Chapter 12

The elevator doors closed behind him, water dripping heavily onto the corridor carpet. Horne slowly walked up to a room door. With a “beep,” the door automatically recognized his Resident Chip and opened.

He was very tired. The sticky and damp feeling all over his body was awful. He just wanted to take a hot shower and catch a shallow nap during the few remaining hours.

A woody fragrance hit him in the face. The room was pitch black, with the curtains tightly drawn. This intense sense of security made Horne feel his body grow immensely heavy in an instant.

He piled his dirty clothes on the floor one by one. The bathroom light came on, and the shower sprayed out dense water. Horne closed his eyes and let the clean water wash away the grime and fatigue from his body.

This trip could not be considered fruitless. He had gathered a lot of information. First, the Tower was divided into eastern and western districts, though it was unknown if the boundary point was that plaza.

Second, the Morse code in the pipes accurately pointed to an entrance. That entrance was in a very hidden corner of the Tower District plaza, which meant someone had once entered the Tower District interior through those pipes and left a mark there. Obviously, using Morse code in such a way could not have been done by the Aliens—someone had found a way to enter the Tower District through the drainage system before him, and that person had not been discovered.

This led to another eerie point: the underground drainage system must have been built by humans. The Aliens ruled the city, but the city’s basic operational facilities were still maintained by humans. They had created those spaces of varying sizes below. What was the reason?

If all this was done by humans, it could still be explained. The most baffling thing…

The sound of water stopped, leaving only hazy steam filling the entire bathroom. Horne casually wrapped a bath towel around himself and stood in front of the mirror, absentmindedly blow-drying his hair.

What exactly was the countdown on the Obelisk? It hovered in mid-air right in the center of the Tower District. Anyone entering the Tower District would definitely see it. So it was not meant for humans to see, but for the Aliens themselves. What were they reminding themselves of? What would happen when the countdown ended?

His initial memories upon waking were not complete, but when he had fled all the way out from the Tower District back then, he did not remember seeing this countdown. That meant it had only started counting down in the past two days.

The rest were some fragmented pieces of information that he could not parse at all.

Blindly barging in without thinking was stupid. He had been a bit hasty today. He needed a meticulous plan.

The noise of the hairdryer soon stopped. Horne gathered his hair. It had previously been just past his shoulders, but now it was cut to one or two centimeters above. There was no particular reason; he had just been disgusted on the arena.

“Hoo—” He let out a long sigh and wiped the fog from the mirror, revealing the face of the person in it.

The injuries on his body had not fully healed. Many places were still scabbed, and some were red. The intense running tonight had probably torn some wounds, causing a bit of blood to seep out, but it did not look too serious.

Looking up, it was a stranger’s face. Seeing that face, Horne frowned and directly tore off the Mask he had been wearing, revealing his original appearance.

The Mask Hels had given him was not bad, but he still preferred his own look: a straight and handsome nose bridge, handsome features, ice-blue pupils, and a few strands of hair curving over his forehead. His usual lack of expression made him appear exceptionally aloof.

Back when he was still a major, with his parents alive, his face that looked younger than his actual age, combined with always doing childish things, had made him seen as not living up to his reputation. It was not until his parents died and he killed alien enemies on his own that his reputation in the Military District gradually improved, earning him a large following.

Thinking of that distant past brought a nauseating stinging pain. Horne felt irritated, and the Mask in his hand became prickly—he did not want to wear this thing, but he also did not want to be identified by a Recon Drone right now and cause a bunch of trouble, because he still had to enter the Holographic Game soon.

He had taken it off for less than half a minute before the Mask fit seamlessly back onto his face. Horne pulled off the bath towel and tossed it into the dirty clothes basket, then turned off the bathroom light. The room plunged into darkness.

He still needed to apply medicine. The time left for him to rest was not much.

The medicine was on the bedside table. When Horne, barefoot and groggy, shuffled to the bedside, a very faint sound of clothing rustling came from the sofa. Almost reflexively, every muscle in Horne’s body tensed instantly.

—He was not wearing clothes. It could not be him.

There was someone on the sofa! The moment this thought emerged, Horne snapped fully awake. He withdrew his hand and suddenly darted over, flipping behind the sofa. In a blur too fast to see clearly, he grabbed the neck of the person sitting on the sofa.

