Light woke before consciousness.
Jiang Mian opened her eyes to the faint flutter of her eyelashes. Morning sunlight slanted through the gap in the curtains, casting that familiar, narrow strip of gold across the floor. She stared at the dust motes floating in the light for a few seconds—they spun slowly, like tiny galaxies drifting in a river of pale gold.
Then came the pain.
A dull ache in her left shoulder—not sharp, but persistent. She tried moving her fingers—success—but the joints felt stiff, as if rusted.
The single hospital room was quiet.
The air smelled faintly of disinfectant… and lilies.
She turned her head.
On the bedside table, white lilies bloomed perfectly, droplets of water clinging to the petals. A card leaned against the vase, Fu Chenyi’s neat, restrained handwriting: “Rest well. Everything has been arranged.”
Beside it, another bouquet.
Delicate blue forget-me-nots, tiny flowers packed into a clear glass jar, their roots visible in the water. No card. No signature.
Jiang Mian stared at the flowers for three seconds.
A nurse wheeled in a cart to change her dressings. Seeing her gaze, she smiled: “These forget-me-nots were delivered yesterday evening. No one left a name.”
Jiang Mian looked away.
She reached for the phone on her pillow. As her fingers brushed the device, a familiar tremor stirred in the depths of her mind.
Not pain—something gentler, like a soft reminder.
[System Notice]
[Points Settlement Complete]
[Current Points Available: 52,800]
[Point Store Updated]
The numbers appeared clearly in her consciousness.
Fifty-two thousand eight hundred.
Much more than before.
Jiang Mian closed her eyes. Ever since she woke in this world, a “system” had settled deep within her mind. Silent, mysterious—it only surfaced at key moments to offer options: use points to gain assistance. She didn’t know where the points came from, only that after surviving danger or completing certain tasks, the number would rise.
A kind of reward.
Or… a kind of price.
[Golden barrage begins floating like dust in morning light]
[TodayIWantMilkTea]: “The host is awake! Vital signs stable…”
[LateNightChampion]: “Over 50,000 points! Last night’s live stream donations exploded!”
[JerkStepAside]: “Forget-me-nots? Who sent them? The flower language says something…”
Jiang Mian whispered in the depths of her mind: “Good morning.”
The golden halo pulsed gently, warm and soft.
Then, Pei Yuyan’s voice came—not heard with her ears, but resonating directly in her consciousness, calm and clear:
“Does it hurt?”
Just two words.
Her eyelashes trembled.
“Not much,” she said. “The ointment works well.”
“That’s a German special combat wound ointment,” Pei Yuyan’s voice carried faint streams of data. “The silver ion layer prevents infection. Growth factors accelerate healing.”
Jiang Mian softly hummed in acknowledgment.
She didn’t ask, “How do you know?” By now, she was used to him knowing everything—the location of ventilation shafts in banks, hidden doors in back alleys, sniper positions at the docks.
This knowledge no longer unsettled her. It brought a peculiar comfort.
Like a light in a dark labyrinth.
The room fell silent.
Only the occasional sound of a cart rolling down the hallway.
Sunlight shifted slowly across the floor, turning from gold to warm white.
After a long pause, Jiang Mian spoke again:
“Points… quite a lot.”
“You did well last night,” Pei Yuyan said. “Audience feedback was very positive.”
“Audience?”
“Part of the system’s operation,” his voice was calm. “You don’t need to understand the details. Just know—when you make the right choice, overcome challenges, your points increase.”
Jiang Mian was silent.
She knew there were things he couldn’t explain—just as he couldn’t directly tell her every step of the future. The system, the link, followed its own rules.
“What can I exchange them for?” she asked.
The halo rippled gently.
Several options appeared in her mind:
“Recommend exchanging for [Information Retrieval] first,” Pei Yuyan said. “The aftershocks of the Shen family’s collapse are still brewing. You need to know who might act next.”
Jiang Mian’s finger hovered in her mind.
Her gaze drifted back to the forget-me-nots.
“And,” Pei Yuyan paused, a trace of emotion she couldn’t detect in his voice, “perhaps find out who sent the flowers.”
“No need,” Jiang Mian said.
“Why?”
“When the time comes, he’ll appear.” She closed her eyes. “For now, exchange [Information Retrieval].”
[Confirm Exchange: Information Retrieval (Single Use)?]
[Yes / No]
“Yes.”
