The champagne flute was cool in her hand, fine beads of condensation clinging to the glass, the chill seeping into her fingers.
Jiang Mian stood at the center of the banquet hall, the hem of her white evening gown brushing against the marble floor. The three-tier crystal chandelier above her was blindingly bright—thousands of crystals refracting harsh light that made her eyes ache. She could see every expression on the guests’ faces opposite her: sympathy, curiosity, the barely concealed anticipation of a spectacle.
The air was thick with perfume—sweet tuberose mingled with cedarwood. There was the soft pop of champagne corks, the muted thud of high heels on carpet. All the sounds blended together into a dull hum, as if heard through water.
Three days ago, there were still red marks on her wrists from the interrogation room handcuffs.
Three days later, she was standing here, attending Gu Xingye and Shen Yanxin’s engagement banquet.
Absurd, really.
“Jiang Mian.”
Gu Xingye’s voice came from beside her, lowered and warning. He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the crowd ahead, but the words were meant for her alone.
“Behave yourself today.”
Jiang Mian didn’t turn her head.
Straight ahead, Gu’s mother, Chen Manli, moved her lips—painted a vivid red—but swallowed whatever she was about to say. The corners of her mouth drooped, like a fish that had suddenly lost its strength.
Shen Yanxin clung to Gu Xingye’s arm, dressed in a pearl-white custom gown, the antique diamond necklace at her throat dazzling to the eye. She turned and smiled, flawless and composed.
“Big Sister Jiang Mian, I’m really happy you could come. Brother Xingye even reminded me specially to take good care of you.”
She stressed the last three words.
Jiang Mian lightly tapped the wall of her glass with her fingertip.
Cold droplets shook loose, falling onto the back of her hand.
【Profiler’s Eye activated】
Semi-transparent markers surfaced at the edge of her vision. The silver bracelet on Shen Yanxin’s right wrist reflected light at the wrong angle—professional medical monitoring devices use matte coatings; this one was far too glossy. Gu Xingye’s right hand, shoved into his trouser pocket, bulged against the fabric at the knuckles—a habitual gesture when he was irritated. Chen Manli was smiling, but the orbicularis muscles around her eyes didn’t move. A fake smile.
In the southeast corner of the hall, the waiter in a black suit hadn’t touched his tray in seventeen minutes. Every twenty seconds, his gaze flicked to the massive crystal chandelier above Jiang Mian’s head.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jiang Mian raised her glass and took a sip. The champagne was icy; bubbles burst on her tongue, leaving behind a faint bitterness.
Above her, the crystal chandelier swayed ever so slightly in the air-conditioning draft.
Very slightly—almost imperceptible.
But Jiang Mian saw it.
She remembered the anonymous warning: Circuit C7, control switch behind the third storage cabinet in the service corridor. And where she was standing now was precisely beneath the center of the chandelier.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The host’s voice rang out as the banquet officially began. A champagne tower was assembled, the lights dimmed, leaving only a few spotlights trained on the main table. Shen Yanxin took Gu Xingye’s arm and stepped forward, accepting the microphone, her eyes reddening just the right amount.
“Today, I want to give special thanks to one person.”
She turned toward Jiang Mian.
The hall fell silent. The chandelier’s light pooled on the raised glass in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly.
“Big Sister Jiang Mian.” Shen Yanxin walked up to her, extending her hand to take Jiang Mian’s, her movements slow, like a cinematic slow-motion shot. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for the Gu family over the years—and thank you for how you once took care of Brother Xingye.”
Jiang Mian stepped back half a step.
Just half a step. The movement was small, but everyone saw it.
Shen Yanxin’s hand froze in midair. Her smile stiffened—for 0.3 seconds.
Then—
She clutched her chest, her face turning deathly pale as her body began to sway.
“Yanxin!” Gu Xingye rushed forward to support her.
