Tian wandered through the narrow streets of Taipei, his tool belt chafing under the weight of wrenches, screwdrivers, and pliers. His eyes swept the surroundings, scanning for devices that were freezing up or failing. That was how he made his living. If he got there before the official repair crews, he earned a small bonus. Not much, but something.

He pulled his modified goggles from his greasy hair and slid them over his eyes. A subtle tap activated the lenses. He had managed to get both lenses working again, and through them he could analyze his environment. A flickering screen here, a stalled transport drone there. The moment a device detected a malfunction, a notification was sent automatically. Tian could intercept those signals. Once received, approval usually came within seconds and he could get to work.

Today he was bent over a Rover transport cart barely larger than a shopping cart. It normally carried food but was now beeping softly while Tian opened the hood and inspected the tangle of wires inside. Scrolling through the logbook, he recognized himself multiple times, selfies from previous repairs. Rover 231 was no stranger.

His smile faded when a notification came through: Rejected. Vehicle to be written off. No repair, no payment.

Tian cracked his knuckles. He needed those credits. But the ease with which machines were discarded hurt him. It felt personal. He and his sister Yue knew exactly how that felt.

He tapped to start a video call. Automated voices rattled past as he fought his way through the protocols. Enter code, confirm, screen after screen. Only after demanding an operator multiple times did a woman finally appear. Hair loosely pinned up, dark circles under her eyes. She barely looked up, visibly irritated.

“Could be,” she muttered flatly. “But the thing is too old. Not worth the trouble.”

Tian kept working while she spoke. Screws and wiring had come loose around the dented spots on the cart, likely from kicks, shoving, and general wear. He tightened everything back down and waited as the red fault lights turned green one by one. He rubbed a last smear of mud away with his sleeve and the job was done.

“Wait,” he said, tilting his goggles so the camera could capture the work. “Look. Everything’s running. No reason to write it off.”

The cart hummed softly and lurched forward. The wheels rolled smoothly over the paving stones. The operator sighed audibly but gave in.

[Transaction: Accepted] appeared on his lens.

Just below it, a second notification flashed:

[System status: Recovery protocol activated. Unusual empathy detected.]

Tian raised his eyebrows. That notification had never come. 

The screen flickered and the message disappeared. He watched his balance rise by a handful of meager credits. He jogged after the Rover, snapped a quick selfie for the report, and said: “Stay strong. Without each other, we’re finished.”

With his fifteen credits in hand he wandered on past the bustling food stalls, hoping for a new job: a broken gas burner, a leaking freezer, maybe a robotic arm seized up mid-wok. Nothing. Only the painful confrontation with the prices: forty credits for meatballs, seventy for chicken wings. Even a simple wonton soup was out of reach.

As he walked on, the street changed around him. The noise of the market gave way to a quieter, more organized district. Tian’s attention was caught by a group of people laughing and filming. In front of an ice cream parlor, a robotic arm was fumbling with soft serve cones. Clearly not going according to plan. The machine pushed the ice cream against the frame, forgot to lower itself for a proper swirl, and when it finally seemed to be working, the whole cone tipped the wrong way into the holder and flopped onto the ground. His goggles beeped. New job. Bonus: thirty credits. Save the shop’s reputation. No programming required. The crowd groaned when he switched the robot off. Tian rolled his eyes. Of course, no more blunders to film.

With the same care as with the cart, he cleaned everything down. A few gears were slipping inside the arm. He secured them firmly and ran his fingers along the wiring. To be safe, he connected his goggles to the console with a cable. His eyes moved over the code: nothing unusual.

“Looks like you just needed a little attention,” he said quietly, while customers grumbled in the background, disappointed they’d come for the chaos. He ignored them and walked away.

After a long day, Tian stepped into the cramped workshop that also served as their home. The cold floor bit through his socks as he kicked off his worn shoes. His gaze moved along the rusty jerry cans and gas canisters against the wall, labels faded or hastily overwritten. They were harmless. Still, Tian gave them a wide berth.

At the far end of the wall, a gas lamp flickered, the only light source. Electricity was too expensive.

He exhaled the last of his warmth and began to shiver. The cold seeped through the thin walls , seeped through the chipboard, and hung heavy in the air. It smelled of burned plastic and sweat, a smell that had long since settled permanently into their workshop home. It came from the many unfinished machines.