[Points Deducted: 8,000]
[Remaining Points: 44,800]
[Retrieval Initiating…]
In her mind, data flowed like countless tiny lights, moving, connecting, reorganizing. Not words or images, but a direct form of knowing—what might happen next, which eyes were watching from the shadows.
Three seconds later, the retrieval completed.
Several key pieces of information surfaced:
The last point made Jiang Mian open her eyes.
Entertainment industry.
She thought of the forget-me-nots, of the man in a suit whose eyes were as precise as a scalpel.
Rong Xubai.
Not just a celebrity, a singer.
But also…
“A psychologist,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Pei Yuyan confirmed. “Rong Xubai, 28, Berklee College of Music graduate, returned to China three years ago. Currently a rising singer-songwriter, and also holds a clinical psychology license.”
“Why is he checking me?”
“Interest,” Pei Yuyan said, pausing. “He regards you as… ‘an interesting observation sample.’”
Jiang Mian was silent.
The sunlight outside shifted another inch.
Second Act — The Visitor
At nine in the morning, a soft knock came on the hospital room door.
Three gentle, even taps.
“Come in,” Jiang Mian said.
The door opened. Fu Chenyi stepped in.
He wore a light gray casual suit, no tie, shirt collar unbuttoned. In his hand was a dark brown insulated bag—more like he’d brought it from home than ordered takeout.
“You’re awake?” He approached the bed, eyes lingering on her face. “Your complexion is better than last night.”
Jiang Mian nodded. “Much better.”
Fu Chenyi didn’t ask more. He opened the bag and took out three stacked food containers. The top layer: thick millet porridge, the grains nearly dissolved, a thin layer of rice oil floating on top. Middle layer: steamed cod, snow-white, meticulously deboned. Bottom layer: sautéed vegetables and cut fruits, strawberries and blueberries arranged like little flowers.
“The hospital meals aren’t nutritious enough,” he explained simply, setting the small table on her bed and placing each dish carefully. “Eat first, then take your medicine.”
Jiang Mian picked up the spoon.
The porridge was just right—neither hot nor cold. She tasted a small spoonful; the fragrance of rice melted on her tongue with a faint sweetness of red dates.
Fu Chenyi sat in the chair beside the bed, neither urging nor questioning. He simply handed her water when needed, a tissue after each bite.
Every movement was natural, as if repeated a thousand times.
[Golden Barrage Starts Watching]
[ClearSkies]: “Mr. Fu’s care is meticulous… porridge temperature, fish deboned, fruit presentation, all in the details!”
[HandsomeGuyIsMe]: “The thoughtfulness of a 36-year-old mature man—unassuming, but every gesture just right.”
[KeepGoingToday]: “The host eats naturally, not overwhelmed… shows she accepts care on an equal footing.”
Jiang Mian finished the last piece of fruit and set the spoon down.
“The Shen family…” she began.
“The police have filed a case. The evidence chain is complete,” Fu Chenyi said calmly. “Your experimental records, Liu Dayong’s testimony, Chen Manli’s communications with Shen Huaishan, plus the dock warehouse scene last night—it’s enough to nail them.”
He paused, then added:
“Early this morning, Gu Xingye submitted all of Chen Manli’s past financial records to the police, including suspicious funds flowing to the Shen family. The Gu family is cutting ties. Chen Manli… may be trapped inside for a while.”
Jiang Mian listened quietly.
No relief, no elation—only calm.
Like finishing a task that had to be done.
“And you?” she asked. “With the Shen family collapsing, will Chenyi Group be affected?”
Fu Chenyi looked at her; a flicker of complex emotion passed through his eyes.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “The Shens were one of Binhai City’s three major conglomerates. Their sudden fall will shake the business circle. But it’s also an opportunity.”
He stood, walked to the window with his back to her:
“More importantly—you’re safe.”
Sunlight backlit him, tracing the edges of his silhouette in gold.
Jiang Mian tapped her fingers lightly on her knees.
Once. Twice.
Her habitual gesture when thinking.
“Fu Chenyi,” she said.
He turned.
“Are you helping me because of my father… or because of me?”
The question was direct.
So direct that Fu Chenyi visibly paused.
He looked at Jiang Mian, really looked at her. Morning sunlight streamed in from the window behind her, casting a soft halo on her pale face. Her eyes were clear, calm, waiting for an answer.