“I… my chest feels tight…” Shen Yanxin’s voice was weak, her right hand gripping his arm desperately. “I can’t… breathe…”
Chen Manli screamed, “Call a doctor! Yanxin has a heart condition!”
The scene erupted into chaos.
The family doctor rushed out from the side hall. After a three-minute examination, he frowned.
“Rapid heart rate, elevated blood pressure—acute palpitations. She needs quiet rest. No stimulation.”
“It’s all because of you!” Chen Manli suddenly pointed at Jiang Mian, her voice shrill. “You knew Yanxin was unwell and still deliberately provoked her! You just can’t stand seeing her happy!”
All eyes turned on Jiang Mian like needles.
Contemptuous. Disgusted. Waiting to see how she would end this.
Jiang Mian set her glass down.
Porcelain struck marble with a crisp sound that echoed sharply through the deathly quiet hall.
“So,” she said, not loudly, but clearly, “Miss Shen has a heart condition—how many people here knew that?”
She swept her gaze across the guests, calm as it passed over one face after another.
“Who knew before today?”
The guests exchanged looks and shook their heads.
“First time hearing about it…”
“The Shen family never mentioned it…”
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
Jiang Mian turned back to Gu Xingye.
“Even I didn’t know. And she chooses your engagement banquet to have an attack in public—Young Master Gu, don’t you think that’s a little too coincidental?”
Gu Xingye’s face darkened. “What are you implying?”
“What I mean,” Jiang Mian said slowly, her voice like shards of ice scraping across glass, “is that if her heart condition were really this serious, would the Gu family agree to this marriage? The Gu family wants a daughter-in-law who can hold up appearances and bear heirs—not a sickly woman who might collapse at any moment.”
Chen Manli’s expression changed.
Shen Yanxin’s breathing grew ragged—this time it didn’t quite look like an act.
Jiang Mian stepped forward, her gaze landing on the bracelet on Shen Yanxin’s wrist.
“Miss Shen, that bracelet of yours is quite special. A real-time heart-rate monitor, is it?”
Shen Yanxin instinctively covered her wrist.
“Why don’t we show everyone the data?” Jiang Mian’s voice remained steady. “Your heart rate before the attack, the peak during it—Doctor Li should be able to interpret that, right?”
Doctor Li hesitated. “That… would require professional equipment…”
“Then connect it to the big screen.” Jiang Mian turned to the staff. “Please turn on the projector. Miss Shen, care to share the data? After all, it concerns whether you truly ‘fell ill’—and whether I truly ‘stimulated’ you.”
Shen Yanxin’s face went completely white.
Her fingers clenched around the bracelet, knuckles blanching.
“That’s enough.” Gu Xingye suddenly spoke, his voice suppressed with anger. He stepped in front of Shen Yanxin. “This is an engagement banquet, not an interrogation room. Yanxin needs rest. There’s no need to argue about this.”
“So you’re shielding her?” Jiang Mian asked.
“I’m not shielding anyone.”
“That’s exactly what you said three days ago at the police station.” Jiang Mian’s voice was soft, each word like a fine ice pick drilling slowly into the air. “‘Don’t make it big.’ ‘The Gu family’s reputation matters.’ ‘Just endure it.’ Gu Xingye—fourteen years. I’ve endured for fourteen years. Isn’t that enough?”
She took a deep breath, her back straightening.
“Today she ‘falls ill’ in public and pins it on me. If I don’t make things clear, what will tomorrow’s headlines be? ‘Gu family’s adopted daughter consumed by jealousy, faints the bride-to-be’? Or ‘Jiang Mian remains vicious, even spares not the sick’?”
She looked at the guests, her gaze passing over every single one of them.
“Everyone here is watching. Today, either we get to the truth—check the bracelet data, let the doctor interpret it on the spot—or I leave, but I reserve the right to pursue defamation charges.”
She paused, then looked back at Shen Yanxin, her tone almost gentle.
