The changes brought by the virus ran far deeper than Han Che had imagined. This gene fragment wrapped in a protein coat had actually replaced several specific original gene sequences on his chromosomes. Such alterations not only stripped him of his emotions but also implanted a brand-new obsession in him.
Find him.
Every time these three words quietly emerged in his heart, Han Che would feel an unfamiliar thrill—not a vivid emotion, but a trembling as if his long-dormant body had suddenly "come alive." It was like a tiny caterpillar suddenly wriggling deep in his spine, its movements extremely subtle, yet the sharp tingling pierced to the marrow, clinging to every nerve.
He couldn't understand the source of this impulse. His rationality, like a precision instrument, dissected it repeatedly: no trigger, illogical, completely outside the framework of known science, like a runaway program. Yet the power was real—occasionally flaring as a faint tension, like a faulty filament, sending tiny tingles through his silent heart lake, reminding him it was no illusion.
"Find him!" The voice deep in his consciousness erupted again, cold, clear, and unrefusable. A scorching force suddenly surged in his chest, like an invisible rope snapping taut, squeezing his breath to a halt. Han Che stopped typing, his brows furrowing slightly—this was the only "abnormal" experience since he lost his emotions, like a red-hot brand seared onto a cold iron plate.
Who was he supposed to find? His face was blurred, his identity unknown, yet the impulse was overwhelmingly strong. Like a marionette pulled by strings, Han Che felt confused but had no choice but to follow. A flicker of astonishment even crossed his deepest rationality: what had the virus transformed his body into?
On a weekend morning, Han Che went grocery shopping according to the list Wen Qing had left on the refrigerator magnet. The noise of the market surged like a tide: the clang of butchers' cleavers hitting chopping blocks shook the air; vegetable vendors shouted at the top of their lungs, their voices damp with moisture; fish and shrimp thrashed in foam boxes, splashing water onto the bluestone slabs.
At that moment—
"Find him!" The thought and the burning in his chest erupted simultaneously. The force was stronger than ever, like someone lighting a fire in his ribcage, scalding his fingertips. The plastic bag in his hand oozed faint red blood, dripping onto the ground and spreading into dark stains. But his gaze, sharp as an ice-tempered blade, suddenly locked onto the left front.
A middle-aged man in a crumpled suit. His collar was stained with oil, and he was pointing at the tofu stand's glass cabinet, his voice louder than the chopping of meat: "You shorted me half a tael! Is your scale rigged?" The tofu seller, hands on hips, retorted. Their argument, like a sharp thorn, pierced the noisy crowd.
Han Che walked forward, his steps uncontrollable, his eyes fixed firmly on the man's back. As if sensing the gaze, the man suddenly turned around. Catching Han Che's emotionless stare, he shuddered, cursed "psycho," and hurried into the crowd with his tofu bag.
The burning sensation vanished instantly, like sparks blown out by the wind. Han Che stood there, the pork in the plastic bag still dripping. His rationality raced: "Target misidentified. Interfering factors: high-volume environmental stimulation, aggressive behavior of the target, deviation in matching with the unknown instruction." But the unease in his heart grew heavier—this out-of-control intuition was like a time bomb, waiting to detonate.
A few days later, Han Che took his old car for maintenance. Sitting on a sofa in the lounge, he flipped through a worn automotive magazine. Beyond the partition, a mechanic walked by, his navy blue uniform soaked in oil, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a green dragon tattoo coiled around his forearm, its scales glinting coldly under the lights.
"Find him!" The thought struck again, more intense than in the market. A gravitational pull in his chest surged through his limbs, an irresistible force yanking him to his feet. He stumbled almost uncontrollably to the glass window, pressing his face against it, his nose fogging the surface before quickly clearing. His gaze locked onto the mechanic, sharp as a falcon homing in on its prey.
Sensing the stare, the mechanic looked over. Their eyes met. He froze for a moment, grinned confusedly, revealing oil-stained teeth, and waved his wrench unconsciously, as if greeting.
In that split second, the gravitational pull snapped.
Han Che stiffened, as if hit by a pause button. He walked back to the sofa expressionlessly and picked up the magazine again. But this time, his fingertips felt cold—his rationality told him this was no longer a mere "misidentification." This impulse seemed to have a will of its own, testing, searching, and he was merely a controlled vessel. Sitting alone at night, he even felt a near-"fearful" alert: what had the virus turned him into? A machine that only followed orders? Or something else?
Confusion thickened like fog, until that silent night.
Han Che had just finished typing the final words of the revised divorce agreement. The white light of the screen reflected his expressionless face. Outside the window, the night was pitch black, and distant neon lights faded into blurry spots.
Suddenly—
"Find him!" The thought exploded, like a fire alarm tearing through the silence of the night, sharp, urgent, and coercive, roaring deep in his consciousness. The gravitational pull in his chest instantly condensed into a red-hot steel cable, taut as a bowstring, burning and yanking his internal organs, pointing southwest toward the old town submerged in darkness.
No hesitation, no resistance. He didn't even have time to save the document before his body, driven by that force, grabbed his coat and rushed for the door. The doorknob was cold. As he twisted it open, night wind poured in, carrying the unique musty smell and smoky aroma of the old town. The pull grew more violent, like an invisible hand squeezing his heart, tightening with every step.
He ran along the dimly lit streets, city neon streaking into blurry light trails. Labyrinthine old alleyways surged toward him, graffiti peeling off the walls, wires tangled overhead, the air filled with the stench of garbage bins and cooking oil from distant restaurants. The narrower the alley, the stronger the pull—until he came to an abrupt stop at the entrance of a dead end piled with broken cardboard boxes.
The steel cable in his chest snapped suddenly, transforming into countless red-hot steel needles piercing his heart. The pent-up heat in his mind exploded, and his vision was instantly engulfed in white light. He stumbled, almost falling.
When the white light faded, he finally saw—under the dim yellow streetlight, huddled in the shadows at the end of the alley, was a thin figure. Wrapped in a faded dark hoodie, the hood pulled low to cover most of his face, his exposed wrists were as thin as twigs, liable to snap at any moment. Huddled against the wall, his shoulders trembled, each shake carrying the helplessness of someone abandoned by the world, like a frightened young beast.
"It's him!" A shout roared in his consciousness. Startled by the footsteps, the figure's shoulders stiffened abruptly, then slowly, slowly lifted his head. The dim light outlined his pale face, his chapped lips trembling with fear. From the shadows, a pair of deer-like eyes looked up timidly, the streetlight reflecting in his pupils, filled with panic.
The moment their eyes met—
Han Che's world spun. Agony exploded, like billions of red-hot steel needles piercing his nerves, screaming from his temples to his spine. He grunted, cold sweat soaking his shirt instantly, his fingers clutching the broken cardboard boxes at the corner, nails digging into the hard paper.
Night wind whipped the plastic sheets on the cardboard boxes, rustling softly. They stood a few steps apart, frozen by an invisible force. One huddled in the shadows, the other struggling in the light, separated by a chasm despite being so close. Yet stronger than the agony was a violent throbbing and absolute sense of belonging surging from the depths of his genes—in his cold body, something long dormant was instinctively and desperately awakening, confirming:
It's him!
At that moment, standing at the alley entrance, the attraction from his genes and the repulsion from his rationality clashed like towering waves. Frozen by an invisible force, they were inches apart yet unable to approach.