The alarm blared so loudly it hurt people's ears.

Chen Hao was about to reach out and touch the warm metal shell on his back to ask Nana if she really used him as a battery when he was startled by the sudden red light and shriek and pulled his hand back. He looked up sharply, and everything in front of him was blood red—it wasn't a hallucination, but the warning red of all the lights in the cabin switching to emergency mode.

"Damn it!" he blurted out, jumping halfway up his seat before falling back down, dizzy from the sudden movement. "Can't you let me catch my breath? I've only been warm for two minutes and you're already causing trouble again?"

Nana was no longer behind him. She stood in front of the control panel, her eyes flashing rapidly with blue light, as if reading some high-speed data stream. Her voice remained impeccably steady: "Oxygen leak in the third pipeline, pressure drop rate 0.8% per minute, will affect breathing safety in fifteen minutes."

"Wait a minute." Chen Hao rubbed his temples, trying to pull his mind out of the bizarre state of "being warmed by a robot pressed against him." "You mean there's an air leak? Which pipe? Can I get out of the way?"

“No,” she said. “It’s at your feet.”

He looked down and sure enough, there was a thin, silver pipe near the seam of the floor, which was now making a slight hissing sound, like a snake hiding in the wall quietly flicking its tongue.

"So now you want me to fix it?" He chuckled dryly. "Are you serious? I broke my nail last time I twisted a bottle cap."

“Your bodily functions have recovered to the level where you can perform light procedures,” she said calmly. “And this area is too narrow for my structure to enter.”

"So I've become a tool?" he muttered, struggling to get off the chair. "Did your AI already categorize me in the database as a 'suitable for lying on the ground, durable, and heavy enough to hold down tape' type of repairman?"

Nana didn't respond, but simply raised her arm, and the toolbox slid precisely to the floor in front of him with a muffled "thud".

He bent down to pick it up, but his legs buckled as soon as he squatted down, and he almost sat down on the ground. After a couple of seconds, he managed to support his knees and open the toolbox. Inside was a roll of silver-gray tape with a label that read "Type C sealant," and a line of smaller print below: "Suitable for temporary sealing of low-pressure oxygen circuits."

"This thing... looks no different from the aluminum foil used in cafeteria takeout containers." He picked up a corner, ripped it, and the adhesive surface made a crisp "snap" sound.

“The material is different,” she said. “It can remain sticky at minus fifty degrees Celsius and withstand three times the standard atmospheric pressure.”

"That sounds pretty reliable." He rolled his eyes. "But what if it, like me, fails at a crucial moment?"

“Then you’ll fall into a coma due to lack of oxygen,” she said calmly. “It will take about seven minutes.”

"Could you please not be so blunt?" he gritted his teeth. "At least add a softening phrase like 'we suggest taking action as soon as possible'!"

“The suggestion was made three seconds ago,” she said. “You didn’t follow through.”

He rolled his eyes so hard they almost went into his head.

He eventually crawled to the pipe. To reach the leak, he had to lie on his side, his stomach wedged between the bulkhead and the seat, looking like a struggling dumpling before being stuffed into an oven. His forehead hit the metal, the coldness making him shiver.

"Location confirmed." Nana's voice came from above. "The leak is about four millimeters in diameter and is located on the outer edge of the interface thread."

As soon as she finished speaking, a faint halo of blue light suddenly appeared in her eyes, landing on a small section of the cabin wall in front of him, outlining a dot with a faint blue outline.

"Where does this...refer to?" He blinked.

“The leak,” she said, “is within 0.2 millimeters of margin of error.”

"You even brought your own laser pointer?" he muttered. "You should have said so earlier. I thought you were going to glare at it and let it heal itself."

He tore off a piece of tape, his hands trembling as if he'd just drunk ten cups of coffee. He tried twice but couldn't get it aligned; on the third try, he finally managed to stick it on, but it was crooked to one side.

“Readjust,” she said. “The edges aren’t fully covered.”

"You think I don't want to fix it properly?" he complained in a low voice. "My hands are fat and cold. Besides, who designed the maintenance station so that fat people have to lie down to fix things? Isn't that discrimination against body type?"

