It was a surreal tableau—Jiang Lian stepped forward wearing a black, tailored overcoat, crisp white shirt, and black tie, each garment clearly expensive. His poise was elegant and immaculate, yet his eyes burned with a raw, painfully intense emotion. He seemed on the verge of shedding that composed human façade to reveal something monstrous, chaotic, and unhinged—or so it felt, all because she touched her lips with a finger.
Zhou Jiao felt her blood rushing through her veins, thrilling her with excitement and anxiety. Human beings may be small, but their desire to conquer is a bottomless pit—tools, fire, seeds, animals, land… human history is nothing but a saga of subduing nature. Without this urge, she could never have stood there, face‑to‑face with an indescribable, unpredictable, uncontrollable monster.
Under the yellow fluorescent umbrella that he held, Jiang Lian's gaze was heavy, viscous—alongside the stares of the other "people," it pressed down on her:
"Am I a stranger to you?"
Zhou Jiao glanced at him, then looked away.
"Dr. Jiang," she said calmly, "I only moved cities. I'm not suffering from amnesia."
In that moment, Jiang Lian heard her unsaid message: she was accepting his umbrella. He quivered with impatience. The "people" around him became deliriously joyous under his influence—tendrils barely visible yet throbbing with swollen purple-red veins, like bleeding air. He wanted to bind Zhou Jiao in those tendrils, pull her under his umbrella—no, he wanted to discard the umbrella and envelop her in his own embrace. Human shelter was primitive and inefficient; only he could protect her.
But he held himself back.
In human society, every relationship begins with respect—something he didn't truly understand, only the instincts of kill and consume. But he could pretend.
Mimicry, after all, is how life adapts. And so, with fierce intensity hidden behind polite tones, he asked:
"Since you know me, Miss Zhou—will you take my umbrella?"
She extended her hand. After a moment, he placed it in her palm. Then she accepted it—and walked away. Without waiting for him.
Jiang Lian watched her retreating figure, expression dark. Was this acceptance—or rejection? Should he pull her back, make her choose again?
A human voice echoed in his mind: "Follow her."
Before, he would never listen to that voice. From the outset, he had resisted its influence. It was that voice—the remnant of lowly human genetics—that he ought to have purged. Yet he couldn't. Not if he wanted to understand human behavior. Not if he wanted her.
Silently, he followed.
For the first time, he walked not as hunter but as companion. It was a strange, thrilling sensation—sharp and tingling across his chest.
He didn't walk too close. If he did, the others would, under his emotional influence, swarm her with fanatical desire. He didn't want that—he didn't want anyone else coveting her. Even if they were responding to his own power.
Zhou Jiao felt his gaze the entire way. He didn't hide his feelings: liking her meant staring, his eyes burning like a tangible heat stabbing into her back. It was oddly gratifying to be so intensely desired.
She reached her apartment—a grim building with trash-strewn hallways, scrawled walls, layered posters, and scratched doorways. Inside a rusty elevator cage, she pressed the "close door" button just before he could step in. She caught his cold, unreadable expression as the doors began to shut. He looked as if he might flatten the elevator with his tendrils.
Yet he did nothing. He restrained himself and waited for the next car.
She swiped her card—the door began to close. At that moment, the elevator doors opened and she saw him again. Lost patience, a slit tore open behind him and a tendril flicked out, jamming the closing door.
Zhou Jiao paused for a moment, then let out a realization:
"Oh—sorry, I forgot to return your umbrella."
Holding the fluorescent yellow tip of the umbrella, she offered it. She turned it so the handle faced him—a polite gesture any well-raised person would make.
But Jiang Lian didn't interpret it as courtesy. Instead, he felt she was signaling distance—telling him to stay away. She had refused the puppets' umbrellas because they were strangers. Then she accepted his, and now she gave it back. What was her intention?
With cool clarity he said:
"You accepted my umbrella."
"So?" she tilted her head.
"Out of courtesy," he began, almost stiltedly, "you should invite me inside… to sit."
Zhou Jiao couldn't help smiling—his awkward, robotic attempt to mimic human manners.
