drop.

The seat vibrated precisely on time, like a small hammer tapping on his lower back. Chen Hao's eyelids twitched violently, jolting him out of his half-asleep state, his hand instinctively reaching for the metal casing of the lubricant bottle.

He didn't open his eyes for long, just enough to make out the graduation mark on the rim of the measuring cup. Fifty milliliters, no more, no less. Last time, a little bit was left hanging at the top of the bottle after he poured it out, so this time he deliberately tilted the bottle to let the last drop slide in—saving such a tiny bit, he didn't know what he was trying to achieve, since it wasn't food anyway.

The oil slowly flowed into the filler port, sticky as if it refused to move quickly. He stared at the silicone tube, the yellow liquid crawling slowly inside, like a lazy worm.

Just as the last drop fell into the port, the overhead light flickered.

It wasn't the flickering kind; it was a complete power outage for half a second, then the screen lit up again. The control panel screen also went black for a moment, and the data fluctuated, with the temperature reading jumping from 84.0°C to 86.1°C and then dropping back to 83.7°C, shaking back and forth like a seizure.

"Huh?" Chen Hao's hand trembled, and the measuring cup almost fell onto the metal table. "This thing can twitch?"

Nana had already turned around, facing the main control screen. The blue light from the optical lens was flashing rapidly, almost continuously. "Preliminary judgment: The pressure fluctuation in the cooling circuit was detected, with an amplitude of ±7% and a cycle of 4.3 seconds." Her speech was faster than usual, but her tone was still as flat as an iron plate. "Preliminary judgment: The lubricating oil underwent slight decomposition at high temperature, generating microparticles that interfered with the flow sensor."

"Cycles?" Chen Hao rubbed his face. "That sounds like something I missed when I slept through high school chemistry class."

“Substances decompose under continuous heating, producing insoluble residues.” She pulled up a simulation diagram of the circulation path, where a certain node glowed orange. “This is a high-risk area for deposition. If the blockage worsens, it may lead to local overheating and trigger a chain reaction.”

Chen Hao stared at the orange mark and suddenly felt that this system was not like a machine, but more like an old man with a chronic illness. He took some folk remedy, which worked temporarily, but he didn't know when he would start coughing up blood again.

"So we're not fixing equipment now, we're taking care of a patient who might vomit oil at any moment?" He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders bouncing up as soon as they touched the cushions—the sling was still hot, the area on his chest was so hot you could fry an egg on it, the aftereffects of walking back yesterday hadn't completely dissipated.

“The analogy has a logical flaw,” Nana said, “but the conclusion is acceptable.”

"You really know how to pick your words." He sighed, pulled a pen from his toolbox, and added a line to the back of the duty roster: "Pay attention to the frequency of light flashing." After writing it, he casually drew a small circle to emphasize it, but his hand trembled, and the ink smudged in a small patch, like a moldy biscuit.

The wind howled outside the window, and the cabin trembled slightly, as if the entire planet were hiccuping. He looked up at Nana, who was still standing in front of the star core fragment, the camera constantly refreshing the data stream, as quiet as a night light that would never go out.

"Are you sure you don't need to rest?" he asked.

"My operation is not affected by biological rhythms."

"That makes things so easy for you." He rubbed his face. "If I could turn off my phone for eight hours and wake up to find nothing wrong, I'd be happy too."

"The probability of sleep disruption in humans is higher than 73%," she said. "Especially in the three minutes before the alarm goes off, you often toss and turn, grab the blanket, or talk in your sleep."

"You remember such details?"

All abnormal states must be archived.

"So even my snoring is on file?" He rolled his eyes. "If I ever write a memoir, I'll title it 'My 365 Days as a Duty Officer in the Scrap Metal Holder'."

Nana didn't reply, but simply turned slightly to recalibrate the sensor angle.

Chen Hao glanced at the dashboard; the temperature reading had finally stabilized, and the lights had stopped flashing. Everything seemed calm, but he knew that this quiet was like a proctor suddenly walking out of the classroom during an exam—seemingly relaxed, but everyone was actually afraid the door would be kicked open at any moment.

He didn't lie down or close his eyes; instead, he dragged the chair forward half a meter, closer to the control panel. His fingers rested on the lubricant bottle, gently stroking the edge of the label. The line "Strictly prohibited from human contact" was already frayed from his picking.

"You think this thing will last for three hours without any problem?" he asked.

"The next significant fluctuation is predicted to occur in two hours and forty-seven minutes," she said, "with an margin of error of ± thirteen minutes."

"So, I have to prepare for the next round of oil feeding as soon as I sit down?"