“This location conforms to the optimal layout in terms of fluid dynamics,” she said, “regardless of body size.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to suffer.” He said this while gritting his teeth as he peeled off the tape and reapplied it.

This time he held his breath and smoothed it out little by little until the entire strip of tape was pressed tightly against the leak.

"All done!" he gasped, leaning back and collapsing to the ground. "It's sealed off! Can I apply for workers' compensation now?"

“Verification is not yet complete,” she said. “We are preparing to initiate a localized pressure test to simulate normal operating pressure.”

"Wait a minute." He sat up abruptly. "What did you say? You want to add more pressure? What if the tape can't withstand it and it bursts right there?"

“The possibility exists,” she said, “but without testing, we cannot confirm the effectiveness of the repair.”

"What you're saying sounds like 'either try it and see if you die, or wait to die'?" He swallowed hard. "Couldn't you try a lower setting first? Like... blow on it first?"

“The system has no air blowing function,” she said. “Pressure will begin after a ten-second countdown.”

"Can't you even put on a sense of humor?" He grabbed the toolbox next to him and held it in front of his face, then thought it was stupid and put it down. "Oh well, I'm going to die either way. At least this time I fixed it myself—if it explodes, at least I died with some skill."

Nana did not respond.

The red light was still flashing, and the cabin was so quiet that only his increasingly rapid heartbeat could be heard.

"ten."

He closed his eyes.

"Nine."

His fingers gripped the edge of the seat.

"eight."

My throat is dry.

"seven."

He suddenly remembered something and opened his eyes: "Hey, if it really leaks, will you rush over and reheat it for me right away? After all... end-of-life care is also a kind of after-sales service, right?"

“No,” she said. “I need to maintain system monitoring during the pressurization process and cannot move.”

"Then at least say 'condolences'?"

"No such program setting exists."

"It really is a cold-blooded machine." He smiled bitterly and closed his eyes again.

"six."

"five."

"Four."

He heard his breathing amplified, and a buzzing sound gradually rose in his ears.

"three."

"two."

"one."

A brief silence.

Then, a slight vibration came from the floor.

It sounded like the start-up of some kind of pump, deep and steady.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds passed, and the hissing sound did not increase, nor did it produce any spraying sensation.

He cautiously opened one eye.

The red light was still flashing, but the frequency had slowed down.

"The pressure is stable," Nana said. "The initial blockage is effective."

He froze for a few seconds, then suddenly jumped up from the ground, waving his hands: "I fixed it? I really fixed it? I'm not dead? And there's no leak? I'm not useless?"

"So far," she said, "you've completed the basic operational tasks."

“What do you mean by ‘basic operation’?” He grinned. “This is the first time in my life that I’ve independently repaired high-risk equipment! Should we record this in history books? Like, ‘Ten Greatest Feats in Space,’ Chapter Eight: Chen Hao and the Legendary Night of C-Type Tape.”

“Recording authority is not within my job scope,” she said.

"Can't you even give me a compliment?" He pointed to his chest. "I just risked my life, lying on the ground applying this plaster! I was more diligent than when I filled out my answer sheet for the college entrance exam!"

“Your operational efficiency is 37 percent below the standard,” she said. “It takes too long and involves redundant movements.”

"You really don't show any mercy." He pursed his lips, but couldn't help looking down at the pipe wrapped in tape, his eyes filled with complicated emotions.

He sealed it himself.

It's a bit ugly, a bit crooked, and the tape is wrapped around the wound an extra half turn, like a bow tied around the wound.

But he did it.

He slowly sat back down on the floor, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long breath.

The stars outside were silent.

The cabin alarm was still on, and the red light reflected on his face, flickering on and off.

Nana stood in front of the control panel, the blue light silently scanning the data stream.

After a moment, she said, "Prepare for the second stage of pressurization, increasing the pressure to 1.5 times the normal value, and test the long-term sealing performance."

His relaxed expression instantly fell: "Not again?"

“Yes,” she said.

He stared at the pipe, then at the remaining tape beside him, and muttered, "Do you think... this thing can really hold up?"

Before Nana could answer, the pipes under the floor suddenly made a very soft "click".