“And a reminder, Miss Shen: fabricating facts to frame someone in public, under serious circumstances, constitutes defamation. Given your family background, I don’t think I need to explain further.”
Shen Yanxin’s hands began to tremble.
“You… who are you trying to scare…”
“Whether I’m scaring you or not, you’re welcome to try,” Jiang Mian said with a shallow smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But before you do, let me remind you—professional medical monitoring devices store their data in the cloud. Tamper-proof. Even if the bracelet is smashed, the data still exists on the server.”
She turned to Doctor Li.
“Doctor Li, data like this is admissible as legal evidence, correct?”
Sweat beaded on Doctor Li’s forehead. “I… I’m not very familiar with the law…”
“Then I’ll tell you.” Jiang Mian pulled out her phone, searched quickly, and held up the screen. “Raw data from professional medical devices qualifies as statutory electronic evidence. Once lawfully extracted and authenticated, courts accept it.”
She turned back to Shen Yanxin, her gaze calm, as if she were looking at a problem halfway solved.
“You have two choices now. One: publicly release the data and prove you truly ‘fell ill.’ Two: admit you faked it and apologize to me.”
Shen Yanxin bit her lip hard, the lower one paling.
She looked at Gu Xingye with a pleading gaze, like a drowning person grasping for the last piece of driftwood.
Gu Xingye fell silent. He looked at Jiang Mian, then at Shen Yanxin, then finally at Chen Manli. Chen Manli’s face was ashen—she hadn’t expected Jiang Mian to be this unyielding, nor that she knew so much.
“Brother Xingye…” Shen Yanxin began to cry softly, tears falling on cue. “I really feel unwell… let’s go back to the room…”
She wanted to flee.
“Wait.” Jiang Mian stopped Gu Xingye as he helped Shen Yanxin away. “This isn’t over.”
She walked up to Shen Yanxin and held out her hand, palm up.
“The bracelet. Or I call the police now and have them collect evidence. Coincidentally, the officers who handled my case three days ago are still around—I’m sure they’d be happy to come.”
Shen Yanxin shuddered.
Suddenly, she ripped off the bracelet and hurled it to the ground!
“Enough!” she screamed, her voice slicing through the hall’s silence. “Jiang Mian! Do you only stop when you’ve driven me to death?!”
The bracelet bounced several times, its screen shattering, tiny shards of glass scattering.
Jiang Mian bent down to pick it up, unhurried.
“Breaking it is useless,” she said calmly, holding up the shattered bracelet so everyone could see the cracked screen. “And—”
She examined the broken display closely, then suddenly smiled.
A faint smile—but enough to drain the color from Shen Yanxin’s face.
“This isn’t even a medical device,” Jiang Mian said clearly, each word striking the still air. “It’s just a knockoff smart bracelet, dressed up to look like one. Real medical-grade equipment uses impact-resistant materials. One drop and it shatters? Impossible.”
She raised the broken bracelet and turned to the guests.
“A fake bracelet. A carefully staged ‘illness.’ Shen Yanxin—is this really all you’ve got?”
The hall was deathly silent.
Only the low hum of the central air-conditioning remained, like a constant ringing in the ears.
Shen Yanxin collapsed onto the sofa, the last trace of color draining from her face, lips trembling, unable to speak.
Gu Xingye looked at her, his expression impossibly complex—disappointment, anger, humiliation at being played, and something deeper, like a crack forming in the foundation of his beliefs.
“Yanxin,” he said heavily, “you really…”
“I didn’t!” Shen Yanxin clutched his arm, tears streaming. “Brother Xingye, believe me! I just… I loved you too much, I was afraid Jiang Mian would take you away…”
“So you pretended to be sick and framed her?” Gu Xingye shook her off—not violently, but enough to make her sway. “I didn’t fake it! I really felt unwell—”
“Then what about the bracelet?” Gu Xingye pointed at the fragments on the floor, his voice tightly controlled with rage. “You said this was a professional device recommended by a doctor!”
