Little Pink Starfish

The colonel’s room was a room that seemed like no one had ever lived in it.
—Exactly the same as the rest room he had in the outer city’s defense base.

As for how An Zhe knew what the colonel’s room looked like—it was because, the moment the elevator doors opened, he felt a sudden chill around him.
—Then he turned his head and met Lu Feng’s gaze.

The colonel leaned against the door frame, arms crossed: “Come back.”

An Zhe pouted.
In truth, he wasn’t very close to Ceylan. When he pressed the elevator button, he had already thought about what to do if Ceylan wasn’t home, or if he looked awkward about An Zhe’s request. In that case, he’d have to face the embarrassment of turning to Colin for help.

He looked back at Lu Feng and suddenly felt a bit upset—he felt a little wronged. This person clearly knew he had no friends in the base.

Lu Feng also noticed something was off about him and asked, “What’s wrong?”
An Zhe lowered his eyes but didn’t know what to say. He actually wanted to ask to stay in Lu Feng’s room, but he was afraid of being rejected.

He heard Lu Feng let out a soft sigh.

“Kidding,” Lu Feng came over, pulled him into the elevator. “Let’s eat first. Sleep with me tonight.”

Dinner was in the public canteen. It wasn’t a good meal, and to make things worse, Lu Feng ordered mushroom soup.

However, if it meant sleeping with Lu Feng… well, it was better than with Ceylan, and far better than with Colin. An Zhe figured it was because Lu Feng was the only one he really knew, and he had already stayed over with him twice before.

After showering in the colonel’s bathroom, An Zhe dried himself, quickly wrapped in a white bath towel, and hurried to bed, hugging the blanket and sitting at the edge—he didn’t have pajamas.

The colonel’s room was neat. All amenities were more complete than in his own room—likely special treatment from the military.
But regardless of special treatment, the bed didn’t have an extra blanket, nor did it have an extra pillow. He obediently moved the pillow from the center to the outer edge.

Then his eyes were drawn to a splash of red at the head of the bed.

—There was a simple glass bottle with three vivid red flowers in it. The stems were thorny, the leaves dark green. Two had fully bloomed, one was still a bud.
It was the first time An Zhe had seen a plant in a human base—this steel-built city seemed to forbid any life form besides humans.

The fragrance of the flowers faintly floated in the air. At that moment, Lu Feng returned to the bedroom from the living room, where he had been listening to subordinates’ work reports.

He noticed An Zhe’s gaze on the bouquet.

“My mother’s,” he said.
An Zhe: “Madam Lu?”

“Mm.” Lu Feng said calmly.

His gaze also lingered on the three flowers. After a long pause, he looked outside.
The night outside was deep, shadows looming. The hexagonal Eden stood in the distance beside the artificial magnetic pole.

An Zhe followed his gaze. From this angle, Eden did resemble a beehive. His thoughts shifted back to the three red flowers on the nightstand. That color and shape were familiar—memories from long ago, from an old picture book. A plant common when human civilization was still thriving.

“Roses…” he murmured.

“They’re roses,” Lu Feng said calmly.

The kids in his class often played house or flower games, making paper flowers of various colors. But it seemed Eden had real roses.

“Does Eden grow roses?” he asked.
Lu Feng’s answer was brief: “No.”

Just as An Zhe thought that was all, Lu Feng spoke again.

“She likes plants, but the base had none.” His voice was calm. “When I was sixteen, I trained outside and collected some seeds. After the Lighthouse confirmed they were safe, I sent them to her.”

“And she grew them?” An Zhe asked.
Lu Feng said, “Mm.”

An Zhe suddenly remembered the sealed plant seeds he’d seen in Lu Feng’s office cabinet a month ago. He thought—Lu Feng must care a lot about his mother. Today at the Lighthouse, Madam Lu came to submit a report. She looked like a researcher. So he asked, “Is Madam Lu a scientist?”

Lu Feng didn’t answer for a moment, then said: “Sort of.”

