The metal sphere hovered in the air for a moment, then retraced its path and exited through the open door.
Somewhere along the way, the paused commercial resumed playing.
"This is our beautiful homeland—"
"Where dreams come true for you and me—"
The jingle chirped brightly.
"…peace of mind…"
"…happiness…"
"…sunshine…"
The noise inside the carriage quickly drowned out the music.
"Did that AI seriously just kill someone in public?"
"Haven't you seen the news? That new Federal Security Act passed last month—gave them the authority."
"Was she a fugitive?"
"They already said it: AI doesn't make mistakes. During limited trial runs, the error rate was something like zero-point-something per million—way lower than any human marshal."
"They said when they open fire, it's either on extremely dangerous fugitives or terrorists."
"Exactly. When dealing with regular criminals, they use tranquilizer darts. But if the target's classified as Level 15—extremely dangerous—they're authorized to use lethal force in emergency situations, especially when public safety is at risk."
"So that thing just… left? What about the body?"
"Someone'll come deal with it at the terminal."
"Great. So now we're just riding with a corpse?"
The one truly riding with the corpse was Pei Ran.
The dead woman's thigh was still pressed tightly against Pei Ran's. It hadn't even gone cold.
The rest of the passengers were doing their best to inch away, carving out a pocket of space around the body despite the crammed conditions.
Seats were hard to come by. Pei Ran stayed where she was.
The woman's head lolled to the side. The wound on her forehead was a small hole, but blood streamed from it endlessly, soaking her pants a deep crimson, then running down her legs to pool on the floor. The air stank of iron.
The bus started up again. A turn sent the body slumping over toward Pei Ran.
She pushed the woman's arm gently away, angling the corpse toward the window. She propped up the limp head between the seat back and the windowpane, tilting it upward—at least it wouldn't keep leaking blood all over the place.
Pei Ran had grown up around corpses. This didn't faze her.
Back in the bunker world, dead bodies piled up regularly. One was nothing.
Once the body was situated, Pei Ran wiped her face with her fingertips and started peeling off her gloves.
But the moment she removed the one on her right hand, she paused.
Underneath was a mechanical hand.
Matte black. Sleek.
Exquisitely made, with intricate joints. The metal extended all the way up into her sleeve.
She flexed her fingers instinctively.
The mechanical hand moved naturally, with complete precision. Even with her heightened awareness, Pei Ran hadn't noticed anything off before this moment.
The fingertips and grip zones had a slightly different texture—matte, almost frosted—likely embedded with sensory tech.
She glanced around, then began feeling up her own right arm.
The hard metal ran all the way to her shoulder, only giving way to soft, elastic muscle at the very top.
She removed her other glove.
This one revealed a human hand—but something felt off.
The size, shape, and lines on it were all eerily familiar. It looked exactly like her hand from the bunker world.
She hesitated, then tapped the wristband she wore.
On one side of the hard black device was a small raised bump. Her muscle memory kicked in—she pressed it. A small holographic screen popped up and hovered before her.
Pei Ran dragged her fingers across it. The screen floated upward and enlarged slightly.
She opened the camera app and switched to the front-facing lens.
A familiar face stared back.
Same nose, same eyes, even the same pallid skin tone—sunless and ghostly white.
Identical to hers.
Except in the bunker, she had always shaved her head bald. Never let it grow past an inch—easier to keep clean and to treat wounds.
This body had long hair. It draped past her shoulders.
A familiar face with an unfamiliar hairstyle. Oddly refreshing.
Years ago, Pei Ran had once traded a bottle of homemade liquor for an old black-market reader. It was filled with stories—most ancient, crumbling fiction.
Body-swapping, world-jumping stories. Common fare in those tales.
The protagonist almost always shared the same name—or at least a similar one—with the body they landed in. Destiny. A sign from the heavens.
Pei Ran studied her face.
Same name. Same look. That's some cosmic-level fate right there.
The bus changed lanes and took a nosedive, like a plane descending. After a bumpy drop, it pulled into another stop.
The view outside was familiar. Instinctively, Pei Ran knew—this was her stop.
The bus landed on solid ground this time. The narrow street was cluttered with uncollected black trash bags, some ripped open and reeking. Pedestrians tiptoed between the mess, carefully picking their steps.
Pei Ran got off and ducked into a nearby old building.
Fragments of memory surged forward.
"Phantom Wing Tower, Block A, Unit 02115." She recited silently, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button.
The unit was a legacy—a small apartment left to her by the body's parents.
The elevator dinged at the 21st floor. She found the door to 02115.
No retinal scanner here—just a fingerprint lock. The touch screen was worn and cloudy, clearly a decade out of date.
Pei Ran removed her glove and pressed her left index finger to the pad. The door clicked open.