Shen Yanxin was speechless.
Her lips opened, closed—no words came.
Jiang Mian didn’t press further.
She placed the fragments on the coffee table and turned away.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step as clear as a heartbeat, carrying her through the silent hall, through the tangled gazes, through the overly bright patches of light cast by the crystal chandelier.
She exited the hall. The heavy velvet curtains fell closed behind her, swallowing all the false light and warmth.
【High-Dimensional Live Room Online Viewers: 13,892】
【Is-the-scumbag-cremated-yet】：“So satisfying!! That slap was loud and clean! White lotus Shen’s face is green!”
【TruthNeeds8xZoom】：“She started suspecting from the bracelet’s reflection—this observation skill is insane.”
【LogicCatOnline】：“The key is the complete logic chain: question plausibility → force evidence → final confirmation. Textbook counterattack.”
【MelonEaterNoSpitting】：“I screenshotted Gu Dog’s expression—faith collapsing in real time!”
【NewbieHere】：“She’s so cool! Followed!”
【Observer-01】 tipped “Starlit Rainfall” ×1, note: Clean break. Well deserved.
The corridor was empty, her footsteps echoing softly.
After a few steps, her phone vibrated in her bag. She stopped at an empty corner and checked it.
A system notification:
【User “Observer-01” tipped “Starlit Rainfall” ×1, Points +500】
【Note: Clean break. Well deserved】
Observer-01.
Jiang Mian stared at the message, her brows knitting slightly.
This name appeared from time to time in the system. Generous tips, brief but precise comments, always showing up after her key breakthroughs—like someone was… watching her performance.
The sensation of being “observed” was strange—not malicious, more like distant, rational scrutiny. As if someone stood on the other side of glass, quietly watching her struggle to survive in this world.
She couldn’t reply, couldn’t find them. The system was crude—no private messages, only one-way reception.
Jiang Mian put the phone away, suppressing the unease. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.
She turned into the service corridor. The third storage cabinet—unlocked. She pulled it open, reached deep inside, and touched a cold metal box: the circuit controller.
Inside were dense rows of switches, each labeled.
C7.
The main circuit for the crystal chandelier.
She stared at the switch for three seconds, then took out a short strip of insulating tape from her clutch—part of a “basic tool kit” she’d redeemed earlier with her last 50 system points.
She wrapped the tape around the C7 switch lever. Once. Twice. Secured firmly in the “off” position.
She closed the cabinet and turned—
A shadow blocked the corridor entrance.
It was the waiter in the black suit.
“Miss Jiang,” he said hoarsely, “you’re not allowed in here.”
“I got lost,” Jiang Mian replied.
“I’ll take you out.”
He stepped forward, his right hand reaching behind his back.
Jiang Mian retreated half a step, her back pressing against the cold wall. The corridor was narrow—only wide enough for one person. No way out.
What the waiter pulled out wasn’t a knife, but a black remote control. His thumb rested on a red button.
“They told me,” he grinned, showing yellowed teeth, “if you touched the switch, I press this. The light will still fall—but the entire chandelier at once.”
He pressed the button.
From outside came the creak of machinery—gears engaging, cables grinding.
Then the guests’ cries of alarm.
Jiang Mian’s pupils contracted.
But the expected deafening crash never came.
Only a faint click—then the hiss of cut electricity—
And then… silence.
Here’s a clean, natural English translation, keeping the tone cinematic and precise:
The waiter froze, then frantically pressed the button several more times.
It didn’t work.
“How is this possible…” he muttered.
Jiang Mian smiled. It was a faint smile, but in the dim corridor it stood out with startling clarity.
“Take a guess,” she said softly, stepping forward. “Why do you think I dared to touch the switch myself?”
The waiter jerked his head up, panic flashing through his eyes.