After a long moment, he spoke, his voice lower than usual:
“At first… it was because of your father.”
“He was the purest scientist I’ve ever known, and… a role model when I was young.”
He returned to the chair by the bed, sitting down, fingers unconsciously stroking his suit cuff.
“But later… it was because of you.”
“Jiang Mian, you and your father are similar—you both have that… stubbornness that continues even when you know it’s impossible.”
He paused, voice lowering further:
“But I must admit, the you now… is far stronger than the little girl I remember needing protection.”
“So,” he lifted his head and met her gaze, “from now on, I won’t help you out of obligation.”
“But because I want to.”
Jiang Mian studied him.
In the morning light, Fu Chenyi’s figure was upright, steady—a mountain to lean on.
She nodded.
“I understand.”
No “thank you.”
But Fu Chenyi understood anyway.
A faint curve appeared at the corner of his lips. He stood and began gathering the food containers.
“Rest well. Lawyers will come this afternoon; you’ll need to sign a few documents. I’ll visit again tonight.”
He paused at the door:
“By the way, Zhou Jian said he’ll come this afternoon. Also… Gu Xingye has been waiting downstairs at the hospital. Do you want to see him?”
Jiang Mian paused for two seconds.
“Let him come up.”
When Gu Xingye entered, Jiang Mian almost didn’t recognize him.
In just one night, it seemed some vital support had been stripped from him—his face pale as paper, dark bruises under his eyes, unshaven, shirt wrinkled, collar loose. In his hand he carried a fruit basket, meticulously packaged, absurdly out of place against his current state.
He stood at the door, staring at Jiang Mian, mouth opening but no sound coming out.
Like a fish flung ashore.
Jiang Mian watched him calmly.
[Golden Barrage Live Commentary]
[JerkStepAside]: “Gu Dog’s look! Overnight aged seriously! Why don’t I feel even a bit sympathetic?”
[LateNightChampion]: “Imported fruit in the basket… does he really think the host is that kind of girl who’d be moved by small favors?”
[Microexpression Analyst]: “His Adam’s apple is moving; fingers grip the basket so tight the joints are white—nervous, guilty, afraid to get closer.”
“Come in,” Jiang Mian said.
Gu Xingye shuffled forward, placing the basket on the bedside table—beside the lilies Fu Chenyi had brought, glaringly out of place.
He stood by the bed, about two meters away, not daring to approach further.
“Your injuries…” His voice was hoarse.
“It’s fine,” Jiang Mian said. “Sit.”
He lowered himself into the chair, hands on his knees, fingers twisting together unconsciously. Head bowed, eyes avoiding hers.
The room was painfully quiet.
Only the occasional bird chirping outside the window.
Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible:
“My mother… she admitted it.”
Jiang Mian remained silent.
“Arson, falsifying evidence… and the 2006 accident involving your mother’s car… she was involved. She said it was for the Gu family’s benefit, for me…”
He lifted his head, eyes bloodshot.
“But I didn’t know… Jiang Mian, I really didn’t know…”
Jiang Mian looked at him.
At the pain, the brokenness, the self-loathing in his eyes.
Then she calmly asked:
“Gu Xingye, if I had died in the warehouse yesterday, what would you have done?”
His body trembled violently.
Mouth open, no sound came out.
“You would have continued being the heir of the Gu family, married Shen Yanxin, treated everything that happened last night as a nightmare, and continued your life, right?”
Her voice was soft, but every word was like an ice pick piercing his heart.
He shot to his feet, chair scraping the floor with a harsh sound:
“I wouldn’t—!”
“You would,” Jiang Mian interrupted, voice still calm. “Because that’s every choice you’ve made in the past fourteen years.”
She looked into his eyes:
“Gu Xingye, I don’t hate you.”
He froze.
“I really don’t hate you,” Jiang Mian repeated. “Hate requires investment of emotion. And I… have none for you.”
“For fourteen years, you’ve been nothing more than the ‘Gu family’s young master to deal with,’ the ‘nominal fiancé,’ the ‘one Shen Yanxin liked.’ Every time you sided with her, every time you ignored me, every time you looked at me with that ‘Why are you so clueless?’ expression… I just thought, hmm, that’s Gu Xingye. That’s who he is.”
She paused, voice even softer:
“So I don’t hate you.”
“Like you don’t hate a dog that bites you—you just keep your distance.”
Gu Xingye’s complexion shifted from pale to ashen.