The building used to be a tech company's old factory—Phantom Wing. High ceilings, big space, but outdated. The heating pipes were strapped crudely to the walls with iron brackets, rust blooming on every bolt.
Pei Ran locked the door, kept her coat on, and made a slow circuit through the apartment. She peeked out the window.
Across the street stood another building. Just like the rest of this city—hazy and gray, even in daylight. Neon signs buzzed with color.
A "window" was a novelty.
Back in the bunker, Uncle Alimu ran a black-market stall. Behind it hung a massive painting.
It was a window—painted wide open, looking out onto grass so green it hurt the eyes, and a sky so blue it looked artificial. People always stopped to stare.
"Back in the day," Uncle Alimu had said, "every home had a window."
"All of them?" someone scoffed.
"Every last one. And through that window—you could see the sky."
In the bunker world, there were only walls.
Pei Ran stood by her window, tilting her head to catch a patch of gray sky between the towers.
She had a home now.
One that belonged entirely to her. With a window. A view of the outside.
She opened the holographic screen from her wristband again, tapped into lingering memories, and logged into the account of the original owner. Then checked her financials.
Bad news: she lost her job today. No immediate income.
Good news: she owned the apartment outright. And the original owner had decent savings—enough to survive for a while.
It was a nice place.
A little cold—she could see her breath. The thick heating pipes came in through the walls, but the vents weren't blowing any warmth.
The bathroom was fully stocked. The bed was tidy and comfy, the blanket thick but light.
On the nightstand sat a dusty crystal trophy—first prize from a robotics modification contest. Judging by the date, it must've been from college.
In the corner stood a freestanding punching bag and a set of dumbbells. These weren't dusty—the girl must've worked out regularly.
The fridge was nearly empty. Just a few bottles of water. Apparently, cooking wasn't her thing.
But a whole cabinet was filled with snacks.
Mostly—bags and bags of chips.
Pei Ran stared, stunned.
In the bunker, food was a sacred resource. You had to calculate every crumb.
She had never—ever—had this much food to herself in her entire life.
She picked up a bag of chips and flipped it over to read the nutrition label.
One flimsy bag… 800 calories.
Eight. Hundred. Calories.
A golden treasure trove of calories.
She remembered once, back when she was scavenging topside and got trapped in a cave. She survived for four whole days on just seven or eight hundred calories of emergency rations.
Now, in her hands, she held a crunchy, fried, sugar-fat miracle.
Sugar and fat—caloric dynamite. Bliss on the tongue.
She kicked off her coat and shoes, hugged the bag of chips, and dove onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow.
This body-swap?
It was like winning the lottery.
After lounging a while, she rolled onto her back, opened the wristband again, and resumed exploring its functions.
Battery status said: 31.4 years remaining.
She chuckled. The band might die before the battery ever does.
She flipped through more notes, pausing on a peculiar to-do list for today. It didn't look like errands—more like… poetry?
Missing you
Blood frozen
Soul petrified
If, after millions of years, someone pries open my fossilized jaw
They'll find, on the tip of my tongue—
Your name, still sealed there.
Pei Ran blinked. Was this… a poem?
Dramatic as hell. Must've been in love.
Next to it was a red notification dot. She tapped it.
I miss you so much—my heating system!! Please please don't forget to file a repair request after work!!
[City Utility Hotline]
Pei Ran: "…"
Yeah. That was some deep, poetic love—for her radiator.
Another note: Tuesday = Pizza Day.
Wait. This world… had pizza?
Crispy-edged, flour-dusted crusts. Mountains of toppings. You lift a slice, and molten cheese stretches out in silky strings…
Just the thought made her heart melt.
The food delivery app sat right beside the notepad. She opened it—and was immediately overwhelmed by the abundance.
So many dishes she'd only ever heard about. Never tasted.
After much deliberation, she decided to stick with the original routine: from the user's favorite shop, she ordered a bacon shrimp pizza, a slice of matcha cake, and a cold Coke.
Less than twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
The delivery guy stood outside, holding the box and drink, wearing an apologetic look.
"I forgot your cake. I'll go grab it right now."
Pei Ran: "It's okay."
"I'll be quick."
Ten minutes later, he was back, matcha cake in hand.
He rang the doorbell.
Pei Ran opened the door to take the bag.
Delivery guy: "About that pizza…"
Pei Ran: ?
Delivery guy: "The store says they gave you the wrong one. You were supposed to get the bacon shrimp, but they accidentally sent avocado shrimp. Would you mind—"
He held out his hand.
Pei Ran paused.
Pei Ran: "That pizza…"
Delivery guy: ?
Pei Ran: "I already ate it."
The guy stared in disbelief.
A fifteen-inch pizza—bigger than a wok lid, a family-sized monster meant for four or five people—completely gone in under ten minutes?
This girl… was a bottomless pit?