Then he suddenly said, “You know the girl from Eden.”

An Zhe nodded. Lu Feng had seen Lily—there was nothing to hide.

“How much do you know?”
An Zhe guessed the colonel was testing his understanding of Eden. He recalled what Lily had told him: “I know about the ‘Rose Declaration.’”

Lu Feng stared out the window, as if recalling the past.

He said, “They say when she was twelve, due to her exceptional intelligence… the base believed that rather than bearing children, her contribution to humanity would be greater through scientific research. She was sent to the Lighthouse to study.”

He was always curious about highly intelligent people.

“But later, she voluntarily requested to be transferred back to Eden to take on reproductive duties while also researching embryos.”

An Zhe: “And then?”

“No ‘and then,’” Lu Feng said. “She still is.”

An Zhe thought of Madam Lu’s appearance. Even though she wore a mask today, just her eyes left a deep impression on him. He said, “She’s very beautiful.”
Lu Feng said, “Thank you.”

Reflecting on what happened today, he asked: “Was it a good day?”

Lu Feng: “No.”

An Zhe felt that Lu Feng clearly cared about his mother.

“She always thought I was at the United Front Center. But in the end, I chose the tribunal.” Lu Feng’s tone was flat. “Maybe I’ve killed too many people.”

An Zhe: “She couldn’t accept it?”
“I just didn’t want to maintain that relationship anymore.” Lu Feng picked up a pillow and tossed it to An Zhe.

An Zhe hugged the pillow and looked at Lu Feng. Strangely, he understood what he meant.

A Judicator had to be always right, always clear-headed, always cold and unfeeling. To do that, he had to completely exile himself—“exile,” that word suddenly surfaced in An Zhe’s mind.

“Eden and the tribunal are doing opposite things,” he said. “Is it because you can’t waver?”

“Shut up.” Lu Feng leaned over, yanked the pillow from An Zhe’s arms, then lifted An Zhe and stuffed the pillow under his head. “Your eyes can barely stay open.”

An Zhe sank into the soft pillow. His consciousness blurred—he was truly exhausted, having stayed awake all night.

Before he completely fell asleep, he saw Lu Feng pick up a silver case—it was something given to him by a staff member when they left the Lighthouse. An Zhe didn’t know what it was, nor did he think he needed to. The colonel always had his reasons.

*

An Zhe folded his clothes neatly and placed them aside. Some grayish-white dust had fallen on the collar—neither the training grounds nor the Lighthouse had such things. But Lu Feng also knew there had been a short surveillance blackout at Eden, so An Zhe’s movements couldn’t be traced.

Lu Feng withdrew his gaze, pressed a button on the suitcase. The silver case opened—wisps of white cold air flowed out. Inside the frozen compartment was a slender injection needle, emerald green.

Next to the case lay his gun.

His gaze paused briefly on the two items, then turned to look at An Zhe, fingers resting on the gun grip.

At that moment—
An Zhe rolled over slightly, gently leaning against him.

He had fallen asleep.

Like a tiny creature curled up in the snowy white blankets, his smooth pale neck and shoulders exposed, brows relaxed, lashes slightly curled, his breathing steady and calm.

His fingers peeked out from under the blanket, curled gently, his posture completely relaxed. Not a single muscle was tense. He slept here, without any wariness or defense—as if in a completely trusted, safe place, believing that no one here would hurt him.

Lu Feng suddenly recalled a moment two months ago.

That moment was their first meeting. An Zhe had looked him in the eyes and said: “He wasn’t hurt.”

Accusations and denials—he had seen them countless times. Doubt and anger—he faced them every day.
But that was the first time he saw such eyes—no questions, no confusion, only sorrow. And within that sorrow was a rare calm, as if, if Lu Feng just gave a reason, An Zhe would accept it all, forgive everything.

Before that, he had never listened to anyone’s defense. But that time, he lifted the white sheet covering the body—and showed the wound.

That moment of hesitation was his first act of mercy.