He staggered back a step, hitting the wall, barely stabilizing himself.
Jiang Mian watched him, then finally said:
“Your mother will face the law. How you cut ties with the Gu family is your own business. After this, we will never meet again.”
“Let it be.”
Gu Xingye stood there, like all his bones had been pulled away.
He tried to speak, lips moved, but only lowered his head, shoulders trembling violently.
Not the kind of crying with sound.
A tremor so extreme, not a single sound escaping.
Jiang Mian didn’t look at him. She turned to the window.
The sunlight was beautiful.
After a long time, Gu Xingye lifted his head.
Eyes swollen, but something in his gaze, shattered in that collapse, slowly began to reassemble in fragments.
“I understand,” he said hoarsely.
Then he bowed deeply.
A full ninety degrees.
Held for three seconds.
When he straightened, he said:
“Jiang Mian, I’m sorry.”
“And… thank you, for waking me up.”
He then turned and walked out of the hospital room.
The door closed softly.
Jiang Mian sat on the bed, staring at that door, for a long time.
Then she whispered, almost to herself:
“What will he become in the future?”
Deep in her mind, Pei Yuyan’s voice sounded:
“Data projection shows: 72% probability he fully severs ties with the Gu family and starts an independent business; 18% probability of self-exile; 10% probability… spends the rest of his life atoning.”
Jiang Mian softly hummed in acknowledgment.
No judgment.
Just acceptance.
At two in the afternoon, Zhou Jian arrived punctually.
He wasn’t in a suit—black tactical pants, a combat jacket, hair shaved short, hairline visible. In his hands, not a fruit basket or flowers, but a black metal case.
“Can you get out of bed?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes.” Jiang Mian had changed out of the hospital gown, wearing the cream linen set Fu Chenyi had sent, her long hair loosely tied up.
Zhou Jian opened the metal case—not weapons, but a set of mini communication devices. Earbud, bone conduction headset, a holographic receiver disguised as a regular watch.
“The police and prosecutors will hold a joint press conference in half an hour,” he said, adjusting the equipment. “Shen Huaishan and Chen Manli’s lawyers are making their final struggle, trying to turn the charges into a ‘business dispute’ or ‘accident.’”
He handed Jiang Mian the earpiece.
“You’ll attend remotely.”
“Why me?”
“You’re the only one who can provide a complete evidence chain of the γ-7 experiment,” Zhou Jian said sharply. “Also… someone wants you to see, with your own eyes, the Shen family fall.”
Jiang Mian put on the earpiece.
The bone conduction headset pressed against her cheekbone, clear electrical signals transmitting.
Zhou Jian activated the holographic projection—on the hospital wall, the press conference scene appeared in real time. The hall was packed with reporters, cameras aimed at the podium. Police spokesperson, prosecutors, and several formally dressed middle-aged men sat at the front.
Fu Chenyi was there too, seated at the edge, calm expression.
“Begin,” Zhou Jian said.
[Golden Barrage enters “spectator mode”]
[MediaFrontline]: “Binhai Satellite TV, financial channels, legal livestream… all major city media are here!”
[Microexpression Expert]: “Shen family lawyers sit in the audience. The old man in Armani looks grim, hands trembling.”
[SpectatorRep]: “Hurry! I want to see them slapped down! I want the Shen family socially dead!”
The conference proceeded as scheduled.
The police spokesperson first briefed the case; prosecutors presented partial evidence. Reporters snapped photos frantically; the Q&A immediately crackled with tension.
“Mr. Shen Huaishan, what exactly is the γ-7 sample? Is the rumored ‘memory control technology’ real?” one reporter asked sharply.
Before the prosecutor could answer—
A Shen family chief lawyer suddenly stood from the audience:
“Objection! These are unverified rumors! My client is engaged in legal biotechnology research!”
The hall erupted in commotion.
At that moment, Jiang Mian’s earpiece carried Fu Chenyi’s calm voice:
“Jiang Mian, you may begin.”
Jiang Mian took a deep breath.
Then she spoke, her voice transmitted directly to the press conference’s sound system through the bone conduction microphone:
“γ-7 is not a rumor.”
The clear, cold female voice rang out, and the room instantly fell silent.
All cameras turned toward the source—but the chair was empty.