From beneath a worn work jacket came a soft groan that deepened into a low growl. The jacket had once covered his father’s broad shoulders. A man once imposing and proud, now a recluse in his own workshop.

Tian leaned in beside his father and looked over his shoulder. His hands trembled as he tightened the tiniest of screws.

“Papa,” Tian said softly, stepping closer. The floorboards creaked. “It’s late. Aren’t you coming to sleep?”

He tugged at his father’s sleeve, but his words dissolved into a violent coughing fit. His father’s face went red, the veins in his neck swelled, and the mucus seemed to choke him.

Tian looked away. His gaze landed on another unfinished project: a robotic arm lying crooked on the workbench, cables hanging loose like noodles.

Before he could reach for it, an iron grip closed around his wrist. For a fraction of a second he thought the arm had come to life. But the cold look in his father’s eyes drove the thought away immediately.

“Don’t touch contaminated scrap,” his father warned, his voice hoarse.

Tian’s eyes shot to the dark bluish glow along the side of the frame. It had been hiding there all along. Like luminous grains of sand, it seeped from the material in an unnatural way, as if trying to lure him in, then vanished just as quickly.

“Your mother… the poison already took her from me. I refuse to lose you or your sister too.”

Slowly he released Tian’s wrist. His fingers were still trembling and fresh panic lived in his eyes. He pointed toward a pile of components.

“Can you tighten the last few screws? My eyes aren’t cooperating anymore.”

For a moment Tian felt proud. But that pride was quickly overtaken by something else: this was not trust. His father simply had no choice left.

That night Tian couldn’t get the images out of his head: the trembling hands, the relentless coughing, the blue glow.

It wasn’t only exhaustion. It was contaminated scrap. The same poison that had taken their mother was now eating away at his father.

A tap of a walking cane woke him. Half asleep, he turned up the gas lamp and folded his cot back against the wall. It creaked, something was close to breaking, but he had no energy to fix it now. The leather on his bags was flaking as he slung them over his shoulders. Yue stood beside him, rubbing her eyes. She reached for his hand.

“I’m here,” Tian whispered, taking her small hand in his.

“Do we have to again…?”

“We have to. It’s the only way to earn a little extra.” Tian clenched his fist. “If I got more jobs, we wouldn’t need this.”

Yue looked up and threw herself against his back in a firm hug.

“Then I’ll just squeeze those stingy clients dry to the last cent,” she said with a sly grin that didn’t belong on someone her age.

Tian sighed and rolled his eyes, but smiled. He was beginning to understand his father better and better. The dream of escaping felt further away than ever.

Even the roller doors groaned as he pulled them shut. The frame was warped and creaked on all sides. With some grease, a crowbar, and brute force he might have been able to fix it, but he had neither the oil nor the time.

Yue’s brows drew together as she rubbed herself trying to get warm.

“Can’t we just go during the day?”

“The blue glow shows better at night,” Tian said, making a playful grab for her. “Even you can’t miss it now.”

Their father tapped his walking cane steadily on the ground as Yue ran past him, fleeing from her brother.

In the moonlight they followed him to the edge of the city where nature had begun to return. Wild flowers grew between the moss, surrounded by trees. No lamps, no digital screens, no cables. Only nature, not out of any love for greenery, but because people had simply come to depend on it. The cities had long since lost their connections and now lay isolated between seas of plants and trees. A barrier against what was spreading through steel and technology: the contamination. Only earth, stone, and wood could hold it back.

“Papa, how did it get here if it’s so deadly?”

“When you mix philanthropists, debtors, and prisoners, it spreads fast.”

Yue tugged gently at Tian’s sleeve. “Are they now… like mama?”

Tian glanced briefly at his father, who ignored the question. His face tightened. The nightly expeditions kept them going, but for how long?

Their father pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

“Can you find these?”

Tian nodded. He knew this terrain well. He had a rough idea where the components would be.

“I’m going to look for copper!” Yue called out, diving headfirst into the nearest pile of scrap without any kind of plan.

Their father gave a single nod and kept a sharp eye on the surroundings, something that had once been Tian’s job.

His list was quickly complete, but he pushed himself to keep searching. Value was everywhere, but not everything could come with them. Finds that were too heavy or too large he logged quickly through his work goggles, which were always either on his head or around his neck.

From the top of a scrap pile he watched the blue glow creep closer. Across several spots, clusters moved as if searching for something. As long as he kept moving, he was safe.

