The investigation report regarding the incident involving an alien creature in the first-class carriage was quickly released. According to the report, it was the work of a black-market merchant who had obtained the alien's genetic material, cultivated it, and intended to sell it for profit. The whole affair was dismissed as nothing more than a greedy black-market trader's reckless stunt. The individual in question had already been apprehended by the armed forces, and other passengers were assured there was no need for excessive concern.
To the outside world, it seemed the matter had been resolved. But this was merely a facade to placate the public.
In the interrogation room, the air was thick and oppressive, the lingering stench of blood gnawing at one's nerves.
The man was barely recognizable as human, his body covered in wounds, with only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicating he was still alive.
Yet, in his current state—no longer treated as a person—death might have been preferable.
No. 4 sat at the interrogation table, twirling a pen in his hand. "Bruce, was it? Still not ready to tell the truth?"
Through genetic analysis, they had already confirmed the man's identity.
He wasn’t some unscrupulous merchant but rather a university professor with a legitimate career.
For days, Bruce had endured relentless torment. They denied him sleep, refused him the release of death, and kept him alive only through intravenous nutrients—until he confessed everything. Only then would these demons grant him relief.
Gasping for breath, Bruce lifted his blood-caked eyes, his blurred vision barely making out two figures.
One was No. 4, the recorder. The other was No. 13, who had remained silent and motionless from the start.
No. 13 simply sat there, an observer seemingly present only for the spectacle. Occasionally, when bored, he would pull a piece of milk chocolate from his pocket and take a few bites.
No. 4 frequently shot No. 13 puzzled glances, likely wondering when he had developed such a habit of carrying snacks.
Though No. 13 appeared harmless, Bruce wasn’t naive enough to believe he was innocent. After all, it was No. 13 who had reduced him to this state on his first night in captivity.
Gathering his strength, Bruce spoke weakly, "You fools... you have no idea what those specimens represent."
He said "those," not "that one."
Because when the armed forces later searched his belongings, they discovered numerous undeveloped alien embryos hidden in his luggage.
Upon finding them, No. 5 had remarked, "If I hadn’t looked closely, I’d have thought these were human embryos."
Like the deceased alien creature, those embryos had also been sent to the lab.
No. 4 asked, "Are you saying the creature from Seris was one of your test subjects?"
Bruce suddenly laughed—a mad, broken sound. Even in his battered state, he found humor in the question. "Fake... all of it is fake. Everyone’s been deceived!"
With a burst of effort, Bruce pushed himself up, his bloodshot eyes burning with a frenzy that sent chills down the spine.
"We’re nothing but pitiful insects trapped on a stage!"
No. 4 was baffled. He’d never seen someone so thoroughly broken yet still capable of such delirium.
Bruce continued, "Those creatures from Seris—haven’t you noticed they’re actually—"
A water cup flew across the room, striking Bruce square in the head. He collapsed, fresh blood pouring from his wounds.
No. 13 rested an elbow on the table, propping his chin on his hand, a smirk playing on his lips. "Work is already tedious enough. Listening to your ravings is a waste of my time."
Bruce’s fleeting strength vanished, leaving him unable to rise.
No. 13 stood. "Shift’s over. I’m leaving."
As he opened the interrogation room door, the next shift’s team arrived right on schedule. No. 13 was always punctual about clocking out—even if overtime paid extra, he refused.
A passing teammate leaned in, teasing.
"The young mistress is here again."
"She’s waiting in the lounge."
"She looks like she’d be a nightmare to deal with. None of us dare approach her."
No. 13 cleared his throat, feigning nonchalance. "She’s just a girl. How bad could she be?"
A younger colleague grinned. "If you’re so confident, I’ll go entertain her."
"No, you won’t." Realizing he’d responded too quickly, No. 13 paused, then added casually, "Since I’m free, I’ll handle it."
His long legs carried him swiftly away.
The others exchanged knowing glances, the unspoken gossip hanging in the air.
No. 13 had claimed Xia Miao was just an ordinary girl—nothing intimidating. But the moment he stepped into the lounge and met her sharp glare, he suddenly felt several inches shorter.
Xia Miao snapped, "Mikhail!"
A chill ran down No. 13’s neck. He hurried over, crouching before her with an ingratiating smile, his blue eyes sparkling.
"What’s wrong, young mistress?"
Seated in the chair, Xia Miao’s beautiful face was stormy. "You promised to investigate the disappearance of that flight attendant, Mary. But it’s been days, and there’s still no news!"
No. 13 blinked. "I’ve been busy with work, but I really have been looking into it."
Xia Miao eyed him skeptically. "Really?"
His smile was disarmingly warm. "Of course."
She studied him for a long moment before her tone softened. "If you’re so busy, you must be exhausted."
Even if he were dense, No. 13 would’ve realized her true motive: the missing attendant was secondary—she’d come to see him.
With a sigh, the cheerful young man feigned weariness. "It has been tough."
Xia Miao pressed her lips together. "Then I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll go."
As she moved to leave, No. 13 caught her hand, leaning in with a grin. "Even if you leave, I’ll still be tired."
She gave him a look of exasperation. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Brightening, he replied, "Help me recharge!"
Xia Miao frowned. "How?"
