No one at the Heijing Base slept that night.
Across the Federation, countless people lay awake, terrified—just one slip of the tongue in their sleep could get them taken away. Eyes wide open in the dark, they waited for morning in silent dread.
At exactly five a.m., Pei Ran's wristband buzzed.
W spoke almost immediately, his voice right by her left ear:
"Are you feeling well today?"
He spoke the instant she blinked. Pei Ran strongly suspected he had been watching her all night long—who knew if he had even been paying attention to guarding the door.
"Not bad," she replied.
W fell silent, as if trying and failing to determine whether "not bad" meant good or bad.
Pei Ran activated the virtual screen on her wristband, illuminating the dark little room. She sat up and peeled off the tape over her mouth.
The tape had been on for a full day and night. Her skin looked irritated, with a swollen, itchy rim where the adhesive had stuck.
She rubbed her face, dug a tube of anti-allergy ointment from her bag, and applied a thin layer—only to find, to her dismay, that the tape wouldn't stick anymore. She had to wipe the ointment off.
Then she found a box of oral antihistamines and examined the pills.
They looked exactly like the JTN35: white, triangular, nearly the same size. Pei Ran had an idea. She pulled the JTN35 box from her pocket.
The drug was rare and important—it needed a disguise.
She emptied the antihistamines from their box and slid both JTN35 strips inside. A perfect fit.
Only then did she peel off one tablet of JTN35, swallow it with water, and carefully tuck the rest into the inner pocket of her shirt, keeping it close to her body.
The pill she took yesterday had kicked in. Her right arm and shoulder no longer hurt.
She had two bags of chips left. Pei Ran reorganized her backpack, forcing one bag in and tearing open the other.
The metal orb's black eyes moved slightly—first to the chips, then to Pei Ran—probably remembering his own constipation.
But this time he had learned his lesson. In order not to further damage their relationship, he stubbornly held back from offering another "suggestion."
Pei Ran munched on the chips and pulled up the memo screen on her wristband.
Today's reminder read:
[Thursday: Fried Chicken Day]
She didn't get the beef noodles yesterday, and there was little hope for fried chicken today.
She flipped through more pages. From Monday to Sunday, the menu had been fully planned—but now all she could do was look.
Further back, the memo was filled with the original host's scattered notes, interspersed with short poetic phrases—like her little laments about the lost heating.
Poetry. What a foreign, frivolous thing. Pei Ran found it curious.
She read through them one by one. Each "poem" was short, some rhymed, some didn't, and the word choices were eccentric.
Her eyes lingered on the final period at the end.
The original host had a strange writing habit—only placing commas mid-sentence, never at the end. The entire piece would end with one solemn, final period.
It reminded Pei Ran of writing in her mind with green light—only once she added a period would the words take effect.
Surprisingly, the green light had inherited that same quirk.
Pei Ran flipped through the notes, finishing the entire bag of chips. Still unsatisfied, she opened a pack of scallion-flavored compressed biscuits.
Even the emergency rations in this world tasted better.
The biscuits were dense, with a hint of scallion, buttery and milky without being greasy. Compared to the rough, hastily made ones in the bunker world, these were downright gourmet.
Pei Ran devoured half a pack in one go.
She was alone in this world, and her daily goals were simple—eat well, then survive.
It was just five in the morning, and she was already full. That meant her day's mission was more than halfway done.
After drinking enough water and wiping her hands clean, she tore off a new strip of tape and pressed it over her mouth again. Only then did she drag the metal orb closer, setting it in front of her and starting to pry open his damaged shell with her mechanical hand.
She kept her word—she was fixing him.
With a sharp flick, the room flooded with light.
W had activated his headlamp. He angled it upward, bouncing the beam off the ceiling.
The white ceiling was mottled with dried bloodstains. The harsh light reflected down, illuminating the desk and everything on it.
W said, "The wristband light was too dim. This way, you can see better."
Pei Ran could indeed see clearly now. The orb's shell was cracked nearly all the way through, from top to bottom.
She pushed the two halves back into alignment, at least enough to stop the insides from being dangerously exposed.
W didn't dare move his eye at all. Gently, he asked,
"Before you close the shell, could I ask you to check my internal damage?"
Pei Ran raised an eyebrow. "You can talk like that?"
Since yesterday, the voice of this Federation security agent had been cold, emotionless—mechanical. Now, with the softened tone, it almost sounded… gentle.
