Little Pink Starfish

It was the first time An Zhe saw Lu Feng smile, although they had only met once—though the smile was almost imperceptible.

Yet even in that faintest trace of a smile, An Zhe could still see it: the Judge had something to say to him today.

But the smile disappeared quickly, and Lu Feng returned to his usual expressionless face, idly playing with a jet-black gun in his slender, cold-white fingers—a dangerously casual gesture.

An Zhe cautiously asked, “Can I leave now?”

Lu Feng replied flatly, “What are you doing here?”

An Zhe answered truthfully, “I work here.”

Lu Feng: “First floor or second?”

An Zhe: “…Third floor.”

Lu Feng: “Oh.”

Then came a long silence again, until the swishing sound of the young Judge’s writing stopped. Afterward, he said: “Verbal interrogation shows no anomalies. Conclusion supported: subject is human.”

An Zhe saw Lu Feng glance faintly in the young Judge’s direction—but no matter how you looked at it, it didn’t seem like a look of approval.

He tried again: “I—”

Lu Feng: “You may go.”

“Thank you.” An Zhe quickly turned around and returned inside, sitting at the potato soup stand—he really did want to drink it today.

In the residential zone, the base-supplied potato soup cost 0.3; here, the price was 1. The difference was clear: the soup here was at least three times as thick. Besides the nearly melted potatoes, there were tiny minced meat bits in it, perhaps even a touch of milk. A fresh, protein-rich aroma floated in the air.

The spoon was white. An Zhe picked it up, scooped a spoonful, blew away the steam, and brought it to his lips.

In the dense rising warmth, he squinted slightly, feeling very satisfied—though it would be even better if the Judge wasn’t in his peripheral vision.

An Zhe ate very slowly, but carefully and quietly, without making a sound. About twenty minutes later, he finished eating and began mentally preparing to pass by the Judge and leave.

Just as he stepped away from his seat and turned toward the exit, a harsh beeping sounded—Lu Feng had pressed his communicator.

As An Zhe passed by, he heard Lu Feng coldly say two words into the communicator:

“Trash.”

An Zhe shivered in alarm and quickly walked out of the black market.

It was early evening now. The sun had already set, and the western sky was a bluish-gray expanse. The wind was getting colder. In two hours, the base would cut power. Across from the black market, the supply station was also about to close and was currently spilling out people.

The supply station, black market, and train station formed a triangle, with a wide plaza in the middle. At this moment, people from all directions surged through the plaza like migrating ants, heading toward the train platform.

The trains ran from 6 AM to 8 PM, with one every hour, always punctual.

When the scheduled time approached, a faint rumble sounded in the distance, gradually growing louder. After a brief jolt, a silver train stopped on the track. Doors opened on one side, and about a dozen cars slid open. Some passengers disembarked—some returning from other parts of the city, others just back from the wild.

At that moment, a soft mechanical female voice broadcast from the platform: “Attention passengers: due to equipment failure, please disembark and wait. Passengers waiting to board, please hold and wait dispersed.”

“Attention passengers: due to equipment failure, please disembark immediately and wait dispersed.”

The mechanical instruction looped. People were first confused, then moved slowly. But some faces changed instantly—they pulled companions up and rushed off the train, fleeing to the edges. This panic infected others. Within three minutes, fear had spread across the station. Everyone ran toward the square.

An Zhe had been waiting to board. Suddenly caught in chaos, he didn’t know what was happening, but he knew the rules of human society—he turned to follow the crowd.

But people jostled each other. He stumbled from the pushing. Someone bumped into him from behind. The clack of high heels sounded. An Zhe turned around and smelled a familiar fragrance—it was Duse, the mistress of the black market’s third floor. She looked like she had just disembarked.

Their eyes met. Duse recognized him. Without a word, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him, running fast.

The plaza was filled with the sound of people falling and screams of being trampled. But Duse, as if she had done this a thousand times, led him quickly through the crowd, eventually catching up to the fastest runners and reaching the plaza’s edge—where they stopped.

A line of black light armored vehicles was neatly parked along the road, one every dozen meters. On their sides were silver shield emblems—An Zhe had read in the base manual that these stood for the Garrison Office, formally the Base Outer City Defense Department. Armed soldiers were disembarking in order, sealing all exits.

An Zhe still didn’t know what was going on. He was out of breath from the sprint. Beside him, Duse bent over, gasping heavily and coughing.

An Zhe patted her shoulder. About thirty seconds later, she seemed to catch her breath.

The plaza was still chaotic. People ran desperately to the edge, only to be stopped by the garrison’s human wall.