“Because the remote you’re holding controls the backup circuit,” Jiang Mian said calmly, as if stating a simple fact. “I’ve already physically disconnected the main circuit, C7. Dual failsafes—that’s the professional approach.”
She took another step forward, close enough now to see her own reflection in his pupils.
“Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Who sent you? Shen Yanxin? Or—”
She didn’t finish.
The waiter suddenly lunged, hurling the remote straight at her face!
Jiang Mian twisted aside, moving as if she’d predicted it all along. Her right hand snapped shut around his wrist while her left fist drove hard into the nerve point on the inside of his elbow.
The waiter groaned in pain, his arm going limp. Jiang Mian followed through smoothly, wrenching his arm behind his back, driving her knee into his lower spine and pressing her full weight down on him.
Clean. Efficient.
It was a restraining technique Jiang Huaying had learned at the police academy—muscle memory never forgot.
“Talk,” she said coldly.
The waiter struggled, but he was pinned immovably.
Footsteps sounded outside the corridor.
Jiang Mian released him, quickly straightened her dress, and stepped back against the wall. Her breathing was slightly uneven, but her expression was already calm again.
The one who arrived was the old detective—the same man who had interrogated her three days earlier.
He took in the scene and paused. “Miss Jiang? What’s going on here…?”
“This man,” Jiang Mian said evenly, pointing at the waiter on the floor, “attempted to sabotage the electrical system to cause an accident. I subdued him.”
The old detective crouched down to check. From the waiter’s pocket, he retrieved a remote control and a cellphone. When he lit up the screen, a name appeared in the recent call log:
‘Miss Shen.’
“Shen Yanxin again?” The detective’s face darkened.
“Not just that,” Jiang Mian said. “Check his accounts. People don’t risk their lives for something like this on verbal promises alone.”
The detective nodded and called his colleagues to take the man away. Then he looked at Jiang Mian, his gaze complicated. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Jiang Mian paused. “Thank you for coming today.”
“It’s my duty.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Also… there’s new progress in your father Jiang Mingyuan’s case. That lab fire back then may not have been an accident.”
Jiang Mian’s heart slammed hard against her ribs.
It wasn’t emotional turbulence—it was her body’s instinctive reaction to receiving a high-level danger signal. The tight knot in her stomach meant her system had entered a combat-ready state.
“Do you have evidence?” Her voice dropped half a note, steadier than before.
“We’re still investigating,” the detective said quietly. “But something is missing from the scene—your father’s research journal. We suspect someone took it.”
Jiang Mian’s fingers curled slightly at her side—not trembling, but muscles tightening in an instant.
“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”
The detective patted her shoulder and left.
Jiang Mian remained where she was, her back against the icy wall, standing there for a long time. The corridor lights were sound-activated; they went out, and darkness surged forward, wrapping around her.
Music drifted again from the banquet hall beyond the thick walls, muffled and distant—like sounds from another world.
She had won this round.
But the larger battlefield had only just revealed the tip of the iceberg.
When she stepped out of the hotel, it was already eleven at night.
A late-autumn wind rushed toward her. She wasn’t wearing a coat—just a white evening gown, the fabric thin enough that the cold pierced straight through. The cold sweat on her back hadn’t dried yet, clinging to her skin and sending uncontrollable shivers through her.
She leaned against the wall of the hotel’s back alley and fished a cigarette case out of her clutch—taken from Fu Chenyu’s apartment. She lit one. The first drag made her cough violently, tears springing to her eyes.
“Girls should smoke less.”
A low voice came from the shadows.
Jiang Mian looked up.
Fu Chenyu walked toward her from the alley entrance, his tall figure stretched long under the dim streetlight. He stopped in front of her, took the cigarette from her fingers, and crushed it out against the wall.
“Mr. Fu,” Jiang Mian said, her voice a little hoarse.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her pale face. “I saw what happened at the banquet.”
“You were there?”
“Second-floor private room,” Fu Chenyu said. “The Gu family invited me too—though not very willingly.”
