Chen Hao gently placed the guitar back on its stand, his fingers still resting on the soundboard. He stared at the sheet music tucked into his breast pocket, a corner of the paper peeking out, slightly damp with sweat.
He suddenly turned to look at Nana.
“You’ve been keeping track of the data all this time,” he said. “Then you should be able to speak too, right?”
Nana stood still, and the camera moved slightly.
"You want me to participate in the performance?" she asked.
"Otherwise what?" Chen Hao grinned. "You were part of the composition when this piece was written. Now I'm the only one playing it. Is that reasonable? Besides, sharing is worse than enjoying alone, even though there are only two of us here."
Nana paused for a second, and a line of text appeared in her palm: "Rhythm support can be tried, but the output method needs to be determined."
"You actually prepared this?" Chen Hao's eyes lit up.
Nana turned and walked to the workbench, took out a wooden frame from the drawer, on which hung three metal plates of different sizes and thicknesses, suspended by thin lines, with a small wooden mallet tied to the bottom.
Chen Hao was stunned. "When did you do that?"
“When you were revising the score,” she said, “I analyzed the melodic structure and thought that percussive rhythms could enhance the distinction between sections.”
Chen Hao laughed. "Great, robots are starting to create art too."
He sat back down on the stool and picked up the guitar. "Come on, give it a try."
Nana picked up the mallet and turned on the metronome projection. Evenly flashing dots of light appeared in the air, each beat perfectly evenly spaced.
"You want to press this button?" Chen Hao frowned.
“Standard beat reference,” she said.
"No way," Chen Hao waved his hand. "Our piece is already crooked and distorted. Adding a clock would make it sound like clocking in for work."
Nana put away the projector. "You're suggesting I follow your rhythm?"
“That won’t work either.” Chen Hao shook his head. “If you just follow me, going fast when I’m fast and slow when I’m slow, that’s not cooperation, that’s holding me back.”
"So what you mean is?"
“You have to have your own place,” he said. “For example, I’m running in front, and you’re cheering me on from behind, but don’t chase after me.”
Nana nodded. "I understand. It provides a stable beat anchor point without forcing synchronization of subtle changes."
“That’s right,” Chen Hao said. “You’ll handle the reshoots, and I’ll take care of the fancy moves.”
The two looked at each other and then remained silent.
Chen Hao took a deep breath and began to play.
The first note came out smoothly. The second followed, and the third paused briefly, as if taking a breath. In that instant, Nana swung the mallet.
clang--
The metal sheet vibrated, making a crisp sound, like a raindrop falling on a tin roof.
Chen Hao almost couldn't keep up.
"How can you be so accurate?" he exclaimed, his eyes wide.
"Predict the range of your finger lift," she said. "Based on the average delay of the previous six performances, start 0.3 seconds in advance."
"You've even learned to shoot faster now?" Chen Hao laughed. "But... it's not bad, smoother than before."
He did it again.
This time, he slowed down to make each step clearer. Nana also adjusted her strength, no longer striving for millisecond precision, but instead fine-tuning the timing of her taps according to his breathing rhythm.
The second time around, there were still two misalignments. Once, Chen Hao deliberately prolonged the fifth note, but Nana had already hit the next measure's heavy beat; the other time, he suddenly sped up the "holding back fire" section, and Nana didn't react in time, missing a beat.
“No way.” Chen Hao put down his guitar. “You’re too honest.”
“My algorithm is based on historical data,” she said. “It cannot predict whether you will change your intentions on the fly.”
“Then don’t try to predict,” Chen Hao said. “Just remember a few key points. For example, you must stop before ‘catching your breath,’ and you must push hard after ‘holding your temper.’ Leave those points out, and just keep hitting as usual at other times.”
"Is this equivalent to establishing pattern recognition?" she asked.
"More or less," he said. "I'm not a machine, I can't be the same every time. Don't try to calculate it perfectly, just get it close enough."
Nana remained silent for a few seconds, and the system reloaded the parameters.
“A new model has been generated,” she said. “It dynamically preserves rhythmic gaps by using emotional shifts from your past performances as markers.”
"That sounds a bit far-fetched," Chen Hao said, scratching his head. "But I get the idea. Just think of me as a driver who doesn't follow the rules, and you're the navigation system. Don't just shout 'Turn right in 500 meters,' you need to check if I've already started turning the steering wheel."