“Who?” Horne’s tone was icy cold, his fingers digging in deeply, but he heard a familiar chuckle. Then, a woody fragrance that almost blended into the air entered his nose.

Horne frowned and loosened his grip a bit, but did not let go: “Hels?”

The person being restrained nodded lightly.

“How did you get in?” After asking, Horne realized his question was wrong. This was originally the other man’s room.

In the darkness, Hels sat with his legs crossed casually, his voice very soft, always evading the question: “I hope next time you threaten me, you first think about whether you’d still have a chance to resist if I wanted to harm you.”

Horne did not move, his mind rapidly processing his words. He was right. From entering the door to washing up, he had not noticed anyone here at all. If there had been an ambush, he would probably have been taken out in the bathroom.

This thought made Horne feel somewhat annoyed. His observation skills, far inferior to before, were perhaps related to lying in a low-temperature Hibernation Pod for too long. All his actions and senses were much duller and could only recover slowly.

Hels gently patted the hand clamped on his neck and said softly: “Don’t stand here anymore. Aren’t you cold? Lie back down.”

He maintained the pressure for a few more seconds before finally releasing his hand. The instant he let go, Horne suddenly remembered he was naked. His face darkened immediately, and he sat back on the bed edge, grabbed the blanket to cover himself, and looked up coldly: “Who allowed you to come in?”

The morning sun filtered faintly through the curtain gaps, casting a few rays behind Hels. Backlit by the faint light, Horne could only see his silhouette.

Hels lounged lazily on the sofa, entirely nonchalant: “The whole building is mine.”

Horne: “Not this room.”

Always issuing orders. Hels chuckled softly: “Are you ordering me?”

“Yes.” After answering, Horne realized he had fallen into the other’s verbal trap. He was displeased: “What exactly do you want?”

As soon as he spoke, Hels uncrossed his legs, stood up, and walked slowly to Horne, placing a stack of papers on the bedside.

“I heard you’re looking for people from the Military District and the military, but there’s no clear organization anymore, just some scattered descendants of former military personnel. I’ve compiled a list. If you’re interested, take a look.”

Hearing this, Horne was stunned for a moment. His gaze slowly shifted to the bedside, but the darkness prevented him from seeing the stack of papers clearly.

If he just wanted to give him the list, he could have left it in the room while he was out, instead of ambushing him here—temporarily calling it an ambush.

In the silence, Horne said nothing. After a moment, he looked toward Hels’s position: “Why help me?”

Hels shrugged indifferently: “I wanted to help, that’s all. No reason.”

Horne: “Do you always act without principles?”

He thought of what the wide-brimmed hat man had told him about those urban legends. True or false mixed in, but not entirely baseless—at least somewhat real. One of the comments was that Hels had no principles.

Hels suddenly laughed out loud, a contemptuous and frivolous laugh: “Principles? I don’t know which principles you mean, but by my understanding, I actually have one absolute principle and bottom line that I cannot cross, which is…”

He paused there and said no more. Horne did not speak either. The air suddenly grew stagnant, breaths becoming audible.

Horne waited for him to continue, but the standing man had no intention of finishing. Soon, Horne broke the silence: “Next time you want to see me, tell me in advance.”

Hels sounded innocent: “I left you a message.”

That chip Terminal message sound under the iron net had nearly gotten him discovered, causing him to run around exhausted for so long.

Thinking of this, Horne gradually grew angry, his voice turning even colder: “We’re not that close, so please don’t enter my room without permission, sit in a place I can’t see, or next time, I’ll twist your neck directly.”

Hels nodded in agreement, very cooperative: “Alright, next time I’ll remember to turn on the light and sit where you can see me.”

Horne: “…” That was not what he meant.

Horne’s tone grew colder and colder, his fingers digging into the blanket, crumpling it, nearly tearing the sheet: “I mean, you need my permission to come in.”

“You asked me about military intel before. I was afraid you’d need it urgently and couldn’t contact you, so I thought I’d wait here…” Hels trailed off, words stuck in his throat.

The sound of fingers gripping the blanket was clear in the quiet space. It was obvious the person on the bed was distracting himself and suppressing his anger. Hels felt that if he continued, the other might really get mad, so he changed tack: “Alright, Major, I apologize for barging in today.”