He paused, a trace of admiration slipping into his tone. “You were impressive. Even more than I expected.”
Jiang Mian didn’t respond.
Fu Chenyu reached into his suit and took out a small silver metal case, handing it to her. “Your father left this behind. He mailed it to my father a week before the accident. Before my father passed away, he told me—if you ever started investigating the truth, I was to give this to you.”
Jiang Mian accepted it.
The box was light, cold to the touch.
Inside lay a small USB drive and a strangely shaped silver key. Intricate patterns were carved into the handle—like an open eye. The pupil was a crystalline facet that refracted faint, multicolored light in the darkness.
“What is this?” she asked.
“The USB contains part of your father’s peripheral research data,” Fu Chenyu said. “As for the key… I don’t fully understand it either. Your father only told my father that it could open ‘a door’—and behind that door might be something you needed to know.”
Jiang Mian rubbed the engraved eye with her thumb.
Cold. Hard. Sharp-edged.
“Your father and mine…” she looked up. “They were close?”
Fu Chenyu fell silent for a moment. The night breeze stirred the loose hair at his forehead.
“My father used to say Jiang Mingyuan was the purest—and most stubborn—man he’d ever met,” he said quietly. “Your father devoted himself entirely to research. My father admired his brilliance… and worried about that stubbornness.”
He paused, something more complicated appearing in his gaze as he looked at her.
A stray cat screeched somewhere deep in the alley, its cry tearing through the night.
Jiang Mian tightened her grip on the key.
“So you’re helping me now,” she said, “to fulfill your father’s last wish.”
“At first,” Fu Chenyu admitted calmly. “But later, I became curious myself. Curious about what your father discovered back then—something that got him killed. Curious why the Shen family, the Gu family, and those lurking in the shadows are still obsessed with what a scientist who died fourteen years ago left behind… enough to hunt a young girl to the ends of the earth.”
He looked at her, his gaze deep.
“And yes, I’m curious about you too, Jiang Mian. You’re nothing like the rumors.”
“And what do the rumors say I’m like?” she asked.
“Weak. Obedient. Dependent on the Gu family. Hopelessly devoted to Gu Xingye,” Fu Chenyu smiled faintly. “But what I see now is someone who stays calm in desperate situations, knows how to protect herself with law and logic, and—apparently—has some fighting skills.”
He added quietly, “I promised my father. And I promised myself. I’ll protect you. This matter… I’ll see it through.”
Jiang Mian looked at him for a long time.
Then she said, “Thank you.”
Not courtesy. Sincerity.
Fu Chenyu smiled lightly, almost indistinguishable under the streetlight. “Go back. Get some rest. Next Tuesday’s tea gathering… will be a tough fight.”
He turned and disappeared down the alley.
Jiang Mian stood there for a long while.
The key engraved with an eye dug deeper and deeper into her palm, the metal edge biting as if it were about to sink into flesh.
By the time she returned to her apartment, it was nearly dawn.
She showered, changed into pajamas, and sat at her desk, plugging in the USB drive Fu Chenyu had given her.
Three folders.
She opened the one labeled “Suspicious Individuals Records.”
An Excel file appeared, listing more than a dozen names with annotations. Her fingers stopped on the last entry.
Shen Huaishan (Chairman of Shen Group):
Records show that between 2009 and 2011, he made multiple contacts with Professor Jiang Mingyuan, both personally and as a corporate representative, proposing “joint development” or “technology acquisition.” All proposals were firmly rejected. After their final contact in March 2011, security at Jiang Mingyuan’s laboratory was upgraded.
The Shen family.
They had approached her father multiple times—while he was still alive.
Jiang Mian closed the file and leaned back, eyes shut.
Her head hurt.
Not physical pain, but the ache that came from too much information, tangled clues, and truth buried beneath layers upon layers.
Her phone vibrated.
Two messages arrived simultaneously.
