Chen Hao was fast asleep, dreaming of chasing a rabbit that was running very fast. Just as he was about to pounce on it, he suddenly smelled a strange odor, like burnt plastic mixed with rotten eggs.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

Nana was standing right in front of him, her mechanical fingers resting on his wrist.

“You’re awake,” she said. “The pipes are leaking gas, and you need to fix it.”

Chen Hao sat up, his mind blank: "Huh?"

“The main heating pipe joint is loose, and methane is leaking.” Nana opened the wall screen, which displayed a thermal image. A section of the corridor below was glowing red. “The ventilation system has been activated, but it must be repaired within 47 minutes, otherwise the backup power will not be able to maintain the temperature.”

Chen Hao rubbed his face, his coat still wrapped around him. He was so tired from hunting yesterday that he lay down immediately without even taking off his shoes. He glanced down at his boots and sighed, "Can't you let me sleep a little longer?"

“No,” Nana said. “There’s no next time when it comes to safety.”

Chen Hao rolled his eyes, but still stood up. He walked to the toolbox, squatted down, and unzipped it. Inside were wrenches, sealing rings, and explosion-proof tape—everything he needed. These were all leftovers from the last insulation layer replacement, and he hadn't put them away yet.

"Let's go." He picked up his suitcase and moved towards the corridor.

The closer they got to the leak, the stronger the smell became. Chen Hao frowned and followed Nana's directions to the access panel below the main control room. The metal cover had been lifted, revealing a narrow passage filled with condensation and very slippery.

"Do I have to crawl in?" Chen Hao looked at the space, which was less than half a meter high, and swallowed hard.

“Yes.” Nana nodded. “The connector is located at the third bend on the left side, and it has been marked with infrared positioning.”

Chen Hao pushed the toolbox in, then lay down and crawled forward on all fours. The passage was low, and he had only squeezed half his body in when his shoulder got stuck.

"Move a little further forward." Nana supported his waist from the outside. "I'll hold you with my arms so you won't fall."

Chen Hao gritted his teeth, braced himself on his elbows, and shuffled forward little by little. Finally, he reached the spot and looked up. Sure enough, there was a thin gap at the metal joint, the screw was crooked, and the sealing ring was drooping, like a dead snake.

“It’s broken,” he said. “It needs to be replaced.”

“Model matched, the new part is in the second compartment of the toolbox.” Nana’s voice came through the headset.

Chen Hao reached out and pulled out a small, silver-gray part. He first tried to loosen the old screws, but the first one got stuck and wouldn't budge no matter how he turned it.

“It’s rusted to death,” he muttered.

"Spray the rust remover twice and wait thirty seconds," Nana reminded.

He did as instructed and tried again. This time, the screws slowly loosened. One, two, three... When the last screw was removed, the entire connector detached from the pipe and almost fell into the gap below.

"Catch it!" he shouted.

Nana reacted extremely quickly, and the robotic arm reached into the channel and precisely clamped the detached part.

"Thanks." Chen Hao took a breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "This place really wasn't designed for humans."

He aligned the new connector with the interface and pushed it in, only to find that it wouldn't go in even a fraction of an inch.

"Wrong size?" He was stunned.

"An error of 0.3 millimeters is within the normal tolerance range," Nana said. "I suggest pushing it forward by hand, using body heat to soften the rubber sealing layer."

Chen Hao paused for two seconds, took off his gloves, and pressed the part in with his bare hands. His fingertips touched the burrs on the edge, making a small cut, and a bead of blood oozed out, but he didn't stop.

One click, two clicks... Finally, with a click, the connector was fully inserted.

"Start installing the screws," Nana instructed. "The order is top left, bottom right, and then the middle."

Chen Hao picked up the wrench and tightened the screws one by one. His arm trembled with each movement. When the last screw was in place, he leaned against the pipe wall, panting heavily.

"Prepare for pressure test," Nana said. "Close the main valve and release any remaining gas."

She operated the control panel, and the numbers on the screen jumped. Ten seconds later, the sensor reading returned to zero.

“No leaks,” she announced softly.

Chen Hao grinned: "Fixed?"

"System stable, gas supply restored." Nana put away her tools. "The room temperature will rise to 18 degrees Celsius within two hours."

Chen Hao slowly retreated from the passageway, soaked to the bone, his face smeared with oil and sweat. He sat on the corridor floor, leaning against the wall, and looked up at Nana: "Why is life so tiring? Just keeping the house from being blown up is a life-or-death struggle."