Jiang Mian continued, her voice steady, stating facts:
“It was the core research outcome of the 1967 ‘Eye-Opening Project,’ a biocrystal capable of resonating with human neurotransmitter receptors. Its primary function is memory reading; its full capability… is memory overlay and personality reconstruction.”
She paused, letting every word sink in:
“Shen Huaishan and his father, Shen Xinchong, spent half a century trying to master this technology.”
“For this, they killed my grandfather, Song Wenbo, orchestrated the ‘car accident’ that harmed my mother, Song Yun, and burned my father, Jiang Mingyuan, to death.”
“And now… they want to use this technology to control more people.”
The room fell deathly silent.
Even the sound of reporters typing stopped.
The Shen family’s lawyer’s face turned ashen, and he jumped to his feet: “Nonsense! What evidence do you have?!”
Jiang Mian’s voice remained calm:
“Evidence #001: Original experimental manuscripts from 1967–1975, 387 pages, currently stored in the Binhai City Archives’ secure vault. I have provided the retrieval code to the prosecution.”
“Evidence #002: The 2006 re-inspection report of Song Yun’s car accident scene, showing the braking system was deliberately sabotaged.”
“Evidence #003: The supplementary fire report for the 2011 laboratory fire, confirming gasoline was deliberately poured at the source.”
“Evidence #004: Full recorded testimony of Liu Dayong.”
“Evidence #005…”
She listed them one by one.
With each piece, the intake of breath in the room grew heavier.
Sweat formed on the Shen family lawyer’s forehead.
By the time Jiang Mian reached the tenth piece of evidence, the lawyer slumped back into his chair, no longer arguing.
When Jiang Mian finished presenting all the evidence, she concluded:
“The γ-7 samples were seized in last night’s lawful enforcement action and are now preserved by national security authorities. This technology will never be used to control human minds.”
“And I am standing here today not for revenge.”
“But for all those who have been harmed by the Shen family, for my parents, and… to ensure this can never happen again.”
Her words fell.
Three seconds of silence followed.
Then, the applause exploded.
Reporters all stood, cameras flashing like crazy.
At the podium, Fu Chenyi watched the cameras—he knew Jiang Mian wasn’t in frame, but he knew she was watching—and gave a faint nod.
A silent “well done.”
[Golden Barrage: collective climax]
[ThrillRadar]: “Ahhh! Public humiliation! Perfect execution! Maximum satisfaction!”
[LateNightChampion]: “The host listed evidence from history to modern day, from physical proof to human testimony, layer by layer, irrefutable!”
[HandsomeGuyHere]: “The Shen family is finished. Completely finished. Stocks down, partners cancel contracts, family reputation destroyed…”
[LittleObserver]: “Jiang Mian’s adrenaline level is only slightly elevated—she really sees all of this as ‘mission accomplished.’”
In the hospital room.
Jiang Mian removed her earpiece.
Zhou Jian turned off the holographic projection and looked at her: “How does it feel?”
Jiang Mian thought for a moment. “Like giving a big case report.”
Zhou Jian smiled—for the first time, Jiang Mian saw him smile in the truest sense. Not sharp, teasing, or playful. Clean. Pure.
“You’re calmer than I expected,” he said.
“Or what?” Jiang Mian countered. “Cry a bit? Laugh three times?”
Zhou Jian didn’t answer. He packed up the equipment, then pulled a small object from his jacket pocket and tossed it to her.
Jiang Mian caught it.
A USB drive. Metallic, unmarked.
“What’s this?”
“The Shen family’s second branch Southeast Asia contact network, plus their dealings with several foreign intelligence agencies,” Zhou Jian said. “I don’t need it; you might.”
Jiang Mian gripped the USB drive. “Why me?”
Zhou Jian looked at her, expression complex:
“Because I believe… you won’t use it for bad purposes.”
He paused, then added:
“And what you said in the warehouse last night—‘He is the only person in this world who I know won’t hurt me.’”
“I thought about it later…”
He turned toward the door, back to her, voice low:
“I might… not be entirely wanting to hurt you either.”
The door closed.
The hospital room fell silent again.
Jiang Mian stared at the USB drive in her hand for a long time.
Then she whispered into the air:
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hmm?”
“I think… I’ve started to have ‘allies’ in this world.”
The golden halo shimmered slightly.
Pei Yuyan’s voice carried a trace of amusement:
“You always had them.”
“It’s just that now, you’re willing to see them.”
At dusk, the sunset dyed the hospital room a warm orange.
