The moment the door closed, Chen Hao slid down the back of the chair like a bag of rice thrown on the ground.
The robotic arm released the support under his armpits and slowly retracted from the overhead track. The heated chair automatically activated its low temperature setting, humming softly as warmth crept up from beneath him. He didn't move, only tilting his head towards the monitor screen, his eyelids half-closed.
"Thirty-four and a half degrees Celsius," Nana's voice came from above. "Core body temperature is still dropping."
"Hmm," he responded, his voice muffled as if squeezed out from under the covers. "Let me catch my breath. That water... was unbelievably cold."
“You have been exposed to cold water for more than seventeen minutes,” she said. “If conventional insulation measures do not result in a return to warm within thirty seconds, it is determined to be not simple hypothermia.”
“Stop using jargon.” He shrugged, trying to loosen his stiff muscles. “Right now, I just want something sweet.”
She paused for half a second, as if searching for some kind of logical flaw: "The current priority is medical intervention. I recommend injecting an adrenaline-based warming agent, which can increase the metabolic rate by 32 percent."
"An injection?" He opened his eyes wide. "Who gave you permission to give injections whenever you want? I'm not a lab rat."
“You didn’t apply for permission when you jumped into the flood.”
“That’s emergency rescue! This is medical treatment! They’re different things.” He raised his right hand and pointed to his chest. “I’ve always believed that if you can eat, don’t fight; if you can sleep, don’t seek treatment.”
She was silent for a moment as the infrared scanning beam swept back and forth across his chest.
"Tests showed that the efficiency of mitochondrial ATP synthesis was only 41 percent of the baseline value," she said. "The cause can be traced back to residual silver nanoparticles in the body, which interfere with the cellular energy chain. This is an indirect consequence of the previous soil nematode control program."
"Oh." He nodded, then suddenly grinned. "So you're saying I'm poisoned?"
The medical definition is 'metabolic inhibition caused by subacute metal deposition'.
"Translate, translate."
"The tiny silver particles in your body are slowing down your body's power generation."
"Ha." He actually laughed out loud. "So I wasn't cold, my battery was almost dead?"
The analogy holds true.
He raised his hand and slapped his cheeks twice, forcing himself to wake up: "Then listen to me, honey, mixed with warm water, 200 ml, right now."
“The fructose energy pathway does exist,” she said, her tone unchanged, “but there are insufficient clinical cases, and the risks are uncontrollable.”
“Our ancestors used honey to save porters who fainted thousands of years ago,” he muttered. “Where do we get all that data? Just being alive is data.”
She paused for a few seconds, as if weighing the weight between human bias and scientific rigor.
Then, the storage compartment popped open, and a sealed glass jar slowly slid out, labeled "Wild Acacia Honey, Reserve Grade".
"The only remaining stock," she said. "Once opened, it's irreversible."
"Open it!" he said, reaching out. "If you don't open it now, I'll turn into an ice-cold fatso."
She operated the robotic arm to hand him the jar. He struggled to unscrew the cap, and a rich aroma immediately filled the air, carrying a slightly astringent, herbal scent. He took a large gulp straight from the bottle, swallowed twice, and sighed contentedly.
"When something sweet goes into your stomach, your soul returns."
“Excessive intake can trigger an insulin storm,” she cautioned.
"My soul is about to fly away, what do I care about the storm?" He took another sip, this time slower, letting the warm honey water slide down his esophagus.
The heated chair was turned up a notch, and the edges of the blanket automatically tightened, wrapping him up like a clumsy cocoon. He huddled in the chair, his legs draped over the footrests, his toes still slightly purple.
“Monitor the curve,” he said. “Show me the changes.”
The holographic screen lights up, and a blue line extends gently at the bottom, almost touching the horizontal axis.
"There are no significant fluctuations at present," she said. "Fructose absorption takes time."
"Wait." He closed his eyes. "I believe in it."
Ten minutes later, his fingers twitched. It wasn't a twitch; he actively gripped the edge of the blanket.
"The blood flow rate in the extremities of my left hand has increased by nine percent," she reported.
"Look," he said without opening his eyes, "it's working."
Twenty minutes passed, and the blue line began to slowly climb. Thirty-three degrees, thirty-three and a half degrees, exactly thirty-four degrees.
He suddenly opened his eyes: "I'm hungry."
"Preliminary confirmation of metabolic recovery." She pulled up the new data: "Body temperature has risen to 34.7 degrees Celsius, still within the low-risk range."
