Wu Meng raised an eyebrow and pinched his waist lightly with her fingertips: "What's wrong?"
Xu Jinshi was trembling all over, his breathing completely disordered, and his voice was trembling: "...My fault is, my fault is being too arrogant..."
His eyelashes trembled slightly, and his voice became lower and lower, "...Sister, please forgive me..."
Seeing him like this, Wu Meng's heart suddenly softened. She sighed softly, her fingertips leaving his body and caressing his cheek, her thumb gently brushing the corners of his red eyes. "...I'll let you go this time."
Xu Jinshi was stunned for a moment, as if he hadn't expected her to stop so suddenly. His eyes were still wet with tears, his breathing was still a little rapid, and he stared at her blankly: "...Sister?"
Wu Meng chuckled, leaned over and placed a kiss on his lips, unbelievably gentle: "Why, you can't bear to let me go?"
Xu Jinshi's Adam's apple rolled, and his eyes gradually softened. He put his arms around her waist, buried his face in the crook of her neck, and said in a muffled voice, "...Thank you, sister."
His breath was warm, spraying on her skin with a hint of attachment. Wu Meng rubbed his hair, her fingertips running through his soft hair, and chuckled softly: "Will you dare to do it next time?"
Xu Jinshi nuzzled her neck, his voice a bit coquettish: "...I don't dare anymore."
The sunlight came in through the gaps in the curtains and fell on the figures of the two people hugging each other, warm and quiet.
—————————————————————
When Mu Xinrong opened his eyes again, his nostrils were filled with the mixed scent of cedar and lemon.
He was lying on a large walnut bed, with a Persian carpet with fine pile beneath him and his school uniform, which had been crumpled last night, scattered at his feet - the cuffs still had stains of morning dew from the river bank, and the student union brooch pinned on his collar shone silver in the warm light of the floor lamp.
"Awake?" Ye Qingliu's voice came from the desk at the foot of the bed. "Aunt Chen made lily porridge. Do you want lotus seeds?"
The boy was wearing white home clothes with his collar slightly open, revealing his delicate collarbone. The notebook spread out on his knees was filled with gears and arrows. The silver watch on his wrist swayed in the light and shadow, and the Roman numerals on the dial fell right under his eyes, like butterfly wings kissed by the sun.
Mu Xinrong propped himself up and noticed that the edges of Ye Qingliu's notebook were covered with small patterns: a little man in a white coat was holding a probe with a cross next to it; a little man in a school uniform was hugging another person on the bench, with his cuffs wrinkled like sails.
These graffiti are completely different from the cold experimental records in dreams, and they are full of fresh warmth.
"Last night's dream..." He touched the gear on the edge of the blanket, and the scar on the back of his neck ached slightly. "Chao Youye chased me on an abandoned subway platform."
He saw Ye Qingliu immediately turn the page, his pen hovering over the paper. "My name is engraved on his dagger, and you, in your military uniform, locked my wrist with an electromagnetic shackle, saying, 'In the seventh tactical simulation, the emotional module increases the mission failure rate by 40%.'"
Ye Qingliu put down his pen and wrote "WL-7" neatly, then drew a gear next to "electromagnetic shackles." "What did my shoulder straps look like?"
"Silver, three stars, with a gear pattern around the edge." Mu Xinrong stared at the other man's profile as he carefully wrote down his notes, noticing that his eyelashes were still stained with last night's dew. "It's very similar to the school emblem on your uniform in real life, but with a blood-red scratch."
Ye Qingliu's pen drew an emphasis under the "bloody scratches" and suddenly looked up: "In real life, I don't have a military uniform, nor do I have electromagnetic shackles."
He shook the pen in his hand, "Only a pen and a notebook for recording dreams."
Mu Xinrong looked at the silver watch on his wrist and suddenly realized that this observer who always carried precision instruments in his dreams, now had only the frayed notebook and fingertips that were always stained with ink as his only "equipment".
This dislocation made his Adam's apple roll, and he couldn't help but ask the question that was lingering in his heart:
"Ye Qingliu," he touched the student union brooch on his chest, "In all the world lines, you have no lover. Why is this world line..."
Of course he had seen Bai Zhiye before—Ye Qingliu was chatting and laughing with her…
The pen paused on the paper. Ye Qingliu's ears blushed slightly, but he wrote in his notebook, "Reality-Dream Difference: Emotional Module Exists." "Perhaps, the 'me' in this worldline is someone who has strayed from the path."
Mu Xinrong was stunned for a second or two, then looked at him quietly.
"Continue talking about the dream." Ye Qingliu turned a new page. "Besides the subway station, are there any other scenes?"
"The rails of WL-17." Mu Xinrong closed his eyes, the taste of rust spreading across his tongue. "Chao Youye tied me up with rusty chains, and you, wearing a white coat and holding an instrument with probes, said, 'The error rate of the 17th emotion module is 30%, meeting the conditions for data recovery.'"
He opened his eyes and found Ye Qingliu marking "Instrument parameters: rectangular, three knobs, probe glowing" in his notebook. "Then you turned and left without even recording my blood."
Ye Qingliu drew an arrow next to "Data Recovery," pointing to "Observer Behavior Contradictions." "In real life, I'll treat your wounds." He shook the bottle of iodine on the bedside table. "Last night, you scraped your palm on the bench. I applied ointment three times."
Mu Xinrong lowered his head and saw a small gear pattern printed on the edge of the Band-Aid on his palm - a style that Ye Qingliu often used.
This detail reminded him of the WL-4 laboratory, where observers used robotic arms to spray nano-repair fluid, but never applied the solution themselves. The warmth of this moment was like a crack, carving a glint of light through his belief that "observers must be indifferent."
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