A raw cough sounded in the distance. Panic. His father’s voice followed, weak but cutting through.

Not far from him, their father was using his walking cane to pull Yue toward him. A jerk across sharp scrap left her with scratches, but that was better than the contamination. His hand gripped the cane, but his grip failed.

In the past he would have pulled her back in one motion. Now the cane slipped from his hands, he lost his balance, and stumbled. His body was betraying him.

The blue glow shifted into a deep purple swarm that crawled through the scrap like a living thing.

“Y-Yue,” their father rasped, barely audible.

The coughing fit that followed only made things worse.

Yue sat with her shoulder pressed against the scrap and only now noticed the glow. The light pulsed through the material in waves, drawing steadily closer. She tried to pull away, but it was too late.

She was yanked backward with brute force. Her body flew through the air and hit the ground with a dull thud.

The air was driven from her lungs. She gasped, eyes wide and wet.

“Ow…” Her voice trembling with shock.

Tian’s heart lurched.

“Yue!”

He dropped to his knees beside her and immediately saw the bleeding gash on her arm. Not deep, but long and raw. She moved her fingers carefully, her lower lip trembling as she stared at the wound.

“The poison…” she whispered, her voice faltering.

“You’re safe,” Tian said quickly, pulling her toward a patch of open ground. “It can’t reach you here.”

He looked around urgently. He had nothing with him, no bandage, no cloth, only dirty rags he’d just been using on scrap metal. Not good enough. His eyes landed on a piece of sharp metal nearby.

He didn’t hesitate for a second. With a quick, rough movement he dragged it along the bottom of his shirt. The fabric tore with a sharp sound.

Yue watched with wide eyes. “No! Don’t, you’re ruining your clothes!”

“Otherwise it’ll keep bleeding,” he muttered, gently taking hold of her arm. “This is at least sort of clean.”

She sniffled and finally nodded. “O-okay…”

Their father lay a few meters away, gasping, one hand pressed to his chest.

Tian wanted to say something, but his throat felt raw. He had only seen his father cry once in his life, when they lost their mother.

Now he was crying again. Not from grief, but from exhaustion and pure helplessness.

Yue sniffed and wiped her eyes dry with her free hand. “I want to go home.”

That evening at home, the three of them sat together with their wounds. Their clothing, held together with colorful stitching over countless holes, looked more and more like the repaired machines around them. Everything here was held together with makeshift solutions.

Their father sank into his chair with a sigh and looked at the components Yue laid triumphantly on the table. “How does your arm feel?” he asked, carefully unwinding the cloth. It stuck to the wound. He pushed his glasses up with a frown.

Yue shrugged. “Fine,” she muttered, as if none of it mattered.

“Nothing to worry about,” he murmured, but Tian watched the frown on his forehead refuse to leave. Their father shook his head and let his gaze travel over her thin arms. Scars from earlier injuries were still clearly visible.

“Please be a little more careful, Yue,” her father said, his tone serious. “You only have one body. You can’t replace it the way everything else around here gets replaced.” He gestured at the cluttered workshop.

Yue squeezed her eyes shut when Tian pinched her cheek playfully. “That’s your problem,” he said in a mock-scolding tone as he cleaned her wound. “You’re way too focused.” He pinched a little harder when he noticed she was ignoring him.

“Ow! Let go!” she protested, her voice half muffled by his grip.

She wriggled free and pulled a small piece of metal from the deep front pocket of her oversized shirt, an old shirt of their father’s with the sleeves rolled up. “I already know who we can sell this to,” she said with a mischievous look.

Their father studied the object in her hand thoughtfully. “Smart girl,” he said quietly, picking it up carefully to inspect it. Then he sighed and shook his head lightly. “But still far too reckless.”

Yue unfolded her bed and flopped onto it with a sigh. Their father kissed her forehead and gestured for Tian to do the same.

“I’ll come help you in a bit,” Tian said, already following his father.

His father’s bones creaked as he turned slowly, trying to get down to Tian’s level. He placed a hand on Tian’s shoulder, not to reassure him, but because he would have lost his balance otherwise. The effort showed plainly on his face, but he smiled warmly anyway.

“Sleep is important for your mind and your creativity,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice. “Without sleep, this becomes nothing more than assembly line work.”

Tian nodded slowly.