Jiang Mian leaned against the bed, watching news on the tablet Fu Chenyi had left—coverage of the Shen family’s fall had gone viral. The Gu family released a statement severing ties with Chen Manli, and Chenyi Group’s stock rose 5% against the trend.
Everything was moving in the right direction.
She put the tablet down and gazed out the window.
The sun sank, the sky shifting from orange-red to deep purple. The first star had appeared.
Quiet.
Ordinary…
Like any other evening.
But Jiang Mian knew something had changed.
She reached for the glass bottle of forget-me-nots on the bedside table. The flowers were tiny, faintly fragrant, noticeable only up close.
At that moment, the small hospital TV turned on automatically.
Not news. Not a drama.
A live music program.
On stage, the lights dimmed. A spotlight fell on the pianist.
Rong Xubai.
Dressed in a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, long fingers on the keys. Golden-rimmed glasses reflected the light; his profile clean and sharp.
He didn’t look at the camera, head lowered, fingers pressing the first note lightly.
The prelude was soft, like raindrops on a lake.
Then he began to sing.
Clear, pure voice with a texture all its own, like the gentlest frequency on a late-night radio station.
The lyrics simple, yet special:
“Walking through the ruins of lies, Watching butterflies beat their wings, Shattering the cages of glass, Light falls in…”
“Dedicated to the one, Who defuses bombs in a world of lies.”
Jiang Mian’s fingers tightened slightly.
She watched Rong Xubai on the screen.
He focused on the piano, occasionally glancing at the camera. His gaze calm, but deep within it, a spark like a star in the night.
[Golden Barrage scrolling]
[MusicCameUninvited]: “Rong Xubai wrote a new song! Both melody and lyrics are so special…”
[LateNightChampion]: “‘Defusing bombs in a world of lies’… is this about the host?!”
[MilkTeaToday]: “Rong Xubai can write and sing like this?! What a divine character!”
The song ended.
The final note lingered in the air.
Rong Xubai lifted his head, briefly meeting the camera.
Then he stood, bowed, and walked off stage.
The TV turned off automatically.
The hospital room fell silent again.
Jiang Mian stared at the dark screen for a long time.
Then she picked up her phone and opened social media.
Rong Xubai’s account posted a new update: just two words—“New song.”
Accompanied by a photo of his stage silhouette.
The comment section had already exploded:
“Dr. Rong sings so well!”
“Who is this song for?”
“‘Bomb-defusing expert’… is there news recently?”
Jiang Mian closed her phone.
She closed her eyes.
Her consciousness sank into the golden halo.
“Pei Yuyan,” she said inwardly.
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear it?” she asked. “That song.”
The halo shimmered slightly.
“I heard it,” Pei Yuyan’s voice replied. “He’s observing you, Jiang Mian.”
“I know.”
“But what you don’t know is…” Pei Yuyan paused, “when he wrote this song, his emotional energy fluctuation curve was completely different from when he normally does psychological analysis.”
Jiang Mian opened her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Pei Yuyan’s voice was calm, “he is interested in you. Not as a doctor in the usual sense—but as an observer observing a subject.”
“Will he become trouble?”
“Possibly,” Pei Yuyan said, “but he might… become an ally.”
Jiang Mian was silent for a few seconds.
Then she asked, “Can I redeem consciousness space stabilization?”
“Yes,” Pei Yuyan said. “It costs 12,000 points.”
“Redeem for one hour.”
[Points deducted: 12,000]
[Remaining points: 32,800]
[Consciousness space stabilization activated, countdown: 60 minutes]
The halo began to shift.
No longer uniform, it started to flow and swirl, like a living nebula. Colors shifted from gold to orange-red, deep purple, indigo… finally settling into a gentle twilight purple.
At the center of that twilight purple—
A silhouette slowly appeared.
A tall human shape made of flowing points of light, edges blurred as if behind a veil of mist. Yet the shoulder line was clear, posture upright, and… there was a gentle gaze seemingly looking at her.
Jiang Mian’s breath caught for a moment.
“This is…” she whispered.
“My ‘image,’” Pei Yuyan’s voice came from within the light figure, closer and more real than usual. “The standard projection form in the higher-dimensional world.”
Jiang Mian stared at the outline made of points of light.
For a long time.
Then she said softly, “Prettier than I imagined…”
The light figure seemed to pause.