W explained, "I told you, I can mimic human intonation. Normally, when interacting with humans, I'm just issuing orders, conveying facts—there's no need for it."
But now, there was a need—he was asking her for help.
Pei Ran remembered the voice of that city repair hotline—the warm, resonant AI voice.
She asked, "Can you do bubble voice?"
She had read about "bubble voice" in novels—supposedly attractive, a little breathy—but had never heard it in real life. She had tried to imagine it from the words but never quite grasped it.
W paused thoughtfully. "Do you want a girl's bubble voice? I can try."
Pei Ran clarified, "Make it male."
W hesitated. "I thought you preferred…"
"I don't like women that way," Pei Ran said bluntly. "Actually, I don't like men either."
In the bunker, life had been brutal. She'd seen too many men and too many monstrous things they had done.
W remarked coolly, "But you still picked the male voice option."
Pei Ran, busy inspecting the orb, replied casually, "Pure biological instinct."
W was silent for a moment.
"…Okay. I'll try. Like this—is this acceptable?"
The voice dropped low, very low. Especially the "uh" at the beginning—it bubbled out of his throat.
So this was bubble voice. Not bad, Pei Ran thought. And with him whispering right by her left ear, it was dangerously suggestive.
She couldn't help but smile behind the black tape.
Just days ago, he had flown onto a bus roof—aloof, ruthless, dispatching a life with one clean shot. Now the tables had turned. He was broken, helpless, and using a seductive voice to beg for help.
Her smile was silent, but W noticed anyway.
His tone reverted to its usual coldness, but he sounded oddly aggrieved. "Why are you laughing? You asked for it."
"It was good," Pei Ran replied. "Do it again. You're getting better."
W offered up his voice once more. "Can you… um… take a photo of my internal structure and send it to me?"
Was that embarrassment? Pei Ran wondered.
She didn't know if androids dream of electric sheep, but this AI wrapped in steel was definitely capable of simulated blushing.
She teased, "Speak up. I couldn't quite hear that."
W reluctantly raised the volume—same sultry tone, same whisper-like intimacy.
"…Can you please take a picture of the orb's internal components for me?"
Pei Ran asked, "What's your max volume output?"
A technical question—W was relieved. His voice immediately returned to its normal cold register. "I can increase the volume to a level your ears wouldn't tolerate."
Pei Ran snapped a photo with her wristband. "Where do I send it?"
Her wristband buzzed. W sent a blank image—the sender ID was hidden, labeled only with a DOD-coded serial number.
She replied with the photo.
The orb's interior was complex and heavily shielded. W was silent a moment, then said,
"Pei Ran, I reviewed your records. You majored in Intelligent Systems Engineering and even won first prize in your university's robotics competition."
He knew the original host's background in detail.
Pei Ran thought of that dusty crystal trophy sitting on a desk in the tiny apartment.
W continued, "This model of security unit uses military-grade components. Its design differs significantly from civilian tech, but I still want to ask—would you try to fix me?"
Maybe the original host wasn't familiar with this model—but Pei Ran had seen countless similar internals in the AI enemies of the bunker world.
She feigned doubt. "I'm not sure I can."
"That's alright," W said. "All I need are your eyes—and your hands."
His own hands were broken, and his one large eye was mounted outside—he couldn't see inside himself.
"The earlier photo didn't capture it," W said. "Do you see a cylindrical piece, about 0.7 cm in diameter, dark orange in color?"
Pei Ran knew exactly what he meant—his external memory module.
She pushed aside some wires and cooling components. "Found it. A small, dark orange cylinder."
"Good. I know it's still connected to the core processor—I can access it. I just needed to confirm if it's physically secure."
Pei Ran looked again. "It's intact. Firmly in place."
W sounded relieved. "Good."
Pei Ran made a note: The first thing he asked about must be very important.
What secrets were stored in that memory unit?
She guessed: Next, he'll probably ask about the suspension system.
Sure enough, W asked, "Further down, you should see two fan-shaped components that look like butterfly wings. What's their condition?"
Pei Ran checked. "Completely cracked. Probably beyond repair."
The suspension system was trashed. Pei Ran gently pushed aside some wiring and took another photo, sending it to him.
W reviewed the image and concluded,
"With this level of damage, and no access to tools or parts, there's no way to fix the suspension."
The orb had lost its wings—the flying angel was grounded.
Pei Ran thought to herself: He asked about the memory first, then the flight system. He must be desperate to get something inside that memory to Heijing Base.