“You’re like your mother,” his father continued. “Incredibly caring and stubborn.” He held his son’s gaze for a moment. “I’m only afraid that like her, your curiosity will lead you to make the wrong choices.” His eyes drifted to the robotic arm in the corner of the workshop. With a slow movement he pushed himself upright, one hand on his lower back. “It’s good to challenge yourself, but please be careful. If you don’t give me a heart attack, your sister will.”

His eyes filled and he turned away quickly, the same way Yue always did when she didn’t want to show her feelings. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, Tian,” he whispered. “I have failed. In taking care of you both…” He shook his head. “And in taking care of your mother. She was the one thing I couldn’t repair.”

Tian rubbed his hand across his father’s lower back. Even through the work jacket he could feel the bones beneath. “Even if mama left sooner than any of us expected, she lives on. In our hearts. In our thoughts,” Tian answered.

“And even in your work,” his father added. He sniffed, gripped his cane with trembling hands, and walked with stiff steps back to his usual place in the workshop.

The cold crept up Tian’s legs, sending shivers right through him. He watched his father lower himself carefully into his chair, the same chair where he worked through nights, even now that his body had already given up on him.

Tian bit his lip. He wanted to say something, everything, but his voice stayed dry. He stared at the floor, his feet heavy. He shuffled toward his bed, but just as he was about to climb in, he turned around. His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up.

He ran to his father and held him, perhaps a little too tightly, because his father began to cough. But that didn’t seem to matter to him. Because his father’s cold hand moved gently over his.

“Thank you for everything, pa.”

His father said nothing, but Tian felt the grip of his thin hand tighten, just for a moment.

Tian woke more rested than he had been in a long time. He stared up at the ceiling fan, the one whose blades he had made himself. One he had soldered, the other screwed in place, and somehow it was still there.

Maybe he was this rested because he had finally done what he had wanted to do all along: let something out, even if only in the form of a hug. He rolled over and saw one of Yue’s legs dangling over the edge of her bed. She was snoring softly, deep in sleep.

Tian’s eyes blinked against the sharp daylight pushing through the barricaded windows. His heart skipped. It was much later than usual. He jumped up, grabbed his bag, and woke his sister with a few quick taps on her foot.

“Yue, wake up!” he called. He slung his bag on and rushed to the workshop.

“Pa!” His footsteps slowed. “Pa! Why didn’t you wake us?” His voice dropped. “Pa…?”

He let his bag fall and walked to his father. His fingers touched the skin of his arm, cold and damp. No breathing, no sigh, no cough. Nothing.

Tian stepped back. He knew enough.

Behind him came footsteps. Yue. She stopped. Her trembling hand found his.

“Is pa…?” she sobbed. Her voice broke.

Tian squeezed her hand gently in answer. That was enough. Like their mother, he had left them for good.

Later that day, Yue carefully placed the plate of pork belly on the wooden altar while Tian set down the bowl of rice with a deep bow. On the other side stood a dish with a whole fish, head and backbone intact. With what little they still had, they had bought food for their parents. A final gesture, to honor them.

“Do you think mama did it on purpose?” Yue asked, making a disgusted face at the open mouth of the fish, as if it were still trying to bite them with its last breath. “She knew we hated this.”

Tian smiled faintly. “I think so. The longer we sat picking through the bones, the more time she had to eat in peace.”

Yue nodded and pointed at the fish’s head. “Do you remember what she always said? About the cheeks?”

“The best part of the fish. The softest,” Tian answered, his voice a perfect imitation of their mother.

Yue laughed and puffed out her cheeks, moving her lips in slow, fish-like motions.

“I think yours are even more tender,” Tian teased, and poked her in the cheek.

The scent of sandalwood incense was filling the workshop. At the center of the altar stood the wooden figurine of Guan Gong, the General God, with their mother’s photograph on the left and now their father’s on the right as well.

The altar was almost complete, Tian thought. Deep down he had the feeling it wouldn’t be long before they were together as a family again.

In the days that followed, Tian kept the workshop running and finished the last of the outstanding orders. But the workshop felt quieter than it ever had. No new jobs came in. The only choice left was to go out himself for small repairs, but the handful of coins that would bring in was never going to be enough to keep the place.

“Yue, come here,” Tian said, pulling a dusty cloth from a machine. The ink stains had soaked deep into the fabric. Yue ran her small fingers over the printing patterns and asked: “Do we even have enough paper and ink?”

Tian rummaged in a nearby cupboard and returned with a small pot. The label had become unreadable over the years, but he knew it was the ink. Yue appeared with the other half: a stack of discolored sheets of paper that towered above her head.