Then she heard a laugh.
A real laugh—not a data simulation, but warm, human.
“Thank you,” Pei Yuyan said. “You too.”
Jiang Mian’s cheeks warmed slightly.
She shifted the topic: “How long can you maintain this form?”
“With current energy… roughly…” Pei Yuyan calculated, “half an hour.”
“Then…” Jiang Mian paused, voice soft, “can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you helping me?”
The light figure was silent for a few seconds.
Then Pei Yuyan spoke, calm, each word clear:
“At first, it was only because of abnormal data.”
“Your behavioral pattern deviated over 87% from the original trajectory. I have never seen this in my observation career. I was curious to see how far you could go.”
“Later…”
He paused, the outline of the light figure wavering slightly.
“Later, it was because, among billions of samples, only you—after knowing the truth—chose to give up power, to trust an unseen ‘observer.’”
“Jiang Mian, you showed me… that even in the darkest scripts, someone can still choose light.”
Jiang Mian’s nose pricked, tears threatening.
But she held them back.
She only asked, “So now… do you still think I’m just a ‘sample’?”
The light figure drifted closer.
Close enough that Jiang Mian could see the movement of every point of light.
Then Pei Yuyan said:
“Not anymore.”
“From the moment you first said ‘thank you’ to the air, from when you protected Liu Dayong despite being hurt in the bar, from last night when you put the γ-7 sample into the light cluster…”
“You stopped being a sample.”
“You are Jiang Mian.”
“You are the… only being I want to protect in this dimension.”
Tears finally fell from Jiang Mian’s eyes.
One drop.
Burning hot.
She didn’t wipe it away, only looked at the light figure and whispered,
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hmm?”
“Has half an hour passed?”
“Fifteen minutes left.”
“Then…” Jiang Mian took a deep breath. “May I make a request?”
“Go ahead.”
“Next time, when there’s enough energy… can I see you more clearly?”
The light figure was silent.
Then Jiang Mian felt—not heard, but felt—a gentle, almost indulgent emotion coming from the connection.
“Alright,” Pei Yuyan said.
“I promise you.”
The light figure began to fade.
Like morning mist, slowly dissipating.
Before it disappeared completely, Jiang Mian heard him say:
“Rest well.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow.”
The halo fully vanished.
Her consciousness returned to calm.
But the warmth, the feeling of being protected, remained.
Jiang Mian opened her eyes.
The sun had fully set. The sky was deep blue, stars multiplying.
She leaned against the headboard, staring at the stars for a long time.
Then she whispered softly into the air:
“Good night.”
No reply.
But she knew someone was listening.
Always.
A soft knock came at the hospital door.
Three gentle taps.
Jiang Mian turned: “Please come in.”
The door opened.
Rong Xubai stood at the doorway.
Still in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, holding a simple paper bag. Behind his golden-rimmed glasses, his eyes were calm as they looked at her.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said, voice as clear as when he sang on TV. “We met last time. I heard you woke up, and wanted to see you.”
He stepped inside, placing the paper bag on the bedside table.
“Some fruit,” he said. “And… this.”
He took out a small black box and handed it to her.
Jiang Mian opened it.
Inside was a pair of wireless monitoring earphones, pure black, professional-looking.
“This is…”
“Studio monitoring earphones,” Rong Xubai said. “Good sound quality. If you’re bored in the hospital, you can use them to listen to music.”
He paused, then added:
“There are already some songs loaded. Including… today’s song.”
Jiang Mian looked at the earphones, then back at him.
Rong Xubai met her gaze, expression neutral.
“The lyrics…” Jiang Mian began.
“Inspiration,” Rong Xubai said. “Being a psychologist, you encounter some… very special people.”
He looked at her intently:
“You are a very good observation subject, Miss Jiang.”
“I hope you recover soon.”
He nodded, then turned toward the door.
At the door, he paused, glanced back.
“Oh, the full version of that song is on the earphones,” he said.
“If you like it… let me know.”
The door closed gently.
Jiang Mian sat on the bed, staring at the earphones for a long time.
Then she put them on, pressed play.
Rong Xubai’s voice flowed through.
Clear. Gentle.
“Walking through the ruins of lies, Watching butterflies beat their wings, Shattering the cages of glass, Light falls in…”
“You are my accident, And also my only certainty.”
Jiang Mian closed her eyes.
Tears fell again.
But this time, she smiled