The cabin was completely dark.

Chen Hao blinked, thinking there was something wrong with his eyes. He subconsciously looked up and saw two pale blue dots of light floating in mid-air, like two half-burnt candles lit in a dark room.

"You're still... keeping it on?" His throat was a little dry.

"System is running normally." The voice came from behind the blue light, as calm as an alarm clock that had just woken up. "Energy saving mode is activated, and all non-essential modules are turned off."

Chen Hao slowly released the handrail and reached forward, only to have his fingers hit the bulkhead. He hissed, pulled his hand back, and shook it: "It's so dark, not even a fart can be seen."

He tried to move, but as soon as he lifted his foot, he tripped on the edge of the seat, fell forward, and slammed his knee hard against the console base. The pain made him bend over like a shrimp, and he uttered three words: "I give up."

“I suggest proceeding slowly,” Nana said. “Under visual deprivation, the spatial perception error rate increases by 62%.”

"Why didn't you say so earlier!" he rubbed his leg. "You only start explaining things after I've already fallen? Are all robots like this—only reading the instruction manual after a human has an accident?"

“I didn’t anticipate your need to fall,” she said. “Your sequence of movements did not trigger any danger warnings.”

"So I have to fill out a 'I'm going to crash' application form first?" he muttered, slowly standing up while holding onto the wall, rubbing himself as he muttered, "This lousy cabin doesn't even have a night light, does it think I have night vision goggles?"

He finally found his way back to his seat, plopped down, and caught his breath. But just as he was about to close his eyes, his ears started throbbing. The sound of blood rushing through his head, the friction of his nasal passages as he breathed, even the churning of the remaining food in his stomach—all were amplified several times over.

"It's so quiet... like a morgue." He turned to look at the two blue lights. "Can't you say something? Don't just stand there shining."

“What information do you need?” she asked.

"Anything will do, even a joke." He leaned back in his chair, "Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll go crazy first."

"It doesn't have permission to load entertainment databases," she said, "but it can provide basic Earth physics knowledge."

"Physics?" He grinned. "I don't even know where I am, and you want me to learn something?"

“For example, sound cannot travel in a vacuum.” She paused. “All the sounds you hear now come from micro-vibrations inside the body or the cabin.”

"Wow." He rolled his eyes. "Isn't this even scarier? Turns out I've been having a concert in my ears the whole time."

He sat for a while longer, and the colder he got, the colder it became. It wasn't the kind of chill that's biting, but rather like cool water slowly seeping into his clothes and running down his skin. He rubbed his arms and found that his fingertips were already a little stiff.

"Has the temperature dropped?" he asked.

“The ambient temperature control system has been turned off,” she said. “The current temperature inside the cabin is dropping by 1.3 degrees Celsius per hour, and it is expected to approach the lower limit of human tolerance in twelve hours.”

"Huh?" He looked up abruptly. "You mean I'm going to freeze to death here? Just to save a little electricity?"

“You won’t freeze to death,” she answered decisively. “The life support system is still functioning, and body temperature fluctuations will be kept within a safe range.”

"But I'm already cold." He shrank his neck. "My body type makes it hard to lose heat, so once I lose my temperature, it's much harder for me to warm up than for the average person, you know?"

“The data is accurate,” she said. “Your basal metabolic rate is 17% lower than the average for men your age, which means you are less efficient at generating heat.”

"Not again?" he sighed. "Can you please stop bombarding me with data? What I need right now is comfort, not medical reports."

“False reassurance can affect survival judgment,” she said. “My job is to provide honest feedback.”

“This isn’t AI, it’s a funeral consultant.” He grabbed a flat metal box next to him, fumbled to open it, and pulled out a few fluorescent stickers. “Luckily, I remember there are these in the standard emergency kits on cargo ships.”

He tore off a sheet and slapped it onto the edge of the control panel, then reached for the armrest of the seat and stuck another one there. The dim green light barely outlined the contours of a few key locations.

"How about that?" he pointed smugly. "That's called human intelligence, understand?"

“The lighting power is zero,” she said. “It relies on afterglow to emit light, lasting for about twenty-three minutes.”