She, of all people, was mocking him. He had never been mocked before. His pupils dilated and then constricted. All the tendrils along the corridor—a purple-black, living mass—dipped toward her as if drawn by her mocking laughter.
Normally, that sarcastic delight would have had him crush her neck. But with Zhou Jiao, everything changed: his murderous intent dissolved, replaced by a fierce impulse to kiss her—ravish her lips until they reddened, drained of laughter.
He swallowed hard.
Then she spoke again:
"All right, you can come in. But please put away the tendrils—I'm not trying to get the neighbors calling the cops."
His gaze flickered.
From the perspective of his kind, the more people saw his tendrils, the stronger the message: Zhou Jiao is his; this territory is marked. But in human terms—he needed to make a good impression.
Bit by bit, he withdrew the tendrils.
Then, almost imperceptibly, they slid inside her apartment like a sticky, transparent web—each one still "watching"—his sentinels observing her every reaction.
Inside, the living tendrils watched like predators stalking their prey.
Zhou Jiao was taken aback. The living room was filled with neatly stacked boxes, each stamped with a deep green "Organic" logo. In their era, nothing signified status and wealth more than organic goods—real organic meat, produce, fabric—all exclusive to society's elite.
In her apartment, the boxes were filled with organic garments: undergarments, shirts, T-shirts, tank tops, dresses, nightwear—even a custom-tailored suit cut to her exact measurements. And footwear—shoes moulded to fit the arch of her foot perfectly.
Zhou Jiao's eye twitched.
How did Jiang Lian know her exact shoe size?
Even the arch of her foot—he had it down to perfection.
Just imagining him measuring her foot with those grotesque, terrifying tendrils while she wasn't looking sent shivers down her spine… but beneath that revulsion stirred a strange, perverse satisfaction.
—This all-powerful "god," to please her, had humbled himself at her feet—literally. He hadn't even dared to wake her while measuring her soles.
The more cold-blooded, violent, and entitled he had been before… the more deeply satisfying it was to see him now: cautious, meticulous, borderline pathetic.
But she had no intention of accepting these gifts.
Zhou Jiao stepped around the boxes, casually took off her coat, and went into the bedroom. She picked out a couple of her own clothes—she was going to shower.
Jiang Lian stood silently in the living room. His face was stern, expression unreadable, but his eyes followed her every move.
Zhou Jiao caught that look in her peripheral vision. It made her want to laugh—yet her chest suddenly tightened.
…Jiang Lian's eyes were too clean.
It struck her for the first time: his gaze was pure.
His desire, when he looked at her—pure. His fury—pure. His obsession—pure. Even that bone-deep, abyssal possessiveness… pure.
Only non-human creatures could possess such a gaze.
Humans love projecting their flaws onto animals—snakes are "treacherous," wolves "vicious," foxes "cunning." But anyone who's really observed a predator knows: even when tearing out a throat, their eyes remain undisturbed. There's no malice. Just hunger.
Humans are never that simple.
They never act on just one desire. If it were truly just about eating, there'd be no distinction between "organic" and "synthetic" food—no corporate monopolies, no massive supply chains built around artificial scarcity.
Human greed is filthy, commercial, and endless.
The monster's greed—Jiang Lian's greed—was endless too, but it was clean. Unpolluted. Pure.
And now Zhou Jiao finally understood the strange aura of purity Jiang Lian always seemed to carry.
She had thought it was because his features resembled snow-tipped mountain peaks—sharp and cold, majestic and distant. But no—now she realized it was his inhuman eyes.
No humanity meant no empathy. Which made him cold-blooded, cruel, and violent.
But also: clean. Simple. Innocent, in the most terrifying way.
The realization left her shaken. She no longer knew how to handle Jiang Lian.
If he had been just a venomous, cold-blooded snake, she could have tamed him. Played with him.
But he wasn't venomous. He wasn't cold. He had the cleanest eyes in the world.
Zhou Jiao lowered her lashes—and all but fled into the bathroom.
Back in the living room, Jiang Lian stared at the unopened boxes. His expression darkened.
She hadn't even glanced at them.
Did she not like them?
