Chapter 7
Since waking up, Song Jingmo would feel drowsy whenever he exerted himself too much or stayed active for too long.
He would even faintly hear his mother’s voice, distant and filled with sorrow. He tried to reach it, but couldn’t find the direction.
Exhausted from his deep sleep, Song Jingmo woke up again to the glow of the computer screen.
Xie Zhang’s hand rested on the mouse, his shadow cast on the desk.
Song-shadow wiggled his shadow tip.
The familiar search bar displayed a new query: “Can schizophrenic patients acquire skills they don’t possess?”
Song Jingmo: “…?”
Huh?
When did the plot jump to a scene he wasn’t privy to?
His shadow tip swiveled, spotting a familiar note by Xie Zhang’s hand.
Stretching himself out, Song-shadow confirmed it was the note he’d written earlier, trying to gently inform Xie Zhang of his identity.
The elongated shadow pondered, coiling itself into a mosquito coil shape.
The mosquito coil shadow hovered over the paper, watching as Xie Zhang scrolled through the search results.
“…Some schizophrenic patients, driven by hallucinations or delusions, may exhibit behaviors inconsistent with their skills… Driven by hallucinations, they may unconsciously learn and practice a skill…”
“…In the early stages of the illness, without practice or study, these delusional skills are often fragmented and lack systematic understanding.”
“…Skills like painting or music, which require accumulated experience and practice, are easier to identify as hallucinations. However, skills that are easier to acquire may be convincingly mimicked by the patient through unconscious, short-term practice…”
Song Jingmo understood.
He looked incredulously at Xie Zhang, usually so intelligent, and then at the note beneath his shadow, speechless.
So Xie Zhang suspected that the note was a product of his worsening mental state, a delusion he’d created to comfort himself?
Xie Zhang’s self-deception skills were truly remarkable.
Honestly, if Song Jingmo weren’t the shadow himself, he might have been convinced.
And…
Song Jingmo, summoning his strength, shaped himself into a hammer and swung it at Xie Zhang’s head.
Xie Zhang’s eyes widened in surprise, instinctively ducking.
“Smash!”
The shadow hammer missed Xie Zhang but shattered his computer screen, leaving a spiderweb of cracks.
Xie Zhang: “…”
He stared blankly for a moment.
Was this… the self-harm behavior exhibited by schizophrenic patients with violent or suicidal tendencies…?
He couldn’t hit himself, so he hit his monitor?
But why the monitor?
Song Jingmo retracted his shadow hammer, huffing indignantly.
Even if Xie Zhang hadn’t dodged, he wouldn’t have been able to hit him.
He was still fluctuating between consciousness and drowsiness, his power limited. Unless Xie Zhang triggered another surge of energy, he could only manage to knock over small, light objects, like a housecat parkouring through the villa.
Molding himself into a three-dimensional form like this consumed a lot of energy.
But Song Jingmo couldn’t resist.
Who in their right mind would self-diagnose with schizophrenia and consult Dr. Google instead of seeing a psychiatrist?
Didn’t he know that every internet search ended in a cancer diagnosis?!
Well, maybe Xie Zhang didn’t know that.
He worked in the internet gaming industry, yet he seemed to exist in a bubble, meticulously crafting his games, seemingly oblivious to internet trends and memes.
It was baffling.
It was only thanks to his sharp eye for talent and his luck in hiring that he’d managed to achieve such success.
Xie Zhang tried to regain his composure, checking if the monitor still worked.
—As expected, it was glitching.
This proved that the monitor was of good quality, with some redundancy and self-repair mechanisms. The fact that it hadn’t completely blacked out after being hit by a shadow hammer was a testament to its resilience.
Xie Zhang: “…”
Song-shadow glanced at the time on Xie Zhang’s phone, unconcerned about the monitor, and tugged on his sleeve, dragging him towards the kitchen.
It was time to eat!
He needed to stop staring at that damn computer; it was making him worse.
Smashing it was a safety precaution!
Xie Zhang glanced back at the deceased monitor, speechless.
Today’s hallucination was so intense that Xie Zhang was extra cautious while cooking, especially when using knives, focusing intently on his task, trying not to look at the little shadow doing the seaweed dance on the counter.
Being crazy was one thing, but he couldn’t die yet.
The company’s new project had just gotten on track, the investment contracts were signed. If he died suddenly, the resulting breach of contract penalties would cripple the company.
It would be a devastating blow to his partners, employees, and investors.
Such an act would be irresponsible, and Xie Zhang couldn’t do it.
Wouldn’t allow himself to do it.
Being crazy was acceptable; dying was not.
Remembering the hammer incident, Xie Zhang frowned, picking up a kitchen knife.
The gleaming blade reflected his face, the sharp edge catching the light.