“I’ll use the analogy of acceptance,” she said. “I will observe the pre-operation actions.”
The third round begins.
Chen Hao stopped looking at her, closed his eyes, and played by feel. The first note fell, and Nana didn't move. The second note followed, the rhythm building. On the third note, he paused to catch his breath, his fingers pressing firmly on the strings, his body leaning slightly forward.
Just as he raised his shoulder, Nana struck down.
clang!
The sound wasn't loud, but it landed steadily in that gap, like a foot stepping into mud, solid and reassuring.
The following sections flowed smoothly. The guitar rose and fell in the foreground, while the metallic sound provided support in the background. Although there were still minor discrepancies, the overall flow was no longer disjointed.
The song ended.
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Chen Hao opened his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. "Hey, this time it looks decent."
The words appeared in Nana's palm: The error rate of coordination has dropped to 19%, and the rhythm coordination has been initially established.
"Nineteen?" Chen Hao laughed. "That means there's still an 80% chance of it being a fluke."
“But the direction is right,” she said.
"That's true." He nodded. "At least they didn't undermine each other."
He moved his wrists, and his fingertips began to burn again. His ring and little fingers, which were wrapped in cloth, were swollen, and his exposed index and middle fingers still ached slightly when they touched the strings.
"Take a break," he said, placing the guitar on his lap.
Nana put away the mallet, the metal plate swaying gently, the lingering sound still present.
“Actually, your tap just now,” Chen Hao pointed to the spot of the third tap, “was more accurate than I expected.”
“Your shoulder moved 7.2 degrees,” she said. “That’s less than 0.5 degrees off the average of the previous five ‘suppressing anger’ warning signs.”
"You even remember this?" he glared at him.
“All the data is there,” she said, “including the amplitude of your hand swing every time you make a mistake.”
"Alright, alright," he waved his hand. "Don't dig up old dirt."
He looked down at his hands; the edges of the bandages were blackened, and the tissue fluid seeping from between his fingers had stuck the cotton threads together. He knew that if he continued practicing, the wounds would reopen.
But he didn't want to stop.
"One more time?" he asked.
“I recommend a five-minute interval,” she said. “The area of skin damage on the second joint of your left hand has increased by 11%, and continued pressure could lead to infection.”
"Where would an infection come from in the base?" Chen Hao chuckled. "I'm used to eating dust."
He picked up his guitar again.
“This time I’m going to try a different approach,” he said. “I’m not going to follow the score exactly; I’m going to add some new elements.”
"Improvisation?" she asked.
“Not really,” he said. “Just go with your gut feeling. If you can’t keep up, don’t force it.”
“I can choose to respond only to the main beat,” she said.
“Yes.” Chen Hao nodded. “You are the bottom line, and I will fly upwards.”
He started playing.
This time, instead of playing "The Song of the Foundation" from the beginning, he took a section and varied it repeatedly. Sometimes he sped it up, sometimes he lengthened it, and sometimes he even deliberately reversed the order.
Nana stood still, her hand lightly gripping the mallet, her eyes fixed on his fingers and shoulder.
Whenever he made that familiar prelude to exerting force, she would strike.
Clang, clang, clang—
The three consecutive strikes landed on three different accented notes, like boots treading on the ground.
Chen Hao didn't stop and continued pushing. He tried a new rhythm, changing the original "push" into continuous short pushes, so fast that they were almost continuous.
Nana didn't move.
She didn't strike the fourth note until he returned to the main theme.
It was right on the first beat of the comeback.
Chen Hao grinned. "You actually knew I was coming back?"
“You changed the rhythmic density,” she said, “but the fingering path matches the third section of the original version by 83%, so it’s judged to be a variation rather than a cadence.”
"Wow, you've figured out my tricks." He laughed.
“It’s not about figuring it out completely,” she said, “it’s about learning to wait.”
Chen Hao didn't speak, but looked down at the strings.
Sweat slid down his forehead and dripped onto the panel, making a soft pattering sound.
He raised his hand and wiped his face.
"Shall we put it all together again?" he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Shall we enable the new floating beat model?”
"Use it," he said. "There's no other way anyway."
He adjusted the guitar and put his hands back in their original positions.
Nana raised the mallet, and the metal sheet hung silently.
The room was dimly lit, and a fan whirred slowly overhead, stirring a tattered piece of cloth in the corner.
Chen Hao asked, "Ready?"
Nana nodded.
He plucked the first string.
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