Chapter 22: No Next Time
Tang Ze had expected Tang Yu’an to get angry, but his expression remained unchanged, making him feel bored.
“I’m not talking to you anymore. I’m going to find Mom.”
Tang Yu’an stood by the pond for a long time, until his feet went numb.
He walked back inside and saw his brother rush into their mother’s arms. She lifted him up, twirling him around, and gave him a piece of fried eggplant.
There were some leftovers from the previous meal in the kitchen. Tang Yu’an took them outside.
He skillfully made his way to the alley behind the house, his face lighting up when he saw the familiar small figure.
Only at this moment did he resemble a carefree child, running over happily. The little yellow dog jumped into his arms, licking his face, its tail wagging furiously.
He laughed, petting the dog’s head: “Good boy, Xingqiu, good boy…”
He fed the leftovers to the dog, playing with it while confiding in his only friend: “My brother said Mom and Dad don’t like me because I’m too boring. Do you think they’ll like me if I change?”
The dog couldn’t talk, so Tang Yu’an had a special way of communicating with it.
“Xingqiu, wag your tail if you think I’m right, and lower your tail if you think I’m wrong.”
The dog barked twice, its tail still wagging happily.
Tang Yu’an, as always, received the answer he wanted. He played with Xingqiu for a while longer before returning home.
The dog followed him, but he pointed it back: “No, Xingqiu, I told you Mom and Dad won’t let me keep a dog, I can’t take you home… Be good, I’ll bring you food tomorrow!”
The dog seemed to understand, stopping, but its tail continued to wag as it watched him leave.
Back home, he saw his mother standing by the kitchen door, fixing a peeling piece of wallpaper.
He remembered his brother’s words: Mom and Dad don’t like you because you’re too boring.
Although he had always been this way, he decided to try changing.
Learning someone else’s personality should be like learning anything else, right? His teachers always said he was smart; there was no reason he couldn’t learn.
He just wanted to be like everyone else.
He encouraged himself: Be brave, Tang Yu’an, changing isn’t that hard.
So, imitating his brother, he ran towards his mother with open arms.
But the imagined scene of his mother picking him up didn’t happen. He only saw surprise in her eyes.
He was pushed back unexpectedly, falling to the floor.
It wasn’t a serious fall, but for some reason, his chest ached.
The floor was cold. He felt like crying.
His father, who was watching the news, came over: “What happened?”
His mother wiped her hands on her apron, looking embarrassed: “He suddenly ran over and startled me, so I pushed him away…”
Perhaps finding him sitting on the floor unseemly, his father reached out to help him up, but Tang Yu’an quickly got up and ran away.
He rushed to his room, throwing himself on the bed.
He tried to convince himself it was just a fall, nothing serious, but sadness overwhelmed him, tears streaming down his face.
Time and space shifted, the little boy grew up, but in this moment, Tang Yu’an felt as small as he had been back then.
He wiped his tears.
He didn’t want to cry anymore. He suddenly felt exhausted, wanting to sleep peacefully. Even crying required effort.
If he could quietly sleep forever, that would be fine too, he thought. Then there would be no more pain…
A message notification pulled him out of his despair.
He didn’t want to check it, feeling heavy and unmotivated.
But the notification persisted, relentless, so he sat up and looked.
It was Zuo Tinghan, saying he would be back in two days.
Someone must have leaked the news, as Zuo Tinghan sent a barrage of messages.
Zuo Tinghan: “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured?”
Zuo Tinghan: “How are you feeling now?”
Zuo Tinghan: “Does it hurt? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tang Yu’an had become accustomed to minor aches and pains; the sensation kept him grounded.
He sensed Zuo Tinghan’s anger. He wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know what to say.
Should he say he shouldn’t have kept it a secret? But as a tool-man, he shouldn’t bother him with such trivial matters.
Tang Yu’an thought for a moment, then sent a crying cat emoji, leaving the protagonist to interpret it himself.
The barrage of messages stopped. After a few seconds, a simple “sorry” arrived.
Was the protagonist’s mind malfunctioning? Why was he apologizing?
Zuo Tinghan: “I wasn’t there to protect you, and I kept questioning you when you were injured. I’m sorry.”
Zuo Tinghan: “There won’t be a next time.”
Tang Yu’an didn’t know how to respond. Was Zuo Tinghan’s sense of responsibility a bit too strong?
As expected of a protagonist, his awareness was different from ordinary people.
Tang Yu’an chatted with him briefly, then excused himself, saying he had to meet with the therapist.
He composed himself, explaining his red eyes as fatigue to Wei Langxing, who insisted on accompanying him.
However, Wei Langxing had to stay outside. The session had to be conducted privately for confidentiality reasons.
Before starting, Therapist Zheng led him to a blue room with a soft bed and some food, telling him to rest while she prepared.
Perhaps sensing his nervousness, she comforted him: “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.”
Alone in the room, Tang Yu’an felt bored, taking out the small mirror from his pocket.
Not knowing how to use it bothered him immensely.
He tapped the mirror with his knuckles: “Even if you want me to use it, at least give me some instructions.”
Still no response. Annoyed, but too lazy to raise his hand again, he released a bit of mental energy towards the mirror.
Like a drop of water into the ocean, his mental energy was absorbed!
It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of it before; it was simply that he had never encountered an object that could absorb mental energy in this world, limiting his thinking.
The previously smooth mirror surface rippled like water, blurring the reflection, a strange sight.
Tang Yu’an gently touched it; it was cold.
The ripples intensified, and words slowly appeared.
“Mental energy recorded. Please enter binding password.”
There were six empty spaces.
A password?
Tang Yu’an immediately thought of the card.
He vaguely felt this wasn’t something he should show others, so he locked the door.
He tried writing on the mirror with his finger; it worked.
He was born on February 4, 3268. He wrote down these six digits. After a moment of rippling, the numbers disappeared, replaced by new words.
“Binding successful. Communication access granted.”
It actually worked!
Tang Yu’an wrote several questions about the mirror, but there was no response, as if his words were simply swallowed.
Was this communication one-way? That didn’t make sense…
He thought for a moment, then wrote: “Who are you?”
A single letter appeared on the mirror: “K.”
So mysterious, even using a code name?
In that case, he didn’t need to reveal his real name either. He wrote: “I’m A.”
After writing it, he realized the mirror was likely sent by this person, his name and address already exposed. His attempt at using a code name seemed ridiculous.
The other party didn’t reply, perhaps amused by his foolishness.
Tang Yu’an quickly dismissed his blunder, asking: “Why contact me this way?”
Going through so much trouble must mean there was a reason for not simply calling him.
Just then, a knock came at the door. It was Therapist Zheng: “Xiao Tang, I’m ready. We can begin now.”
Tang Yu’an turned and replied: “I’ll be right there!”
When he looked back at the mirror, new words slowly appeared.
“Don’t trust the Bureau. Don’t trust anyone.”
His scalp prickled.
A chill ran down his spine. He frantically asked what it meant, but there was no response.
Behind him, Therapist Zheng’s voice became increasingly sharp and shrill.
“Xiao Tang, are you ready… It’s time to go, Xiao Tang… What’s wrong? Why is the door locked? Open the door, Xiao Tang, open the door!!”
The knocking turned into banging. Cold sweat trickled down his back.