The first, from Gu Xingye:
“Jiang Mian, we need to talk. I’m sorry about what happened today. Next Tuesday at 3 PM, Yunding Tea House. I hope you’ll come.”
The second, from an anonymous number—the same one that had warned her to “watch the lights” earlier:
“Second floor, third private room at the tea gathering. Third shelf of the bookcase, seventh book from the left—your answers are there. But be careful. Shen Yanxin installed cameras in the room.”
Then a third message, from a new unknown number:
“Don’t fully trust anyone.”
Jiang Mian stared at the third message for a long time.
She didn’t recognize the number.
She replied: “Who are you?”
A few minutes later, a reply came.
“Someone who knows the Shen family’s secrets.”
“If you want the truth, come alone after the tea gathering next Tuesday.”
An address followed: Old Industrial District, South City — Warehouse No. 79.
Jiang Mian memorized the address and deleted the message.
But she saved the number under a new contact name: “Mysterious Person.”
After that, she stepped out onto the balcony.
The night wind blew in, carrying the chill of early autumn, slipping through her thin pajamas.
The city slept beneath her—lights flickering like an inverted galaxy. Yet in certain corners, certain people were wide awake, eyes open in the dark.
She thought of the silver key her father had left behind. Going back inside, she took it from the drawer and held it in her palm.
Cold metal glinted under the moonlight.
When the moonlight struck the crystalline pupil of the eye at a certain angle, a string of tiny numbers appeared. γ-7.
Her stomach churned violently.
She clenched the key, the sharp edges biting deep into her palm.
What had her father’s final research really uncovered?
Why did the Shen family want it so badly?
Why were people willing to kill for it?
The system flickered.
She looked up.
【User “Observer-01” gifted “Silent Barrier” ×1, Points +300】
【Note: It’s late. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s problems can wait until tomorrow.】
Jiang Mian stared at the message, her fingertips growing cold.
This Observer-01… seemed to know her state? To know she was still awake, anxious?
She looked at the line “Tomorrow’s problems can wait until tomorrow” and suddenly remembered her childhood—when her father was still alive, gently opening her door whenever she stayed up late studying and saying the exact same thing.
That distant, gentle feeling of being watched returned.
But this time, there was something else mixed in—something she couldn’t quite name.
Jiang Mian set the phone down and turned off the lamp.
In the darkness, she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Who exactly was Observer-01?
Why were they always watching her?
Those precise gifts and messages—were they kindness, or a more refined form of observation?
She didn’t know.
But she suddenly realized that in a world full of schemes and lies, this unseen “observer” might be the only existence she didn’t need to guard against.
Because they didn’t seem to belong to her world at all.
The thought made her exhale softly.
Then she closed her eyes.
Afterglow of the Observer’s Gaze
In the darkness, a screen still glowed.
Pei Yuyan sat in the observation chair. Only one screen remained active before him. On it, Jiang Mian was asleep, her profile quiet and weary under the moonlight.
The expression she’d worn while reading his message lingered vividly in his memory—confusion, caution, and a faint, almost imperceptible loosening.
Subtle.
In the corner of the screen, the world stability index read: 58.3%.
Still within safe parameters.
Pei Yuyan shut down every other observation screen.
The space was left with only this one rectangle of light, illuminating his sharply defined features and his pale gray eyes, thinly iced over.
He watched the sleeping woman for a long time.
Then he opened the observation log and added a final note for the day:
“Subject has begun forming cognitive awareness of ‘Observer-01.’ Displays confusion and vigilance, but no rejection. Limited interaction may continue.”
He closed the log—but did not turn off the screen.
Leaning back in the chair, hands folded over his knees, he remained there.
In the darkness, the screen’s light flickered softly in his eyes.
Like someone keeping vigil through a long night, guarding a lamp that had only just been lit.
He wanted to know—
Tomorrow, would she still remember that tonight, someone had told her:
“It’s late. Get some rest.”