An Zhe supported Duse into a less crowded corner.

He asked, “What’s wrong with them?”

“This used to happen often,” Duse straightened, looking at the crowd. “An infected variant got in.”

After catching her breath, she continued, “The train must have had a variant. Searching onboard takes too long. If it mutates and can’t be killed in time, it’ll take out several cars. Spreading the crowd out makes it easier to identify.”

“Hasn’t happened in a while,” she said. “Didn’t the Judge catch it?”

“He was patrolling today,” An Zhe replied.

Not only that—he had heard Lu Feng take a call and coldly say “trash.” In hindsight, that must’ve been about the variant’s infiltration.

At that moment, he felt Duse’s hand on his arm tremble slightly.

“He’s here?”

An Zhe gave a soft “mm.”

As if to confirm this, a muffled bang rang out—the air lit with a blinding white flash. It streaked downward like lightning, piercing the evening sky and hitting someone not far in front of An Zhe and Duse.

An Zhe turned in shock toward the source of the flash and saw a tall figure atop the black market building—Lu Feng in his black uniform. He lowered the black weapon in his right hand, and with his left, handed a pair of binoculars to a young Judge beside him.

“Magnesium flare marks position!” A curt order followed from the garrison: “Prepare!”

Moments later, a screeching alarm blared from a nearby armored vehicle. With thick smoke, a burning incendiary grenade shot toward the spot marked by the magnesium flare.

—It all happened in an instant.

The stench of burning filled the air. A person collapsed, smoke hissing from their body. A scream tore through the plaza.

Duse’s grip on An Zhe’s hand suddenly tightened.

“He was sitting right behind me,” she said.

“But he didn’t attack anyone. I’m fine.” She seemed relieved. “White phosphorus grenade… He should be dead for good.”

She looked up at the black market rooftop.

Lu Feng’s silhouette had vanished, but she continued to gaze there. An Zhe looked at her. In the twilight, her elegant face now held an unusually serene expression.

A minute later, the screaming subsided. On the ground where people had backed away, the charred, twisted body stopped twitching. The others seemed to breathe in relief—but the garrison maintained their blockade.

“Five years ago, the Colonel saved me once,” Duse suddenly said, “At the city gate. Pretty much like this.”

An Zhe said nothing, absorbing the calming atmosphere. That day at the gate, he understood why some hated Lu Feng. Today, he understood why others didn’t.

Three minutes later, garrison soldiers forced open a path through the crowd. Lu Feng led a team to the four corpses. Because of where they stood, An Zhe and Duse were very close.

He wore white gloves, knelt on one knee, and lifted the central corpse. Briefly, he said: “Knife.”

A Judge handed over a bright, sharp blade.

Without expression, Lu Feng sliced open the charred abdomen. A sharp stench burst forth. Inside were no human organs—only masses of small, pale-yellow, translucent things. Thousands.

An Zhe looked closely—like insect larvae. Spider-like, even still wriggling.

Lu Feng frowned slightly, then sliced up through the esophagus and throat—

—more spilled out.

“Parasitic type, high diffusion potential.” Lu Feng stood, pulled off his gloves, and tossed them on the body. Another pair was handed over.

He said, “Full-body scan.”

Suddenly, Duse collapsed.

An Zhe remembered what she had said minutes ago:

He was sitting right behind me.

He tried to hold her up, but she fell too hard. Lu Feng was already looking their way.

His eyes fixed on her forehead. An Zhe followed his gaze.

In the chaos earlier, he hadn’t looked closely. But now, clearly visible on her forehead—a small blister-like bump, glowing faintly, something inside wriggling.

“I…” As if sensing it, Duse slowly reached up. Her hand trembled. She looked at Lu Feng, tears falling, and walked a few steps toward him.

It was the first time An Zhe saw this look on a human. He couldn’t tell if it was love or hate—probably mostly despair.

A gunshot.

She fell forward. An Zhe couldn’t catch her. With a dull thud, her body hit the ground.

At this moment, An Zhe stood only a step from Lu Feng. They locked eyes.

Those cold green eyes, like ones that held nothing—

Lu Feng suddenly reached out toward him.

An Zhe flinched.

But the Judge wasn’t pulling the trigger—it wasn’t his gun hand. His fingers touched An Zhe’s cheek and paused briefly. An Zhe realized Duse’s blood had splashed on him. It was warm at first, then quickly cold.

The icy liquid was wiped away. The red stained the white gloves. The warmth lingered on his cheek.

An Zhe trembled slightly and closed his eyes.