"Yes."

"Goodness, I'm at my peak right from the start. My schedule is already full on my first day on duty." He stretched, but then his knee cracked, startling him. "Oh no, my body is starting to break down."

"It's advisable to reduce prolonged sitting," Nana cautioned. "Insufficient joint lubrication can lead to limited mobility."

"Don't talk about this." He quickly put his leg down. "Now I get goosebumps just hearing the word 'lubricant'."

Time ticked by. He stared at the countdown panel, his eyes dry, his head buzzing as if an old fan were whirring inside his skull. He took a sip of water; it was lukewarm and tasteless, making a crisp sound as he put the cup back.

Half an hour later, the lights flashed again.

This time it was even shorter, less than half a second, but the frequency changed. It was no longer a single flash, but three rapid flashes in succession, like someone blinking.

Nana immediately locked onto the signal source. "The fluctuation period has shortened to 3.1 seconds, and the pressure amplitude has increased to ±9.2%." Her voice tightened slightly. "The concentration of microparticles has increased, and the circulation efficiency has decreased by five percent."

"So it's getting worse?" Chen Hao sat up straight. "Can't we adjust some parameters to reduce the pressure?"

“We have tried adjusting the pump speed and valve opening.” She pulled up a set of graphs, “but the physical properties of the lubricant have obvious limitations, making it impossible to form a stable flow field.”

"So we're just watching it get worse step by step?"

"The optimal strategy at present is to maintain the cycle with manual intervention, while monitoring the pressure changes of key nodes."

"It means you have to keep feeding it and keep a close eye on it." He smiled wryly. "I thought making do for three days would be the ultimate challenge, but it turns out to be a laborious task with endless refills."

"You can choose to stop the injection."

"Stop and just wait for it to freeze?" He shook his head. "I'd rather go out for a run to cool off now."

He glanced again at the silicone tube connecting to the oil tank. The yellow liquid was still flowing, but the speed had visibly slowed down, as if invisible fuzz was quietly growing inside the tube, gradually narrowing the passage.

"How about... we replace the pipe?" he suddenly thought.

“There are three spare pipelines in total,” Nana replied. “Two of them have developed aging cracks due to long-term storage and are unusable; the remaining one is in good condition, but the interface size is not compatible and needs to be modified and adapted.”

"Then let's change it."

"The modification requires the use of cutting tools and sealant, and the cooling cycle must be interrupted for at least eight minutes during the operation."

What will happen in eight minutes?

"The surface temperature of the star core debris will exceed the critical value, which may trigger a protective lock-up."

What happens after it's locked?

"Energy output interrupted, life support systems degraded."

"Here we go again." He waved his hand. "Forget it, I'm not gambling with my life."

He looked down at his duty roster, densely packed with times until tomorrow morning, each marked with a small checkmark to indicate completion. The latest column was blank, waiting for him to fill it in.

"Third bet countdown: 1 hour, 59 minutes, and 36 seconds." The system voice announcement sounded.

He stared at the number and suddenly chuckled.

"Do you think if I frame this chart and hang it on the wall, would I be considered a model worker?"

Nana glanced at him but didn't say anything.

But she raised her hand and put another label on the side of the control panel: "Warning: Sudden Pressure Changes." The handwriting was neat, and it was pasted next to the previous one, "50ml every 120 minutes, do not drink," as if it were a monument to this hastily put-together system.

Chen Hao didn't say anything more. He washed the measuring cup, put it back in his tool bag, and then pulled out a crumpled novel from the bottom of his backpack. The cover read "The Retirement Life of an Interstellar Courier," and the corners of the book were curled up like fried chicken skin.

He turned to the first page, read two lines, and found that he hadn't read a single word.

The wind outside grew stronger, making the cabin creak and groan. He looked up at the lights; thankfully, they weren't flickering.

The temperature reading on the dashboard was stuck at 83.9°C, with the edge of the green zone wobbling. The pressure gauge was trembling slightly, like a patient with an irregular heartbeat.

He placed the novel on his lap, his fingers returning to the lubricant bottle.

The countdown for the fourth bet begins: 1 hour, 59 minutes, and 52 seconds.

He stared at the string of numbers and suddenly felt that this life pod was neither a shelter nor a spaceship, but rather an intensive care unit where life was being forcibly extended, and he was the family member who was forced to learn how to give IV drips.

Nana stood in front of the star core fragment, her optical lens constantly refreshing the data stream, never moving an inch.

Chen Hao opened his mouth, as if to say something, but in the end only managed to utter one sentence:

"Remind me next time to bring a deck of cards to my shift."