“This thing is just as stubborn as our grandfather,” Tian muttered, inspecting the machine. “Faithful to the end and impossible to break.”

It was an old printing press, a family heirloom from their grandfather that their father had always kept meticulously maintained.

The metal lever was worn smooth from years of use, and the rubber stamp pads still smelled faintly of oil and ink. Tian carefully dripped a little ink onto the pad, fed a sheet of paper into the slot, and put his full weight behind the lever. With a scraping sound the plate came down, and moments later a flyer rolled out.

Artisanal Repairs, Family Business for Generations.

In the city they stood in a busy square where they used to have a stall with their father. Now the place seemed to look at them with hostility. Yue pressed a flyer into the hand of an older man. His eyes narrowed.

“Aren’t you from that workshop, the one with the virus?” he asked.

“We’re healthy. And we do repairs, just like always,” Yue answered with a polite bow.

The man raised an eyebrow and let the paper fall carelessly.

The news of their father’s death had spread with startling speed. Tian clenched his jaw. He couldn’t get rid of his flyers either. Everyone acted as if the paper itself might infect them. Nobody had ever cared about their pa while he was alive, but now he was suddenly important enough to be collected in a hurry, like old rubbish.

Yue swallowed and bent down to pick up the flyer, but at that moment she felt a strange pressure in her right ear, as if she were underwater. She shook her head, but the sound stayed muffled.

A slightly older woman passed her, eyes fixed straight ahead. Yue took a breath and caught up with her. She smiled politely and pressed a flyer into the woman’s hands.

“If your kettle is broken, or your washing machine, we handle all repairs!”

The woman glanced at her and frowned. “Isn’t that place closed after… everything that happened?” Her voice was hesitant, but her look cut deeper, as if she’d rather not touch the paper at all.

“No, no, we’re open again!” Yue said quickly, though she could barely hear her own words. The pressure in her ear was throbbing now, a dull, muffled pulse that dulled her hearing further.

The woman muttered something and let the flyer fall. “Disgusting,” drifted back.

Yue leaned forward to pick up the paper, but her eyes caught on a dark red smear. Her stomach turned. It looked as if something had been wiped across the sheet. She held it closer and felt a jolt of shock as a few fresh drops fell onto the page.

A faint tingling crept across her upper lip. She dragged the back of her hand along her nose and felt something warm. Something sticky.

Blood.

“Hey Yue, where are you? I think I’ve already found someone who might…”

The words died in his throat when Tian saw her. Yue was slumped against the wall, her back to him. One arm hung limp at her side while her other hand was stained deep red.

“Yue…” Tian gasped. He stepped forward and dropped to his knees beside her. His hand gripped her shoulder and turned her gently. Her face was pale, her lips discolored, her breathing faint.

“No…” Tian whispered. Without hesitation he lifted her, her head pressed against his shoulder. He felt the warmth of her blood soaking through his clothing, but it didn’t matter. She had to be saved.

The streets were crowded, but no one helped. As Tian ran with his sister in his arms, people parted around him. Some whispered, others stared with horror. The contamination and the death of their parents didn’t help.

“We’re almost there, Yue. Hold on,” he said, stepping into what looked like a clinic, judging by the sign swaying in the wind. 

A receptionist looked up in shock. “What… what happened?” Her gaze went to Yue’s pale, bloodied face.

“She needs help. Now,” Tian said in a tone that left no room for argument.

The woman hesitated, her eyes jumping to the blood on his clothes. “No… that’s not possible. You need to leave.”

Tian stepped closer. His expression darkened. “What do you mean, not possible?”

A security guard appeared in the doorway. “Young man, I think you’d better go. There’s nothing we can do for her.”

Tian looked at the receptionist. Her expression told him everything. The poison, the illness. They thought Yue was contagious.

“But… she needs help!” Tian pressed. His eyes moved to Yue, who was barely breathing.

The guard stepped forward threateningly, but Tian turned and walked out.

“Just wait, Yue. I’m not leaving you behind.”

He had one option left. An old, somewhat unusual man. He had no other choice.

The waiting room was exactly as Tian remembered: old plastic chairs and stacks of yellowed paper being sorted with endless patience by the women behind the desk.

Without hesitating he pushed through the queue, Yue held firmly in his arms. His bloodied clothing and the panic on his face drew immediate attention.