Song-shadow, previously engrossed in his dance and anticipating dinner: “?!”
He immediately lunged, his entire shadow wrapping around the blade.
Huh?
Song Jingmo looked at Xie Zhang’s hand gripping the handle, then at the blade he was undeniably touching. He froze.
But he didn’t dare let go of the knife.
The way Xie Zhang had been staring at the knife earlier, he looked like he was about to either kill someone or himself. It was terrifying!!!
Song-shadow clung to the blade, glaring at Xie Zhang.
What. Are. You. Doing?!
In Xie Zhang’s eyes, Song Jingmo was just a frantically flailing, albeit cute—except for the hammer incident—inky black blob, with no discernible features.
But as he stood there, locked in a stalemate with his shadow, a chill ran down his spine.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. He wasn’t sure why, but he found himself trying to communicate with his hallucination.
“I can’t die.”
Song Jingmo: “?”
No shit!
Seeing the shadow’s refusal to release the knife, Xie Zhang paused, then began to negotiate.
“I can die later.”
Song Jingmo: “?”
What the hell did you just say?
Say that again?
Not only did Song-shadow not release the knife, but he also molded half of himself into another shadow hammer.
Xie Zhang: “…”
He glanced at the raised hammer.
“I know you’re my hallucination, perhaps a second personality formed from my longing for Momo. But I can’t be so selfish.”
Xie Zhang took a deep breath: “If you’re out of control, I need to make sure there’s nothing in the house you can use to hurt yourself.”
“Of course, if possible, I hope we can communicate peacefully.”
“I…”
Xie Zhang’s gaze softened.
“I’m glad to see you, truly.”
“You’re very much like Momo.”
Although Momo wouldn’t swing a hammer at him.
Song Jingmo felt another surge of heat.
Holding the hammer in one hand and the knife in the other, he felt a strange tingling in his head, as if he was growing a brain.
He tried to understand the situation from Xie Zhang’s skewed perspective. When he finally grasped it, he laughed in exasperation.
But there was a pang of sadness in his heart.
Xie Zhang’s childhood trauma stemmed from his family’s sudden bankruptcy and the death of his parents in a car accident.
Burdened by immense debt and the accusations of countless distraught employees, he had almost broken under the pressure.
No one understood the meaning of responsibility better than Xie Zhang.
Song Jingmo lowered the shadow hammer, merging it back into his inky form. The shadow tendril holding the knife slowly loosened its grip, rolling a nearby tomato onto the cutting board in front of Xie Zhang.
Seeing Xie Zhang remain motionless, Song Jingmo nudged the knife downwards with his shadow tip, smoothly slicing the tomato in half.
Just cook your damn dinner! What’s going on in that head of yours?!
Xie Zhang froze.
He was about to say something when he saw the inky black blob on the counter dash out of the kitchen.
Ignoring the fact that he was stretched into a glitching mess, Song Jingmo made a beeline for the living room, retrieving another tablet he’d hidden under the sofa, and returned to the kitchen, holding it up triumphantly for Xie Zhang to see.
The tablet displayed the lock screen.
Xie Zhang had never seen this tablet before. The model and the wallpaper were unfamiliar.
Song Jingmo shoved the tablet closer to Xie Zhang’s face, making sure he saw it clearly, then turned it away, skillfully entered the password, and presented the unlocked home screen to Xie Zhang.
See?
If I were your hallucination, how would I know where you hid this tablet, and how would I know the password?
Song Jingmo showed off the unlocked tablet from every angle, then, as Xie Zhang reached out, quickly pressed the power button, turning off the screen.
Xie Zhang wiped his hands, took the tablet, and turned it back on. The lock screen reappeared.
He paused in thought.
A few seconds later, he entered a series of numbers.
The tablet unlocked smoothly.
Song Jingmo: “?”
Song Jingmo: “!!!!!”
Aaaaaah—
Song-shadow tried to snatch the tablet back, but at this crucial moment, he found himself unable to touch anything Xie Zhang was holding.
In desperation, he grabbed the two halves of the tomato and smacked them against Xie Zhang’s face.
Xie Zhang: “Ugh!”
Song Jingmo caught the falling tablet, zipped out of the kitchen like a gust of wind, hid in the storage room on the first floor, and frantically reset the password.
That was close…
A near miss, a very near miss.
The inky black Song-shadow sprawled on the tablet. Even as he felt his energy fading, being pulled back towards Xie Zhang, he remained calm.
He’d randomly mashed the buttons for the new password; he probably wouldn’t remember it himself tomorrow.
His 100+ GB of fluffy-but-spicy reading material, the 20TB of “human harmony research videos” (anime version) in his cloud storage, and most importantly, his remaining innocence—
Safe!
Whew.