"That's enough!" he waved his hand. "At least let me know where I won't bump my head."

He sat down again, staring at the two stickers that were about to go out, and suddenly found it a little funny: "Don't you think we look like two homeless people hiding in a cardboard box? The universe outside is so big, and we're just clinging to this little bit of light."

“The analogy is inaccurate,” she said. “We are inside a high-precision spacecraft, not a cardboard box.”

"Can't you just play along?" he rolled his eyes. "I'm just using an analogy, and you're correcting me?"

“My program does not allow for vague expressions,” she said.

"Alright," he waved his hand. "Then tell me, how much electricity is left? I want to know."

“The main storage capacity is 14.7% remaining,” she said. “It is expected to sustain basic life support until two hours before reentry.”

"Only 14.7%?" He frowned. "Wasn't it 15% just now? It's only been a few minutes, and it's dropped by 0.3%?"

“There is energy loss during the system switching process,” she said. “And your repeated getting up and moving around increases the load on the oxygen circulation.”

"So even walking consumes electricity?" he chuckled wryly. "Do I have to hold my breath now?"

“Breathing cannot be regulated,” she said, “but it is recommended to reduce limb movement to lower the rate of oxygen consumption.”

He sighed, sank deeper into his seat, and pulled his coat tighter around himself. The chill was still seeping into his bones, but he dared not move, afraid of wasting even more electricity.

Silence descended once more.

He stared at Nana's blue eyes and suddenly felt that they were not like lamps, but rather like the eyes of some kind of deep-sea fish, quietly suspended in the darkness, watching him, the clumsy prey, gradually adapt to the desperate situation.

"Aren't you tired of standing like this for so long?" he broke the silence.

“I don’t have a fatigue mechanism,” she said. “I can maintain my current state for 726 hours.”

"Over seven hundred hours?" he clicked his tongue. "Then you could take on a marathon single-handedly?"

“I am not an individual participant,” she said.

"Can't you just say 'more or less'?" he snapped. "Do you have to give me an exact number?"

“Accuracy is the foundation for avoiding misunderstandings,” she said.

He fell silent again. All he could hear was his own breathing and the occasional low hum of a machine. He tried to close his eyes, but found that the darkness made his brain exceptionally active—one moment he was thinking about being late to work and getting fined, the next he was dreaming of floating in space and turning into an ice pop, while the deliveryman circled him three times saying, "Unable to deliver."

"Can't you talk about something else?" He opened his eyes. "Like... a love story? Campus gossip? Alien blind dates?"

“There is no relevant database,” she said, “but we can continue to provide meteorological information.”

"Fine, fine," he resigned himself to his fate. "Go ahead, I'm listening, I can't sleep anyway."

"The average annual rainfall in the equatorial region of the Earth is about two thousand millimeters," she began her report, "while the polar regions receive less than two hundred millimeters. The difference is mainly due to..."

Her voice was steady, even, and without any inflection, like a straight line piercing through the darkness.

Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, his eyelids growing heavy. The cold was still there, but it didn't seem so unbearable anymore. He listened to those distant yet familiar words—rain, monsoon, thunderstorm clouds—as if he had returned to an afternoon when he hadn't skipped class, the classroom fan humming, the sunlight outside the window blinding.

The corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

"What you're saying... is quite hypnotic," he murmured.

“This is the standard speaking speed for knowledge transfer,” she said. “It’s suitable for maintaining attention for extended periods.”

"But I just want to sleep right now." He yawned. "If I really fall asleep, what if... I can't wake up?"

"Her heart rate and breathing rate are stable," she said. "There is no risk of coma."

"That's good." He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed his body. "If you keep chanting like this, you might actually be able to send me into my dreams."

He didn't say anything more.

Nana's blue light remained on, illuminating his slightly heaving chest. The temperature inside the cabin continued to drop, and his fingers, curled up inside his sleeves, trembled slightly.

She slightly adjusted the angle of the light source in her eyes to ensure that the light did not shine directly on her sleeping face.

The fluorescent stickers on the console went completely dark.

Outside the cabin, the stars glided silently by.