Why?
These were the finest things this planet had to offer.
He had put a great deal of thought into the gifts. First, he had to understand what counted as "valuable" in human society. He'd considered jewelry—humans seemed obsessed with glittering stones and metals. But to him, those were cheap, abundant, and lacked true worth.
He had seen metals rarer, harder, and more chemically stable than anything humans had ever mined.
Their precious jewels were beneath her.
He'd also considered giving her full access to biotech secrets. But there was a high probability that if she ever gained control of such power, she'd use it against him.
He'd seen her psychological report. Zhou Jiao had a weak moral compass—capable of betrayal.
So instead, he gave her rare, expensive, luxurious clothes. In one of the boxes, he'd even placed the biological key to a villa—formerly owned by the ex-CEO of Biotech Corp, Fujiwara Osamu. Two months ago, that villa had still been his private sanctuary.
She didn't even notice the key. She'd just walked away.
Jiang Lian's expression turned deadly cold.
Every time she rejected him, he felt the twin surges of rage and panic—like being shoved back into that cramped escape tunnel where she had refused him over and over, until she walked away without ever looking back.
He had to summon all his strength to suppress the violent, destructive impulse rising inside him.
As a top predator, he had never needed patience. If anything blocked his path, he destroyed it.
And yet—he had held back again. And again. And again.
No one told him he was already breaking the natural laws that governed his kind.
He didn't think he was breaking them.
He just felt miserable.
Zhou Jiao stepped out of the shower. The moment she entered the room, she saw Jiang Lian sitting on the sofa, eyes locked on the boxes with a terrifying stillness—like he was trying to decide the most efficient way to obliterate them.
Ever since she realized how animal-pure his gaze was, she found it difficult to look him in the eyes.
Each glance made her heart stutter with something strange and soft.
…It felt a little like bullying a stray kitten.
But she still wanted to know—how far was he willing to go for her?
She sat down across from him, toweling her hair.
Her hair was shoulder-length, untreated, black like the midnight sky—but when the light hit it, it glimmered with the silvery sheen of dawn.
As she wiped, a few droplets flew from her damp hair. Before they hit the carpet, a transparent tendril silently extended and caught them midair.
She didn't notice.
Jiang Lian's throat bobbed slightly. He swallowed the water.
He looked at Zhou Jiao, desperate to do something—but uncertain what.
Then came that human voice again in his head:
"Ask her. Ask if you can help dry her hair."
Jiang Lian frowned. Ask? Asking risked rejection. Why not just take the towel and do it?
His pupils shrank to pinpoints… then dilated again.
Reluctantly, he accepted the human's suggestion.
"…Excuse me," he said stiffly. "May I help you dry your hair?"
Since descending into this body, he had never spoken like that—always commanding, never asking. The words came out awkward, almost absurd.
He walked behind Zhou Jiao, gazing down at her with unreadable eyes.
If she dares mock me, he thought, I'll act out every violent fantasy I've had.
But Zhou Jiao only glanced at him… and handed him the towel.
Jiang Lian's pupils expanded rapidly, flooding his irises until they were almost pure black.
Like an animal.
Zhou Jiao turned her head. She held it in, again and again—but in the end, she couldn't resist and let out a quiet laugh.
The next moment, her chin was seized and forcibly turned back.
A shadow loomed over her as Jiang Lian leaned down toward her.
Zhou Jiao closed her eyes, but the kiss she expected never came.
She opened them.
Jiang Lian was staring intently at her lips—clearly wanting to kiss her—but it was like some invisible force was holding him back. No matter how much he desired it, he just couldn't bring himself to go through with it.
For a split second, Zhou Jiao wondered if he was under some unimaginable constraint.
Seconds ticked by—ten, twenty, thirty...
Eventually, with a cold and reluctant expression, Jiang Lian slowly let go of her chin. He straightened up and looked at her, his gaze deep and shadowed.
From that look in his eyes, Zhou Jiao understood: he had originally intended to pin her down and kiss her—indifferently, even violently.
So… why did he change his mind?
Jiang Lian had no idea that Zhou Jiao had seen through him completely.
