Xia Miao was jostled by the crowd, unable to dodge, when suddenly she heard a warning shout: "Duck!" Without hesitation, she crouched and covered her head, followed by the sound of gunfire.
The alien creature must have been hit—it let out a screech and tumbled from the ceiling. But the wound wasn’t enough to kill it. In that split second, it seemed to identify the most high-status person in the room. With a leap, it bared its fangs and lunged straight for Xia Miao.
At the same time, a strong arm yanked her aside. A young man loosely cradled her head, shielding her face. The next moment, his arm was clamped in the alien’s jagged teeth. The sickening sound of tearing flesh echoed in Xia Miao’s ears, and the metallic tang of blood filled the air.
Teammates rushed over in alarm, calling out the rescuer’s name: "Mikhail!"
Then, unexpectedly—crash! A wine bottle shattered against the edge of a table. Xia Miao grabbed the broken neck and drove the jagged glass straight into the creature’s eye.
Blood sprayed. The alien howled, released its grip, and collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.
Numbers 7 and 8 opened fire.
After a few deafening shots, the creature lay motionless, reduced to a pulpy mess.
The next instant, 7 and 8 looked up in unison.
Mikhail, too, glanced down at Xia Miao’s dark-haired head, his azure eyes blinking.
Xia Miao trembled, having spent nearly all her strength in that desperate strike—otherwise, she’d never have pierced the alien’s hide. But the force made the bottle slip, and the broken glass sliced three of her fingers. Adrenaline still coursed through her, numbing the pain.
Only when blood dripped onto the floor did she freeze. She stared blankly at her bleeding fingers for two seconds before her expression finally shifted.
First, her lips pressed into a tight line. Then, her brows furrowed. Finally, her eyes welled up with tears.
The pampered young miss had never done manual labor, let alone suffered such a severe injury. The pain—worse than her worst period cramps—was surely the most excruciating torment she’d ever endured.
Mikhail couldn’t help it—a short laugh escaped him.
But when Xia Miao glared up at him, he quickly shut his mouth, clutching his arm with exaggerated groans of "Ow, ow!"
His arm was a mangled mess, but the armed squad was no stranger to injuries. Even bone-deep wounds were trivial to them. His theatrics were entirely unnecessary.
Number 7, ever the instigator, cracked an ancient joke: "Both of you bleeding like that—guess you’re a real match made in heaven, huh?"
This time, Xia Miao and Mikhail glared at him in unison.
Number 7 shrank back. "Not funny?" he whispered to Number 8.
Number 8 smacked him upside the head. "Shut it, you!"
The alien corpse was sent to the lab, and the man who’d smuggled it in was hauled off to interrogation.
As for Xia Miao and Mikhail? They both ended up in the infirmary.
Xia Miao’s wound had bled profusely. After disinfection, it needed stitches.
The infirmary doctor was, predictably, nowhere to be found—probably off drinking somewhere. Fortunately, a full set of medical AI equipment was available.
Though programmed for bedside manner, the robotic medics lacked human warmth. Xia Miao felt zero comfort as the mechanical arm stitched her fingers. Even with anesthesia numbing the pain, her nerves had her shrieking like a banshee.
She turned her head away, too scared to watch the procedure, her whole body rigid. Even her usually flawless composure cracked.
"Miss Xia, please relax. Our technique is impeccable. No scarring, guaranteed."
"It hurts!"
"Miss Xia, no need to panic. This’ll be over soon."
"It HURTS!! HURTS!!"
"Miss Xia, you’re such a brave, wonderful little trooper. You’re not afraid, right?"
"HURTS!!! HURTS!!! HURTS—!"
The medical AI projected a nurse’s hologram, dutifully soothing the patient per protocol. But under Xia Miao’s onslaught, the projection flickered, at a loss.
For a while, the infirmary echoed with her howls.
Mikhail lounged on the adjacent bed, propping his head up with his good arm while the other was methodically tended to by robotic arms—disinfected, debrided, stitched, and medicated. He didn’t so much as flinch through the entire process.
Instead, he watched Xia Miao’s flailing with amused fascination, grinning like a fool.
He’d seen plenty of people beg and weep before, but never someone whose crying was this entertaining.
Compared to his injury, Xia Miao’s was minor. After a few stitches and a bandage, her treatment was done.
It took her a while to recover. When she finally looked up, she found the young man across from her still grinning. She snatched a pillow and hurled it at his face, scoring a direct hit.
Mikhail coughed, schooling his expression into something less punchable. His wounded arm was now mid-stitch.
Xia Miao turned away, briskly dabbing her eyes with a tissue before facing him again—once more the flawless, untouchable heiress.
Glancing at his gruesome injury, she said, "Thanks for saving me." Her voice was hoarse from screaming.
Mikhail twirled a heart model he’d scavenged from somewhere, eyes crinkling. "No need. Protecting passengers is our job. Besides, you helped me too."
No one would’ve guessed the seemingly high-maintenance Xia Miao could strike so decisively. Even he’d been surprised.
Xia Miao slid off the bed and strode over, scrutinizing him head to toe. She wanted to project dominance, but the man’s height advantage—even seated—made it a losing battle.
She stayed silent. Mikhail waited, unbotered, his golden hair catching the light, blue eyes sparkling like stars.
Finally, Xia Miao declared, "Regardless, you helped me. So I’ll make an exception—I’ll be your friend."
Mikhail tilted his head. "Friends?"
"Yeah."
He drew out an "Ohhh." "So what’s step one of this friendship?"
"Of course, it's about exchanging names. You know I'm called Xia Miao, but I still don’t know your name. If I can’t even say my friend’s name, wouldn’t that be embarrassing?"
No. 13 nodded again. "I see."
He flashed a broad smile. "My name is Mikhail Anatolyevich Dobrolubsky."
Xia Miao: "..."
No. 13 gazed at her with clear, innocent eyes, brimming with anticipation, as if waiting for his new friend to say his name.
Xia Miao smiled. "Does your wound still hurt?"
No. 13: "Um, my name is—"
"Would you like some water? I’ll pour you a glass."
No. 13 reached out. "My name—"
"There’s no water here. Wait, I’ll go outside and find someone to bring you some."
Xia Miao walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her without so much as a backward glance.
Inside the medical ward, No. 13 scratched his vividly colored hair in confusion.
Didn’t she say friends should be able to say each other’s names?
His name was so easy to remember—why wouldn’t she say it?
