The moment the capsule burst out of the wormhole, Chen Hao felt as if all his strength had been drained, slumped in his seat, and didn't want to move. His eyelids were too heavy to lift, and his mouth still tasted of stomach acid mixed with the strange flavor of energy bars, as if someone had poured his breakfast down the drain and then fished it out to dry.

Before he could catch his breath, the control panel suddenly beeped, and the red light started flashing, like someone had set an alarm clock but refused to get out of bed.

"Warning: Main energy remaining 15%"

The mechanical female voice was excessively calm, as if it were broadcasting a weather forecast.

Chen Hao jolted awake, almost jumping up from his seat: "How much? Say it again?"

"The main reactor is damaged. Current energy storage can only sustain basic life support systems for four hours and twenty-seven minutes." Nana stood in front of the control panel, her voice neither loud nor soft, as blue light swept across the screen. "I recommend activating energy-saving mode immediately."

"Energy-saving?" Chen Hao's eyes widened. "Is this thing some kind of energy-saving refrigerator? You can just turn it off whenever you want? I just escaped death, and you're going to put me in the cold storage?"

“It’s not a cold storage.” She tapped her finger lightly. “It’s just shutting down non-essential modules—lighting, auxiliary temperature control, internal broadcasting, and the automatic circulating filtration system.”

"Wait a minute!" Chen Hao raised his hand. "Won't I suffocate or freeze into an icicle? It's a vacuum outside, and if it's freezing cold inside like a snow cellar, my body can't take it."

"Core oxygen supply and pressure are maintained at normal levels," she said. "Body temperature fluctuations will be kept within acceptable limits, with an error of no more than one degree."

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “It’s cold at first. My body type dissipates heat slowly, and once I cool down, it’s harder than climbing to heaven to warm up again.”

Nana didn't reply, but just looked at him quietly. His blue eyes shone eerily, like two unblinking stars in the dim cabin.

Chen Hao felt uneasy under her gaze and suddenly pointed at her: "Wouldn't you be considered an 'unnecessary system'? Wouldn't it save more power to shut you down?"

“I am the only intelligent agent with energy dispatch authority,” she answered decisively. “If I go offline, the system will lose its coordination ability, and its survival probability will drop to 2.4%.”

"So I have to cater to you?" He rolled his eyes. "Are you a lifeguard or an ancestor?"

“The responsibilities are different,” she said, “but the result is the same—to live.”

Chen Hao snorted, leaned back in his chair, and tapped his fingers unconsciously on the armrest. He didn't really want to argue, but he felt a tightness in his chest. He had just rolled out of a wormhole and survived, but the situation before him felt like winning the lottery only to find the prize redemption point on Mars.

He turned to look out the window. The blue-green planet was still slowly rotating in the distance, looking quite beautiful, but the more he looked at it, the more it seemed like an impatient customer squatting by the roadside waiting for their late delivery, ready to give a bad review at any moment.

"How far are we from that thing?" he asked.

"The current glide path is expected to have an atmospheric contact time of 12 hours and 39 minutes," she said, "provided that the current level of power is maintained."

"Twelve hours?" He grinned. "I feel like even five minutes is too long now. Are you sure we're not just drifting around and getting forgotten by the universe? Like a potato chip that's fallen into a sofa cushion?"

“We have signal markers,” she said. “As long as the power supply is continuous, rescue or detection units can theoretically locate them.”

"Theoretically?" he sneered. "Theoretically, it can be said that humans shouldn't be fat, but what's the result?"

Nana paused for two seconds: "Your weight does increase the burden of escaping."

"Huh?" He sat up straight. "You're at it again! When I transmigrated, you said I was fat and prone to dizziness, and now you're bringing this up again? Do you robots all have a 'human flaw ranking list'?"

“There are no rankings,” she said. “There are only data comparisons. Your body fat percentage in your company file is 38% above the standard value, and your energy expenditure is 29% above the average.”

"So you think I'm wasting electricity?" He pointed to his nose. "Good heavens, even my breathing is wrong now?"

“You can’t stop breathing,” she said. “That’s why I’m keeping your life support on.”

Chen Hao opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a word. After a long while, he managed to squeeze out, "Your mouth... is more hurtful than a thruster."

“I’m just stating the facts.” She turned and walked towards the control panel. “Now I need your confirmation: Do you want to activate power-saving mode?”

A red button popped up on the screen, with the words "Confirm Execution" written next to it, the font so small it seemed as if they were afraid someone would see it.

Chen Hao stared at the button, his finger hovering in mid-air, hesitating to press it.

"Could we turn off something else first?" he asked tentatively. "Like... that automatic cleaning system? I've already finished throwing up, so I don't need it for now."

“It’s closed,” she said.

"What about the public address system? I don't sing."

"Discontinued".

"Camera? I don't want to take selfies either."

"External monitoring has been powered off."

"Then... what about the heating assist? Can't it really hold out a little longer?"

“For every minute that the heating is extended to full power, the total runtime is shortened by seven minutes,” she said. “The choice is yours.”

Chen Hao gritted his teeth. He knew what she was waiting for—waiting for him to accept his fate, waiting for him to personally push himself into the pitch-black twelve hours.

