Seventeen

"What are you talking about? Someone else is here?" Xiaoya Xian found her friend's joke to be utterly absurd.

Xiao Ai frowned, aware that Xiaoya would never believe her. "I don’t know how to tell you… I’m afraid I’ll scare you… I saw someone who looks just like you… really, exactly like you!"

Xiaoya scoffed, "So I was sleepwalking? Came into this room myself?" She played along with the jest.

"No… that’s not it, I mean… besides you, there’s someone inside who looks exactly like you!" Xiao Ai struggled to explain, but she felt she had to let Xiaoya know.

Xiaoya touched Xiao Ai’s forehead; her friend’s head was still bandaged, only her face exposed. Xiaoya checked for a fever, but there was none—so why was she speaking nonsense?

She decided to change the subject, not wanting to waste more time in this room. "Are you mostly healed? Do you need to see Dr. Zhao tomorrow? Should I take you there?"

"I’m telling the truth, I’m not lying to you," Xiao Ai insisted, sensing this was something Xiaoya needed to be warned about.

"It’s not that I don’t want to believe you, but what you’re saying is just too far-fetched. Can you open the door now?"

Xiao Ai had indeed tried, but failed. "At night! The door only opens at midnight."

Xiaoya shook her head. "Maybe your head injury was worse than we thought. We should go to the hospital for another checkup. If we missed anything important, it could get worse."

"If you want to see for yourself, let’s try together tonight. I’m not lying," Xiao Ai pressed.

"Enough. I’ll fix the lock myself and clean out everything inside. There’ll be no more rats then." Xiaoya still didn’t believe her.

"As for the checkup, I’ll go on my own tomorrow," Xiao Ai said, conceding for now—she needed evidence first.

Seeing Xiao Ai drop the subject, Xiaoya suddenly remembered the reward Director Li had given her today. "By the way, I might move into my new apartment soon. You can stay here for now, and if you need anything, I’ll help however I can. Rest easy."

"New apartment? Is it close by?" Xiao Ai asked.

"Very close. The environment’s much better, and it’s a duplex." Xiaoya couldn’t hide her joy, a proud radiance lighting her face.

"You seem to have everything you want here. No wonder you’re a little reluctant to leave," Xiao Ai thought, but kept the last sentence to herself. Xiaoya was now basking in fortune—how could she ever doubt if any of this was real?

"I have been lucky these past years. Ever since I started working in the financial center, my life’s gotten better every day. Sometimes it feels like a dream—like I’m rising step by step without effort!" Xiaoya was a little intoxicated by her own success.

"Like a dream…?" Xiao Ai repeated, pondering the words, as if searching for a deeper meaning.

But dreams could be so alluring, one never wanted to wake.

"It’s wonderful. I feel these are the happiest days of my life. I’m very content," Xiaoya said with satisfaction, long having forgotten the strange events that once plagued her.

After hearing Xiaoya’s words, Xiao Ai fell silent, lost in thought.

Dreams and reality are often reversed—

October 25, 2020.
SNS Research Laboratory, 9:56 a.m.—

A nurse was caring for a bedridden patient, adjusting her body—the woman was paralyzed. The nurse was cleaning her, and it seemed that the patient’s fingers twitched ever so slightly, though the movement was so faint the nurse didn’t notice. As the nurse continued, the patient’s loose hospital gown revealed a body that was little more than skin and bone—so feeble, the skeletal frame seemed to shrink further with each passing moment. The patient’s face was out of view, but around her neck hung a necklace identical to Xiao Ai’s.

Behind a glass partition, Hollen silently observed the comatose woman.

In another bed nearby, another patient’s form was blurry, but it was clear that she was only unconscious—her body showed no sign of wasting. Yet this patient had lost all will to live, refusing to wake. Data showed her brain was in a deep slumber; if she remained so, she might never awaken.

Hollen spoke quietly, "Aiwen’s body won’t last much longer. The consciousness transfer isn’t finished. If we miss this chance, there won’t be another. If necessary, we’ll have to initiate the implant code."

"We have less than an hour left," the programmer responded. "If we exceed this window, the effects on their brains could be permanent. Are you sure? Implanting the code might cause consciousness shock."

Hollen pondered for a long while, then nodded.

Time shifts to October 21, 2020—

In an aging residential building behind the bustling financial district, there stood a solitary nine-story walk-up called Jintan Garden. Apartment 302 on the third floor was small, now cordoned off with police tape—no one was allowed inside. A crime had occurred, and the police were investigating.

Early that morning, around 7:30, officers arrived. The apartment was a mess, littered with scrap cardboard, old boxes, and empty bottles—things perhaps kept for the money they might fetch. Tables and chairs were askew. Not a single corner was clean. The dim, stifling air pressed in.

Preliminary findings revealed that a woman in her thirties lived here. She was suspected of both attempted suicide and attempted murder. She’d been taken to the hospital around 5 a.m., as had a young man in his twenties, apparently her intended victim. Both were in critical condition. They were siblings.

The reason for the woman’s poisoning attempt still needed further investigation.

One officer was recording details while another questioned him.

"A medicine bottle was found in the kitchen—it’s likely the poison she used," the officer reported.

"Where did she put it?" the detective asked.

"Probably in that pot of porridge," the officer replied, gesturing toward a large pot of millet and sugar porridge left on the table.

"They’re still being treated?"

"Yes, we don’t know their status yet. We need to contact the hospital."

"Look into her motives. Check her circle and circumstances. If there’s a death, we’ll need all this information for the case file."

"Understood. Her social circle is quite small, so the investigation shouldn’t be complicated," the officer replied.

The detective glanced at the woman’s name on the file, falling silent as he read it—Xiaoya Xian.

On a shelf stood a framed photograph—a memorial portrait of a deceased elder. The detective pointed at the photo. "Who is that?"

"Her father," the officer replied. "His name was Shiqiang Xian."