“Then give me another 100 milliliters.” He held up the empty bottle. “Pour the rest in.”
She took the bottle, diluted it with warm water, and handed it back to him. This time he drank steadily, keeping his eyes on the screen as he drank.
"Do you think these nano-silver particles might also affect the purity of the cyanobacteria extract?"
“The possibility exists,” she replied, “but the priority right now is to keep your vital signs stable.”
"Hey, I'm thinking long-term." He wiped his mouth. "We've just found the source of the medicine. Let's not turn around and find that I've become a source of pollution too."
“Your body has a silver ion concentration of 3.2 milligrams per liter,” she said. “This has not yet reached the environmental leakage threshold.”
"That's good." He burped. "Otherwise, I'd have to wear a 'dangerous goods' sign every time I walk around."
Three hours later, the monitor emitted a clear beep.
Body temperature: 36.5 degrees Celsius.
Heart rate: 72.
Metabolic index: within normal range.
He sat up abruptly from the chair, the movement so large it almost overturned the blanket.
"I'm alive!" He opened his arms wide. "I'm alive again!"
“Vital signs have returned to baseline,” she said. “Treatment records have been filed.”
He shook his head and tried to turn his neck a couple of times, his joints cracking.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Except for wanting to eat hot pot, everything else is fine." He rubbed his face. "See, I told you sweets could save your life, right? From now on, don't always think about injections; let's focus on gentle conditioning."
"This success was based on a 1:1 ratio of fructose to glucose," she added, "and was supported by an external heat source, so it was not the result of a single factor."
"Alright, alright, you're a scientist, I'll speak like a human." He waved his hand. "Anyway, the result is correct."
He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled halfway up, and he quickly grabbed the handrail.
"The skeletal muscle groups are still in the recovery period," she said. "I recommend continuing to sit still for another thirty minutes."
“I won’t.” He gritted his teeth and straightened up. “Lying down for too long will turn you back into a pig.”
He moved step by step to the control panel, swiped his finger across the screen twice, and brought up the live feed of the water purification tank. The water was calm, a layer of mud had settled, and the black line at the edge was no longer visible.
"Where's that thing from before?" he asked.
“The last recorded movement was nineteen minutes ago, heading towards the southeast subsidence area,” she said. “The tracking protocol has not yet been restarted.”
“I always feel like it’s watching us,” he muttered. “Like the leftovers in the fridge, even though no one’s there, it feels like there’s a pair of eyes watching us.”
“Subjective perception cannot be verified,” she said, “but the system has marked the area as an area of abnormal activity.”
He nodded, turned around to grab his water glass, tripped, and fell forward.
The robotic arm extended instantly and caught his lower back before he fell.
"Thanks." He steadied himself and patted the metal arm. "You're even more considerate than my wife."
“I am not married,” she said.
“I know,” he grinned, “but I have.”
He smiled, picked up his cup, walked to the water dispenser, and filled it halfway with warm water. He took a sip and smacked his lips.
"Could you add some ginger to the honey next time?"
“Additives can be added,” she said, “but the nutritional ratio must be declared in advance.”
"Apply for something my ass." He rolled his eyes. "I'm not writing a thesis."
He walked back to the heated chair, sat down again, and placed the cup on the armrest. The rain outside had subsided, leaving only the rhythmic dripping of water from the eaves, tap, tap, tap.
He stared at the screen and suddenly said, "Do you think if I drink honey every day from now on, I'll be immune to all toxins?"
“No,” she said, “but it can improve basal metabolic resilience.”
“That’s not bad either.” He narrowed his eyes. “From now on, I’ll be called ‘Honey God of War’.”
"Naming permissions are not within the system."
"I took it myself; I don't need your approval."
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and a smile still lingered on his lips.
The heated chair gradually cooled down as he stopped shivering. The green line on the monitor flowed smoothly, like a quiet stream.
Nana deactivated the emergency mode and switched to routine inspections. Her mechanical eyes flickered, and she pulled up the backend log, quietly classifying the "honey therapy" as an "unconventional but effective intervention case."
Chen Hao's breathing became even, as if he had fallen asleep.
She said softly, "My metabolic indicators remain stable, and I expect to fully recover within six hours."
He did not respond.
She was about to return to her standby position when she suddenly heard him mutter something.
"What if we run out of food one day..."
He opened one eye and looked at the ceiling.
"Just burn me like a honeycomb briquette."
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