“Because you still want to live.” Nana closed the toolbox. “If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t have climbed in.”

Chen Hao snorted: "You think I wanted to? I was woken up by you."

“But I can’t fix it myself.” Nana looked at him. “You need me, and I need you. This isn’t a choice; it’s a fact.”

Chen Hao didn't speak, looking down at his bleeding finger. The wound wasn't big, but it hurt quite a bit. He tore off a piece of tape and applied it, his movements clumsy.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Back to the control room.”

The two walked back to the room one after the other. Chen Hao slumped into his chair, staring at the pipe pressure curve on the screen. The green line was steady, like a quiet snake.

"Could you give me a heads-up next time?" he asked. "For example, tell me before I go to sleep, 'Brother, the pipes are going to be fixed tomorrow,' so I can be mentally prepared."

“Faults are unpredictable,” Nana said. “All I can do is respond promptly.”

"Then why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

“Your heart rate is slow, and you’ve been in a deep sleep state for thirty-seven minutes. Waking you up abruptly could cause dizziness or vomiting.” She paused. “I think it’s safer for you to sleep for another five minutes than to wake up immediately.”

Chen Hao was taken aback: "You know about this?"

“The knowledge base includes basic physiology,” she said. “I’m not just someone who calls the police.”

Chen Hao stared at her for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed out loud: "Alright, you're somewhat useful."

Nana didn't respond; she simply began organizing the maintenance log. The screen scrolled through the text, and she entered it line by line: time, location, fault type, handling method, and consumable usage.

Chen Hao yawned, his eyelids drooping again. He forced himself to keep his eyes open and said, "When will our lives get a little easier? It's either hunting or fixing things every day. I'm practically a handyman."

“When all systems enter a stable cycle, the workload will decrease,” Nana said. “Currently, we are in the early stages of survival, and high-intensity maintenance is unavoidable.”

"When will the stabilization period begin?"

"Expected to take more than five years."

"Five years?" Chen Hao's eyes widened. "I'm afraid I won't live to see that day."

“You’ll live to see this,” Nana turned to look at him. “Because you’re lazy, so you cherish your life. People who hate trouble are the least likely to die.”

Chen Hao was taken aback, then laughed out loud: "You know me quite well."

“If you observe long enough, you can identify patterns,” she said. “Every time you finish complaining, you’ll get back to work.”

Chen Hao pouted: "Can I not do it? If the house blows up, we'll all be doomed."

“Theoretically, you can be lazy,” Nana said, “but once you try it, you’ll find that anxiety is more tiring than physical labor.”

Chen Hao didn't say anything.

He knew she was right.

That day, when he was replacing the insulation, he was lazy and skipped painting a section of the wall. As a result, a cold draft blew in in the middle of the night, making him shiver. From then on, he would rather work harder than experience that feeling again.

"Alright," he waved his hand. "Let me rest for a bit."

Nana nodded and retreated to a corner to wait. The projection flickered slightly, as softly as breathing.

Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closed. The wind was still blowing outside, and the roof was creaking slightly. Warm air slowly blew out of the radiator and blew onto his face.

He felt in his pocket, pulled out half a compressed biscuit, and took a bite. It was so dry it was hard to swallow, but he finished it anyway.

“Nana,” he said suddenly.

"I am here."

Do you think we might meet other people in the future?

“The probability exists,” she said, “but the priority at this stage is to keep the base running.”

"I'm not asking about the probability," Chen Hao said, opening his eyes. "I'm asking what you think? Is it a good thing or a bad thing that someone is coming?"

Nana remained silent for a few seconds.

“The unknown,” she said. “Like this pipe, it was working fine before, and nobody knew when it would leak. People are the same; nobody knows what they will bring.”

Chen Hao nodded: "That's true."

He stopped speaking and slowly drifted into a dream.

Nana stood still, the screen flickering on and off. She pulled up the next phase of the inspection plan, listing the "heating system" as a daily must-check item.

Then she turned to look at the person on the sofa.

He was already asleep, his mouth slightly open, and he was still clutching an empty packaging bag in his hand.

She walked over quietly, took the bag from his palm, and gently placed his arm back on the sofa cushion.

Outside, the snow was still falling.

The wind blew through the pipe joint, making a very faint friction sound.