Horne’s words remained cold: “You seem to know who I am.”

Hels tilted his head with a smile: “Not hard to know.”

Horne released his grip on the blanket and calmed down, not planning to pursue the topic: “I need to rest.”

Hels did not leave. He squatted down and half-knelt by the bed beside Horne. Suddenly, he reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Warm light instantly filled the small bedroom, reflecting off the beige walls and pulling both of them out of the darkness.

Under the soft glow, Horne huddled in the pure white blanket, his freshly washed hair loose over his shoulders, lips lightly pursed. The warm light fell into his eyes like a galaxy, but up close, there was no galaxy hidden inside—just countless supernovas disintegrating. The moment the light brightened, his pupils fully focused on Hels, asking coldly and vigilantly: “What are you doing?”

Hels took the ointment from the bedside table, looking up into Horne’s eyes from below: “The wounds on your back—can I help you apply it?”

Horne looked away: “No need.”

Hels said softly: “You can’t reach.”

“No need to apply.”

“It’ll get infected.”

“…”

After a few seconds of stalemate, Horne turned over expressionlessly, exposing his back full of scars—if they kept this up, he would not get any sleep.

The moment the cool ointment touched his skin, alarms blared throughout Horne’s body. He clenched his fists tightly to stop himself from attacking, but the other just applied the medicine. The cold cream slowly melted into his skin. Soon, the coolness faded, leaving only the warmth of fingertips pressing against the skin on his back, light and careful movements circling and rubbing gently around the wounds.

He had just been imagining that handing over his back might lead to a knife piercing through his chest, and he was prepared to counter-kill at any moment.

The coolness of the ointment and the chill of a knife blade started the same way. But in the end, that scenario did not come. Hels did nothing extra beyond applying the medicine, just his slow, rhythmic breathing as he lightly stroked his skin.

The entire room was quiet and gentle. When Hels applied ointment to the once most severe through-and-through wound on his shoulder, Horne sucked in a breath.

Hels’s fingertips paused: “Did I press too hard?”

Horne brushed his hair aside: “No.”

Getting the answer, Hels continued: “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable.”

“Mm.” Horne thought for a moment and felt he needed to clarify something: “Hels, I have other matters lately, so I can’t find suitable work for now, but I’ll repay your debt later, plus the room and medical costs during this time.”

Hels suddenly pursed his lips in a smile, laughing in a way that baffled Horne, his breaths puffing rhythmically against Horne’s back.

Horne froze, feeling a bit itchy yet unable to understand his neurotic low chuckle, so he asked annoyed: “What are you laughing at?”

Hels immediately stopped laughing: “Nothing. I’ll wait for you.”

Horne thought that if he won the game tomorrow, he would definitely add this: waive his debt and even compensate him a bit.

“So,” Hels glanced at the bathroom, “can I know what you did tonight?”

Horne did not hesitate: “No.”

“Alright.” Hels felt the question was a bit overstepping and shut up immediately.

The two fell silent. After the back wounds were treated, Hels stood up, put the ointment back, and said softly: “All done. Lie down in two minutes.”

Horne pulled the blanket up higher and turned his head away without looking at him: “Mm, thanks.”

Hels turned off the light, letting the bedroom return to pitch black. In the darkness, his voice was like a flickering weak flame, swaying and dimming.

“I’m next door. Come find me if anything comes up, or contact me via the Resident Chip terminal. Now…” He paused. “Good night.”

Horne stared into the depths of the darkness. After a long while, he finally spoke. “Good night.”

The door closed. Only when he confirmed he was alone in the room did Horne finally relax. His tense muscles slowly softened, and his gaze lingered on the tightly shut door.

He couldn’t understand Hels at all. If he hadn’t heard those rumors, he would have thought Hels was a bit neurotic but sufficiently gentle. But with others’ evaluations in his mind, the man’s every move became blurry and conflicting. For a moment, he couldn’t tell whether to trust his own feelings or the hearsay.

After applying ointment to his other wounds, Horne lay down. The blanket wrapped him up entirely.

That stack of files lay quietly on the bedside table, untouched. When he opened his eyes again, the sky was already fully bright. The time read nine-thirty.