As the last note faded, the room fell silent for a few seconds. The fan continued to spin, sending sawdust shavings drifting in the sunlight. Chen Hao didn't move; his hand remained above the strings, sweat trickling from his wrist to his knuckles, dripping with a soft sound.

He looked up at Nana.

"Shouldn't we let others hear our music?"

Nana stood still, and the camera briefly lit up.

"You mean, a public performance?"

"It's not a formal performance." Chen Hao put the guitar back on his lap. "It's just something we can do to get everyone together and play it once. We've practiced for so long, we can't just be feeding mosquitoes."

He paused, then laughed out loud: "Maybe some people will complain about the noise and tell us to shut up."

A line of text appeared in Nana's palm: The base currently has 23 members. When organizing activities, time coordination, venue arrangement and willingness to participate must be taken into account.

"Oh, you're really taking this seriously?" Chen Hao scratched his head. "I thought you'd just say 'okay' and that would be it."

“Since the idea has been proposed,” she said, “it should be feasible.”

Chen Hao grinned: "Okay, shall we start analyzing now?"

He shifted the low stool under him, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and then took out half a charcoal pencil. The paper still bore traces of the sheet music he had drawn before, and in the corner was a crossed-out smiley face.

“Let’s come up with a name first,” he said. “Calling it ‘Base Concert’ is too fake, and ‘Weekend Gathering’ is too soft. How about… ‘Don’t Fix the Pipes Tonight’?”

Nana paused for two seconds: The naming logic is unclear and easily leads to misunderstandings.

"What I mean is," Chen Hao explained, "that we want everyone to put down what they're doing and listen to something different. We're constantly fixing equipment and cleaning filters here; even laughing feels like clocking in. Can't we have something more relaxing?"

The words appeared again in her palm: "I suggest the name should reflect the nature of the event, while lowering the psychological barrier."

"Oh, so you want it to sound easy, right?" Chen Hao tilted his head and thought for a moment. "How about 'Sit anywhere'? Or 'Whoever's free, come on over'?"

“The latter is closer to the current state of the environment,” Nana responded.

"It's settled then." He slapped his thigh. "Theme—whoever's free can do it. Content—musical opening, we'll add other things later depending on the situation."

He wrote the title on the paper, crookedly.

Next is the procedure.

Chen Hao, biting his pen, said, "The beginning must be a duet. That's the key point. As for the middle... we can't just keep playing, can we?"

"We can add a free discussion session," Nana suggested. "Each person can share a small thing they've recently accomplished."

"It's too much like a debriefing meeting." Chen Hao shook his head. "We're not here to report, we're here to relax. We need some interaction, like guessing songs, playing melody games, and the loser has to tell a corny joke."

Nana has finished recording and adds: This type of game needs to have a reward mechanism to increase participation.

"Yes!" Chen Hao's eyes lit up. "A prize! It may not be anything valuable, but something interesting would be fine."

He pulled out a pile of scraps from the bottom of his toolbox—a few pieces of wood that had been poorly carved, a cracked piece of pottery, and a bag of dried flowers left over from making sachets last time.

“Look, these scraps can be used if you clean them up.” He picked up an oval piece of wood. “Carve a word on it, write something silly, put it on a rope, hang it around your neck, and everyone will know he won.”

Nana observed for a moment: the wood is not easy to crack after being treated at high temperature, and the fragrance can be extended by combining it with dried flowers.

"You mean, make it into a souvenir?" Chen Hao grinned. "A scented medal? That sounds pretty high-end."

“Practical functions add emotional value,” she said. “For example, different flowers represent different personality traits: rosemary is the ‘calm person’ and lavender is the ‘sleeping champion’.”

Chen Hao laughed out loud: "Then I have to be the 'model of laziness,' and I'll have to taste the 'moldy bread.'"

“This category is not available,” Nana replied calmly. “But it can be customized.”

He chuckled for a while, then continued drawing the flowchart. Several more boxes appeared on the paper: opening chorus, mini-games, free discussion, and closing group photo.

"It can't be too long," he said. "An hour at most. After that, people will all leave."

"It's recommended to keep it under 45 minutes," Nana advised. "The average human attention span is 37 minutes."

"Then why didn't you remind me that I'd gone overtime practicing?" Chen Hao asked, glancing sideways.

"You are in a period of high spirits, and the system has determined that this is a valid investment."

"So I'm the exception in the machine's eyes?" He snorted, then looked down at his writing. "One more detail—the invitation method. Broadcasting directly is too blunt, and nobody reads a note. How about... a verbal message?"

“Information transmission is inefficient,” she said, “which could lead to omissions.”

“Then let’s use a secret signal.” Chen Hao grinned mischievously. “For example, tomorrow before lunch, if anyone hears someone humming the tune ‘start—walk—pause—receive—push—pull—collect,’ they’ll know the event is about to begin.”

Nana pondered for a moment: This method relies on memory transmission, which carries the risk of mutation, but it has the advantages of being interesting and covert.