He was trying to control his expression—because right before leaning in, he remembered something: in human society, any form of closeness begins with respect.
He had to respect Zhou Jiao.
And yet her sweet lips were right there—so close it felt like only a sheet of paper stood between them.
The instinct to seize, to dominate, was boiling inside him.
Take her. Respect her.
Take. Take. Take—
No. Respect.
Zhou Jiao would never know how much effort it took for him to tear his gaze away from her lips.
In that instant, he even thought he saw something absurd—gossamer strands hanging in the air, like clear tape stretching between them. His desire was so overwhelming, it had almost taken physical form.
Jiang Lian stayed frozen for a long moment before managing to suppress the chaos on his face.
Then he stepped in front of Zhou Jiao.
—To show respect, you had to face someone head-on.
He placed one hand beside her on the sofa and leaned in slightly.
—Not just face-to-face. Eye to eye.
But Jiang Lian's gaze faltered, unfocused.
Where was he supposed to look?
At her lips? He would lose control again.
At her eyes?
Suddenly, a strange, uncomfortable heat crept up his ears.
They were burning.
His ears were turning red. But why?
Zhou Jiao watched as Jiang Lian's ears gradually flushed crimson.
She thought, So even "gods" can get shy?
Outside, the sky had darkened. Neon lights from the rainy streets filtered through the window and spilled into the living room.
Half of Jiang Lian's sharp, cold features were cast in shadow. The other half shimmered in the glow of shifting colors.
For the first time, Zhou Jiao's heart pounded—not from fear or adrenaline, but purely because of Jiang Lian.
The feeling was so intense, it tugged at her ears with a sting.
—He was doing everything he could to integrate into human society.
For her.
Then Jiang Lian spoke.
"…May I," he said, his gaze locked with hers, so tightly it was almost suffocating, "kiss you?"
Zhou Jiao's breath caught, as if she were about to say yes.
Jiang Lian's throat moved as he swallowed, silently awaiting her answer.
But what she said was: "Do you even know what a kiss is?"
Jiang Lian replied, "We've kissed many times before."
Zhou Jiao shook her head. "That wasn't kissing. No one kisses just to swallow someone's saliva."
His expression cooled—he thought she was dodging him. That she just didn't want to kiss him.
But just then, she suddenly reached out, wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her head up, and gently brushed her lips against his.
"That's a kiss," she said.
A featherlight touch.
Brief, fleeting.
And yet Jiang Lian's heart surged wildly out of control, hammering against his chest with a force that felt like it might rip him apart.
Why?
He hadn't even tasted her saliva.
The next second, she leaned in and kissed him again.
Still just a touch—but this time, her tongue flicked lightly across his lower lip. Before he could catch it, she pulled back again.
"That's a kiss," she said again. "Understand now?"
Jiang Lian didn't understand.
He only felt dizzy, intoxicated. His heart pounded so hard the sensation surged all the way to his fingertips—his hands were trembling uncontrollably.
Zhou Jiao gave a soft smile. She leaned in to teach him again.
Every kiss was brief, delicate, gentle. Neither wet nor sticky.
And yet Jiang Lian's entire body tensed under each one, paralyzed.
Why?
All he'd ever wanted was her saliva—he'd craved it like a madman. So why were these light kisses enough to suppress that hunger?
"Still don't get it?" She gently cradled his face in her hands, voice tinged with regret. "Then it means you don't want to kiss me. You just want my saliva."
She leaned back into the sofa, smiling faintly, lips slightly parted, her glistening mouth barely visible—just like before, when she'd silently invited him to consume her again and again.
Jiang Lian suddenly realized:
If he gave in and kissed her like he used to, they would once again be nothing more than predator and prey.
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to kiss her so badly it felt like he might explode. Something was writhing in his throat, like it was about to break free from the confines of his body—like it wanted to open wide, engulf her whole, and steal her breath and her saliva the way he had before.
But he held back.
Jiang Lian straightened, took a step back, and waited until the pulsing in his throat had settled.
Then, in a cold voice, he said:
"You're trying to seduce me. I'm not falling for it."