Little Pink Starfish

Upon arriving downstairs at the residence building and getting out of Lu Feng’s car, An Zhe said, “Thank you.”
“No need,” Lu Feng replied. “How do you eat?”
“I cook for myself,” An Zhe said.

“Potato soup?”
“Mm.”

Lu Feng: “You like it?”
An Zhe thought seriously for a moment.

“I do,” he said. “But I also don’t have money to buy anything else.”
“Figured as much,” Lu Feng said. “Tonight I’ll treat you to something different.”
An Zhe: “Why?”

Lu Feng said flatly, “To thank you for helping me discover the alien species.”

It sounded reasonable—Lu Feng only noticed Si Nan because of him.

So An Zhe gained a rare opportunity to pick out groceries. Referring to the base-issued menu, he eventually bought tomatoes, potatoes, and frozen beef. The beef was very expensive, with a special note indicating it would soon be discontinued. He hesitated for a while about whether to buy it, but during his hesitation, Lu Feng had already swiped his card. The balance shown on the machine made An Zhe acutely aware of the gap between people.

Next to the ingredients was a simple recipe guide. An Zhe didn’t know how to make other things, so he ended up making soup again.

As he cooked, An Zhe realized something.

He stood still, silently watching the gently bubbling surface of the pot.

The soup was already very rich. The potatoes had softened completely, and the sweet and sour tomato scent mixed with the beef aroma—it was a different flavor from potato soup, extremely delicious.

But…

Lu Feng looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” An Zhe looked up at him.
But Lu Feng’s green eyes stared at him through a layer of grayish mist, not seeming particularly fierce.

“I…” An Zhe said, “I think I made too much.”

“Too much?” Lu Feng walked over and leaned slightly, looking into the pot.

Indeed, it was too much. An Zhe knew.
He’d put in too many ingredients and too much water.
When he made potato soup, he liked to add a lot of water to soften the potatoes and thicken the soup by boiling it down slowly. But this soup seemed to work differently—if boiled too long, the ingredients would fall apart and turn into an unidentifiable mush.

He estimated that the soup could serve three people, and that was being conservative.

Lu Feng said, “It’s too much.”

An Zhe thought hard and finally offered a solution: “I can invite Ke Lin over.”

Lu Feng turned and gave him a bland look.

From that bland glance, An Zhe keenly picked up a trace of emotion. Making too much soup apparently seemed like a serious offense.

Lu Feng said, “Silan lives in 3202. Send him a portion.”

After ringing the doorbell at 3202, Silan quickly opened the door.

“You?” He seemed slightly surprised.
An Zhe handed him the thermos: “I made soup and brought you some.”

“Wow,” Silan said. “Thank you. I was just about to head out for dinner.”
An Zhe gave him the soup. “You’re welcome.”

Silan asked, “Why… give it to me? Maybe the colonel would prefer it.”

An Zhe didn’t know how to answer for a moment.
Finally, he said, “The colonel has some too.”
Silan smiled. “I thought so. So he told you I live here?”
An Zhe nodded.

Silan brought An Zhe inside, set the thermos on the living room table, and pulled something pink-wrapped from a drawer—it looked like human candy.
He shoved it into An Zhe’s hand. “Have some candy.”

An Zhe: “Thank you.”
Silan: “Are you getting used to living in the main city? Which floor are you on?”
An Zhe: “3702.”

“Oh wow,” Silan smiled. “What a coincidence.”

Outside, the wind howled. In Silan’s room, the vent also emitted its moaning wind.

An Zhe looked toward the sound’s source.

“The ventilation pipes are usually closed, but during windy summer days, they’re opened for a while to prevent too much humidity inside. They make noise during this time—sometimes so loud that kids in the main city can’t sleep. But don’t worry,” Silan said gently, then smiled. “The colonel probably comforted you already.”

An Zhe was confused.
First, he wasn’t scared, so didn’t need comforting. Second, Lu Feng had never comforted him.

He said, “He didn’t.”
Silan: “…Maybe he forgot.”

An Zhe felt that Silan thought too highly of Lu Feng and also misunderstood their relationship.

When he returned to 3702, the colonel had actually lowered himself to set the table himself—but unfortunately, even after giving some away, there was still too much soup left.

That cold green-eyed colonel looked at him: “You can.”

Lu Feng: “Start.”

An Zhe scooped up a small piece of beef and tried hard to swallow it. After finishing his portion, Lu Feng forced him to face the rest still in the pot. He had already eaten half.

Lu Feng said blandly, “Continue.”

And another spoonful of soup.
An Zhe felt it was impossible.
Human appetite had limits, even for delicious soup.

He would break.

He looked up—
—and saw the man watching him, brows slightly raised, with an imperceptible look of satisfaction.

An Zhe: “…”

He should have known. Lu Feng’s goal was never to conserve resources for the base. His joy came from bullying him.

He frowned, a bit angry. This time, he stood firm and said, “I’m not eating anymore.”

Lu Feng: “Wasting food is a crime.”
An Zhe retorted, “Then you’re guilty too.”

Lu Feng crossed his arms and sized him up, then said, “Smarter now.”

An Zhe understood what he meant.
He swore that next time this man made him eat, he’d slice off a piece of his own mycelium to poison him. He ignored the man and dropped the spoon.
But Lu Feng instead smiled, reached out, and moved the leftover soup in front of himself. Looks like the judge was ready to absolve himself. An Zhe observed him for a moment and decided to reduce his punishment from one piece to half a piece.

After dinner, he saw Lu Feng out—the colonel had a phone meeting that evening.

At the door, Lu Feng seemed to suddenly remember something.
He pulled out a translucent box from his uniform pocket and tossed it to An Zhe.
“If you can’t sleep, use it,” he said.

Back in his room, An Zhe opened the box. It was a pair of gray umbrella-shaped rubber noise-canceling earplugs.

He mulled it over, still unsure whether Lu Feng was a good or bad person. He temporarily labeled him as a “moody person.”
Outside, the wind was still intensifying. The whistling from the hole grew sharper—indeed enough to keep a human awake. But he didn’t plan to use the earplugs. At least not yet.

An Zhe stood in front of his bed. He had spent the entire afternoon thinking about one thing.
If he couldn’t move freely within the Lighthouse, when would he be able to find the spore?

Once, he thought this was an unsolvable problem. But now he had a path—all the buildings in this city were connected by ventilation pipes.

He turned to the room’s window.
It was very small, about the size of two textbooks placed side by side, flanked by two metal sliding panels. He walked to the window and pushed the panels inward—click—they shut tightly. Now, no one could see into the room from outside.

Mycelium.
Mycelium spread out from An Zhe’s body. His clothes and the bullet shell pendant at his neck slipped to the floor with a soft clink. At the same time, a cluster of snow-white mycelium snaked out from his collar, rolled under the bed, and silently faced that pitch-black hole.

As a mushroom, An Zhe had a vague perception of the outside world. Sight and hearing merged, smell and touch were indistinct—not quite images or sounds, but a unique sensation that human language couldn’t describe.

At the hole’s mouth was a dense metal mesh—three layers—enough to block all small or large insects.

But it couldn’t stop a soft mushroom.