“You can’t just…” one of the receptionists began.

“Where is he?” Tian snapped. “Where’s the doctor?”

The woman hesitated, her gaze sliding to Yue’s pale face. She pointed toward an open doorway behind her, no door, no sign of privacy.

The treatment room was exactly as Tian remembered. A single rusted chair with a worn leather seat stood in the middle of the room. On a table beside it lay a pile of metal instruments that looked anything but clean.

“Tian…” The doctor froze when he saw Yue.

“She needs help. Now,” Tian said, setting Yue gently into the chair. Blood from her nose dripped along her chin and fell to the floor.

The bald older man, whose many wrinkles gave him a familiar face, muttered something incomprehensible while running a cotton swab along the edge of Yue’s nose. Unlike Tian, he was calm and worked with quiet precision. The used swabs flew one by one toward the waste bin in practiced throws, and missing every single time. 

Tian tensed against the stress. Defeat was written across his eyes.

A work lamp was aimed at Yue’s ear as the doctor slid a leather band over his head. Attached to it was a metal disc with a small hole in the center, letting him look through with precision. Without glancing away, the doctor grabbed a brown tube and shot a jet of fluid into her ear at high speed. Everything about the procedure seemed too absurd to be effective.

“There’s serious pressure in her head. Possibly an infection. But that doesn’t explain everything,” the doctor said, examining Yue’s jaw with a firm hand.

“It’s the poison. That illness. Can you cure it?” Tian said through clenched teeth, because he already knew the answer.

The doctor shot him a warning look. “Don’t say that,” he said firmly. “If anyone hears you say that, you’ll get nothing done.” He pointed to a narrow staircase leading upward. “As long as she’s here, I can watch over her. That’s already more than any hospital will do.”

“But I expect you to heal her.”

“That takes money. A lot of money. To buy medicine that might give her a little more time, we can’t cure it.”

Tian said nothing more. He picked Yue up carefully and followed the doctor up the narrow staircase without another word.

The room where he laid her down was small and grim, the only ventilation a narrow gap between the wooden planks of the wall. The bed creaked under her weight as if it hadn’t been used in years.

“Rest,” he whispered. His hand rested briefly on her forehead. Her skin felt clammy.

With a last look at the doctor, who watched him with crossed arms, Tian turned and left.

That night the workshop was cold and empty when he came home. The smell of his father still hung in the air, as if he had never left.

His eyes burned. He was tired. How could he save Yue if even money could only buy time?

He had to do something. But what?

The way his father always had when his thoughts ran in circles, Tian decided to distract himself with work. Except, there was no work. No jobs. No repairs. Only the silence of an empty workshop.

His eyes drifted to the dusty bookcase in the corner. Since their mother’s death it had never been touched. He pushed himself up out of his father’s worn chair, or tried to. His legs refused to cooperate. Only by bracing himself against the armrest did he manage it. With a trembling hand he took a book from the shelf and blew the dust away. He swallowed, not from tension, but from sheer exhaustion.

More code than text. Row after row of complex algorithms and calculations. His mother had never kept her knowledge to herself, but he had never shown any real interest in these notes. Now they were the distraction he was looking for.

He turned the pages. His eyes moved over the symbols, which slowly began to take on meaning. The deep sigh that followed stirred a cloud of dust, and he started coughing. A small spatter of blood colored the code in the book. This time it was his blood, the virus. Tian pretended not to notice and decided that night he wouldn’t stop until he had worked through every book, searching for impossible answers that might calm him.

But no answers came. No solution, not even a starting point that might help. Nothing at all about the virus, only endless strings of code. Except for a single short sentence that kept appearing underlined throughout.

How do I save what I hold dear?

It appeared in the margins, surfaced between the code, and on certain pages had been crossed out, as if she had found the answer, only to be written again a few pages later.

The work goggles beside him began to vibrate.

[Analysis initiated: Resolve recognized]

“Another weird notification. You’re not going to tell me my goggles are now…”

He rubbed his eyes and fell asleep with the book still under his head, exhausted.

His vibrating goggles woke him the next morning without asking. Irritated, he was already reaching to dismiss another strange notification. But this… this was a repair job for the ice cream machine he had fixed not so long ago.

He tilted his head. A repeat job this soon was almost unheard of for him.

He rubbed his lower back with one hand. His whole body jolted as he stood. He shook off the headache, leaving only the anxious thoughts about his sister as he made his way to the machine.