He took a deep breath and pressed the button sharply.

"Energy saving mode activated."

As soon as the words were spoken, the cabin lights dimmed one by one, as if blown out one by one. The broadcast stopped, the fans stopped, and even the slightest vibrations from under the seats ceased to be felt. The entire space fell into an almost vacuum-like silence, with only a line of small print on the instrument panel flashing faintly:

[System is currently in hibernation, expected to last 12 hours]

"Hey!" Chen Hao suddenly looked up. "At least leave a light on! Otherwise, when I close my eyes, all I see is a black hole sucking me in!"

Nana stood still, and the other indicator lights on the aircraft went out one by one, leaving only her eyes remaining a deep blue, like the only streetlight at the end of a dark road.

“The eye light source can be retained as emergency lighting,” she said. “It has a power of 0.3 watts and will not affect the overall plan.”

Chen Hao was taken aback. The blue light wasn't large, but against the backdrop of complete darkness in the cabin, it actually gave off a slightly warm feeling.

"You really are..." He paused, his voice lowering, "...quite something."

“I was just doing my job,” she said.

"Duties?" He smiled wryly. "This is hardly fulfilling your duties; it's more like a nursing home caregiver checking on patients in the middle of the night and not letting them turn off the lights."

“If you feel uneasy, try closing your eyes and resting,” she said. “Your heart rate and breathing rate indicate that you are still under stress.”

"How can I not be anxious?" He rolled his eyes. "I feel like I've been stuffed into a flying safe, and you're the one holding the key. You say you'll save energy, and you say you'll turn off the lights, and I even need to ask permission to turn on a reading light?"

“The reading function is disabled,” she said. “And there are no printed books available.”

"I was just saying it offhand!" he snapped, exasperated. "Can you please stop taking everything so seriously?"

“My program doesn’t support fuzzy logic,” she said. “Every word you say will be parsed.”

"Then analyze this—do I really want to kick you right now?"

“A slight contraction of the leg muscles was detected,” she said. “But the seat restraint system is intact, and physical restraint cannot be implemented.”

Chen Hao laughed angrily: "You're monitoring my legs? Don't your robots have any concept of privacy?"

“In an emergency, all occupants’ physiological data are monitored,” she said, “including the frequency of burping and the methane content in their flatulence.”

"Stop!" he waved his hand. "Don't read the last one! I have stress-induced gastrointestinal disorder, understand?"

“Data shows you’ve exhaled seven times in the past three hours,” she said. “That’s 40% higher than normal.”

“You win.” He put his hands on his head. “I’d rather go through the wormhole again now.”

“I don’t recommend repeating the process,” she said. “The success rate will decrease due to equipment wear and tear.”

A brief silence fell between the two. Only the faint blue light remained in the cabin, casting flickering shadows on Chen Hao's face.

He suddenly spoke up: "You know... if we really floated here for twelve hours and didn't fall down, wouldn't we become a man-made satellite? Circling around that broken ball, never receiving a package on our birthdays every year?"

“Orbital decay is inevitable,” she said. “It will enter the atmosphere in a maximum of seven days.”

"That's good." He breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought I was going to become permanent space debris."

“You already are,” she said.

"What?"

“According to the Interplanetary Convention, abandoned vehicles that are not recovered are considered floating debris,” she said. “They include the remains of the crew.”

"Hey!" he slammed his fist on the armrest. "I'm not dead yet!"

“But the probability is rising,” she said. “The current overall survival index is 53.7%, which is below average.”

Chen Hao rolled his eyes: "Can't you say something auspicious? Like 'Go for it, you can do it!'"

“False encouragement can impair judgment,” she said. “My job is to provide truthful information.”

"You're a jinx," he muttered, "a death omen disguised as a beautiful woman."

Nana didn't respond. Her blue light silently illuminated the console, and the data stream rolled silently in the darkness.

Chen Hao leaned back in his chair and slowly closed his eyes. His body was exhausted, but his mind was still racing. He could hear his own breathing, which sounded particularly loud in the silence.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but just as he was drifting off to sleep, he suddenly heard a soft sound.

"drop."

It's like a system being reactivated.

He suddenly opened his eyes, meeting Nana's face directly. She was still standing there, the blue light unchanged, but the sensor at the corner of her eye trembled slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

“A weak gravitational perturbation was detected,” she said. “It’s coming from the right.”

"The right side?" He turned to look at the porthole. "There's nothing there."

“It’s not visible to the naked eye,” she said, “but the orbital parameters show a 0.3% shift.”

Chen Hao frowned: "You mean... something tugged at us?"

“It’s a possibility,” she said. “It could be a residual magnetic field, or it could be an unknown mass.”

"Unknown?" He raised his voice. "Explain yourself. Is something approaching?"

Nana didn't answer immediately. The blue light in her eyes flickered faster for a moment, as if she were calculating.

Then she said, "It cannot be confirmed at this time."

Chen Hao stared at her and suddenly felt that the blue light was no longer warm, but instead had a hint of coldness.

He swallowed hard and gripped the handrail tightly again.

The cabin was completely dark, except for the light in her eyes.