzz. The sound came from the bracelet on the velvet, or from the box itself, or from somewhere between my ribs. "No," I told it. "I'm not falling for it." My apartment smelled like cheap coffee and old takeout. The TV was off. I paused because people in thrillers always turned away, and that was when things got worse. A whisper threaded through the room, right next to my ear. It said a name. "Qu Yuan." I straightened. The whisper wasn't a rumor. It used my name wrong—the old sound from when I was a kid and my grandmother called me something like "little stubborn," but exact. Close enough to make my stomach drop. "That's my name," I said, mostly