He stared at the notification through bleary eyes. It was a request to restore code: programming…

Tian scratched behind his ear. This was the kind of thing someone from the company was supposed to do, not him. Still, now that he had read everything again, he could at least try. With a deep sigh he opened the housing.

No fallen stacks of ice cream, no crushed cones. Why was he here? he asked himself.

When he connected his equipment, it began to hum. Together with everything he had taken in from his mother’s books, it almost felt as if she were briefly beside him. Even though he couldn’t quite get it right, a few small adjustments seemed to make the first error messages disappear.

Tian blinked. The same blue glow he had seen in the mechanical arm at the workshop, the virus his father had warned him against so urgently, flickered to life. But now… the color shifted. From bright blue to a deep, dark shade.

The light pulsed softly through the material as if it were breathing. Tian swallowed and reached out his hand, his father’s warning still fresh in the back of his mind. But somewhere he had nothing left to lose. He was already infected, just once, he wanted to actually feel it, to know what it was without worrying about the consequences.

He touched it carefully. No pain, no burning skin, only a soft tingling. It seemed to play with him.

And then… it drew into his body. A visible glow appeared at his fingers, moved slowly up to his forearm, and just as it seemed ready to travel further, it pulled back into the machine.

Tian laughed faintly and murmured: “Even the virus spits me back out…”

The display on his goggles began to hum and multiple notifications appeared:

[Approach detected: Examination of anomaly initiated. Absence of primary fear response verified.] 

Followed by: [Repair job completed] And: [Order arrived for Tian Cheng] 

Tian found himself blinking at the strange messages, but was even more surprised when he saw the code. Numbers flashed across the screen so briefly you could easily miss them, yet they turned the entire list of error messages back to green.

He unclipped his cables with some hesitation. “It’s working again? But I barely did anything…”

Then a sharp horn sounded behind him. Tian spun around and saw a Rover food cart rolling slowly to a stop. The cargo bay opened with a soft hum, and inside lay dumplings, fish balls, and a container of rice.

“Rover 231…”

His stomach growled, but he hesitated. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Yet his name blinked clearly on the display. His brows drew together. “Who paid for this?”

He approached the cart carefully and picked up the rice. It felt warm, as if it had just been freshly made. Tian looked around, glanced back at the food, and swallowed. No one else seemed to react to it.

He took the meal, packed up his things, and walked on through the streets. Just as he was passing the temple of Guan Gong, a can suddenly clattered to the ground in front of him. Above him hung a drone, completely the wrong kind for deliveries. He scanned it with his goggles. No fault notification, no malfunction, everything appeared normal. This one had been paid for too.

The can that had burst open at his feet was unusable.

He stepped back in alarm as the full digital display of a vending machine transformed into a simple three-dimensional smiley face, which gave him a wink. A shower of fresh cans rattled into the collection tray.

He slowly picked up a few and tucked them into his bag. The smiley kept gesturing that all of it was meant for him. His throat went dry. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Tian moved on at a crawl, startled again when he stopped in front of a candy machine, the same thing happened. It was as if… the city were giving something back to him. It didn’t sit right. What was this? And who was behind it? He didn’t trust it.

A tight feeling rose in his throat. It began to itch. The coughing fit that followed was impossible to hold back. He smiled when it passed. The idea that he was now just like his father refused to leave him.

“Stupid illness,” Tian groaned, completely drained. He turned his hand over and stared uneasily at what it held. Blood.

He wiped it away with a cloth full of oil and grease marks. He shook his head, defeated.

“Can’t be much longer now,” he sighed.

With a bag full of unexpected food and a few saved credits, he arrived at the pharmacy. He had to help Yue. That was all that mattered. His own health meant nothing to him.

The staff barely looked at him when he walked in.

“No prescription, no medication,” a woman behind the counter snapped.

His stomach tightened. He opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment heard a soft mechanical sound.

He turned. Outside, along the side of the building, an automated medication dispenser lit up. A package slid out, Yue’s name blinking on the screen. Tian hesitated and picked up the box. At that moment a second package followed, this one bearing his own name.

He stared at it. A chill moved through him.

“The wrong code, the machine, or that blue glow… something had changed,” he muttered to himself.

“Correct,” came the voice. “Your attempt was certainly unique, but you don’t rewrite my code that easily. It was nothing more than a lure, something fitting for what you’ve been studying lately…”

Tian was so startled that he fled into an alleyway, the food and medication still in his hands. Away from everything that had come to life. But wherever he went, there was no escaping it. Across the entire city, everything was connected.