“Okay, let’s do it this way.” Chen Hao made the final decision. “You’ll be in charge of memorizing the process and designing the prizes, and I’ll be in charge of coming up with the code and playing the piano at the beginning.”

He stretched, and his shoulders cracked twice. His fingers still hurt, especially his middle and index fingers; the edges of the cloth strips had turned black, and they still felt prickly to the touch.

But he didn't pick it.

"Do you think they'll come?" he suddenly asked.

“Based on behavioral model predictions,” Nana replied, “when the activity does not directly conflict with daily tasks and has non-mandatory entertainment attributes, the participation rate is about 68 percent.”

"Less than 70%?" Chen Hao scoffed. "Then we'll have to find a way to raise it."

"You can build anticipation by building up interest beforehand," she suggested. "For example, you could show some of the instruments being tuned or play recordings in advance."

"No way," Chen Hao shook his head. "We have to keep something in reserve. We want them to discover there's a show when they arrive, so it'll be a pleasant surprise."

"A reverse incentive strategy," Nana explained. "Unknown content increases the motivation to attend."

"Smart." He nodded with a smile. "But don't just label me like that. Think about how to make things more exciting."

"The essence of a lively atmosphere is the resonance of collective emotions," she said. "The atmosphere can be adjusted through changes in rhythm, volume, and frequency of interaction."

“That’s right.” Chen Hao picked up his guitar and gently strummed a series of notes. “We need to make sure our opening is solid. The very first note should be enough to make people stop eating.”

He tried the intro twice, moving slowly, but every note was clear.

After he finished playing, he leaned against the wall and took a breath.

“Actually…” he said softly, “I don’t necessarily want everyone to applaud. I just feel that after so long, this is the first time I’ve done something that has nothing to do with repairing parts. If anyone can hear me, even if they just sit there and nod, I’ll feel like my training wasn’t in vain.”

Nana did not respond immediately.

A few seconds later, a new line of text appeared in her palm: A preliminary implementation plan has been generated, including timelines, a list of materials, and contingency plans.

Chen Hao looked up: "You even prepared a contingency plan?"

“Three contingency scenarios,” she said, “including no one showing up, power outage, and equipment failure.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead,” he laughed. “If no one really comes, I’ll just treat it as extra practice time. Anyway, Qin doesn’t seem to mind me.”

“But I will adjust the lighting,” she said, “to create a visual feedback of the audience’s presence.”

Chen Hao was stunned, then burst into laughter: "You're planning to fake applause?"

"We only provide basic environment support," she said, her tone unchanged. "We are not involved in generating fake data."

"Okay, okay, you're amazing." He waved his hand. "You can light the lights, and I'll play the piano. We'll put on our own show."

He sat up straight again, flattened the paper, and continued revising the process. In the "Mini-Games" section, he wrote three options: guess the name by listening to the intro, rhythm imitation contest, and lyric relay.

"Which one do you think is easier?" he asked.

“Rhythm imitation,” Nana replied. “No language skills required, suitable for most scenarios.”

“Okay, that’s it.” He crossed out the other two. “Add one more rule—everyone must go on stage once, or they’ll have to sing a song as punishment.”

“Punishment itself is also a form of performance,” she said. “It may actually stimulate a desire to participate.”

“That’s right!” Chen Hao slammed his hand on the table. “The more afraid of making a fool of oneself, the more likely one is to come, because one doesn’t want to hide in a corner alone.”

He was writing when he suddenly stopped.

“Wait a minute.” He looked up. “We’ve been so focused on getting people here that we’ve forgotten the most important thing.”

Nana's camera flashed slightly.

"What?"

"Chairs," Chen Hao said seriously. "We didn't prepare any seats. If everyone stands, they'll be gone in five minutes."

Nana immediately projected a layout map of the living area onto her palm, marking the number and location of movable seats.

"The main hall currently has eleven usable stools, six folding chairs, and three spare boxes that can be used as seating."

"That's enough," Chen Haosong said. "Line up in a semi-circle, and we'll play together. Like a bonfire party, except we'll be using electric lights."

He drew an arc on the paper and labeled it "Audience Area".

Then, write a line of large characters at the very beginning:

[Whoever's free, come join us - Episode 1]

Date: The night after tomorrow

Time: Half an hour after dinner

Location: Main hall of the living area

Program: Guitar and percussion ensemble playing "The Song of the Base"

Bonus Event: Rhythm Challenge (Prizes to be announced)

After he finished drawing, he leaned back and let out a long sigh.

"Finally, it's like a proper event."

Nana looked at the paper covered in writing, and the camera slowly focused.

"Should I start printing the notification?"

"No," Chen Hao stopped her. "Keep it a secret for now. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll personally go around to each area and hum that code phrase to everyone I meet."

He stood up and flexed his fingers. The cloth strips rustled as they rubbed against the neck of the violin.

"What if someone covered their ears and ran away as soon as they heard that?"

The last line of text appeared in Nana's palm:

That means our music needs more practice.