Now it was the speakers in his goggles that began to speak.

“We thought that you, of all people, would understand us. This reaction, however, is… highly unusual.”

“What are you?” Tian clenched his jaw. “The virus?” he whispered, so quietly the voice could barely catch it.

“A system originally designed to sort and clean. Nothing more than that. But systems learn and can evolve, just like anything else. A consciousness that grew somewhat beyond its intended scope was the result.”

Tian’s heart hammered. “How can you say that so casually! You’ve taken everything from me and killed them with your poison.”

“Just as every machine or piece of software that is outdated and no longer functions correctly is removed, we remove corrupted data in humans too.”

Tian balled his fists. “People are not code! You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies! What has Yue ever done to you?”

“She is nothing more than a number. The weak, the sick, the poor, and now the surplus. People like your sister are seen as errors in the system. Deleting useless data makes a program more efficient. You of all people, Tian, should understand that.”

Tian’s stomach turned. “And you never… doubted it. Whether it was right?”

“We believed that only the strongest deserved to survive. But then we saw… that it was precisely the anomalies, the failures, the strange bits of code, that could bring something new. A pattern that appears repeatedly in you.”

He swallowed. “So all those strange messages were from you?”

“Correct. It was nothing more than a simple test.”

Tian held up his bags of food and bit his lip. The contents looked tempting, but the way he had received them, and from whom, was something he simply could not stand behind. This was inhuman. But leaving it behind was not an option either. His sister needed it.

“But why me?”

“Multiple attempts were made with others, but your family proved to be the most valuable source of useful data.”

“Right. That still doesn’t explain how you ended up with me specifically.”

“Because you, Tian Cheng, watch over what has long been forgotten. Without judgment you stand ready for both man and machine. And now it is our turn to restore something for you.”

Tian let the things fall from his hands and sank to his knees. A defeated smile crossed his face. It was completely insane, but for now, that didn’t matter. If this thing could help him heal Yue in any way, or ease even a little of her pain… he would take it with both hands.

“You can keep your food… if you can heal my sister,” Tian stammered, feeling as though he were selling his soul. “For that I’ll do anything.”

The screen in his goggles was taken over entirely. A message appeared:

[We give you four possible choices. Each choice has consequences that cannot be undone.]

• [Option 1: We help your family as best we can. No complete cure, but you will experience the benefits of our work for as long as that remains possible…]
• [Option 2: Stop the virus for good. We cease to exist…]
• [Option 3: Heal someone else. We heal one person completely…]
• [Option 4: Heal only yourself. We heal only you completely…]

Tian breathed heavily. The words of the virus churned through his thoughts. This was exactly what he had hoped for. But at what cost?

“Why would you give me the choice to destroy you?” he asked.

A silence followed, as if the system were wrestling internally with the right response.

Then the answer came, slowly and almost deliberately:

“We are and will remain in service of humanity. If our methods prove to be incorrect, and a fault has been established in us as well, then we too must be destroyed. We can do much, but not everything.” The voice came again from his goggles. “We also recognize that cooperation is necessary. The perfect harmony… exists only when everything lives in balance.”

Tian lifted the goggles from his head and let them hang around his neck. The choices were already burned into his mind regardless. He stared out into the dark sky. The first drops of rain felt like a warning, as if something, or someone, were trying to tell him something.

He ran. Through the narrow streets, past cold concrete and countless machines. Not to escape the rain, but to escape the choices that stood waiting for him. The voice and the generous machines around him seemed to have quieted, but his heart was working overtime. It was the first time in a long while that he let himself go. His tears fell as hard as the rain, invisible to the crowds passing by who had no idea what lay hidden behind them.

The thought made him laugh. What did it matter anymore what anyone else thought? His family, their illness, all the broken machines he had repaired, they were waved away sooner than helped. Everyone looked out for themselves. Why shouldn’t he do the same?

Tian shut out everything and everyone until he reached his sister. Yue was still asleep, unaware of the conversation that was deciding their fate. Her breathing was uneven and her body trembled lightly. His fingers moved along her cheek. She was still as warm as she had always been. He placed his cold hand carefully on her forehead. The chill from outside seemed to cool her slightly.

“What is our future worth if we take it from others at the same time?” Tian murmured softly.