Little Pink Starfish

Lu Feng glanced at him indifferently but didn’t answer directly. Instead, he just said: “Hmm?”

An Zhe saw that he seemed reluctant to answer, but thinking he might get a clue, he still mustered his courage and said, “There was something approaching you…”

Lu Feng raised an eyebrow: “There was nothing approaching me.”

An Zhe: “Just now the doctor said—”

“I went to check on a project,” Lu Feng said, his tone careless. “Nothing else.”

An Zhe was about to die of frustration. He wanted to ask what project Lu Feng had gone to see, but this person was saying, inside and out, that he hadn’t done anything.

“A lab called him over,” the doctor returned to the monitoring instruments, “routine work. After cooperating, he came back. But he might have to go again later.”

With that, the doctor began focusing on reviewing the video of Sinan.

Lu Feng’s way of thinking was unfathomable; it was one thing if he didn’t get to the point, but even the doctor answered off-topic. An Zhe didn’t get any information. He sat beside Lily, feeling uneasy—not only frustrated for not getting answers but also angry at himself for not being able to ask directly for fear of exposing his identity. He even had the thought of following Lu Feng next time he left.

At this moment, Lu Feng, beside him, said calmly: “Focus on your work.”

An Zhe: “…”

At 5 p.m., it was time for Lily to go back. After she left, Sinan no longer calmly knocked on the wall but began bumping around the cell. An Zhe briefly recorded the day’s events. The doctor told him he could go home.

An Zhe looked at Lu Feng.

Lu Feng said: “I’m staying here.”

The doctor said: “He’s on duty tonight.”

An Zhe: “…Oh.”

Various experiments were being conducted in the lighthouse, most related to studies on anomalies. Sometimes, due to improper operations or accidents, staff members would be infected. Therefore, the Tribunal had stationed personnel in the lighthouse permanently.

Thinking of this, An Zhe suddenly realized it was a bit troublesome.
He didn’t have an ID card, so he couldn’t return to his own place. If Lu Feng didn’t return either, he had nowhere to go.

Just then, Lu Feng took an ID card from his uniform chest pocket and handed it to him: “Go back to your own place.”

An Zhe took it and said: “Thank you.”
Doctor: “Tsk.”

An Zhe: “Are you having dinner here?”

Lu Feng continued reading the military equipment guide and replied indifferently: “Mm.”

An Zhe asked: “What are you eating?”

“The lab next door and Eden jointly developed a new compressed nutritional drink,” the doctor said while typing, “currently only for internal use in the lighthouse.”
At this, he hit the keyboard harder: “It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

An Zhe stood there, thinking for a moment.
He realized the ventilation pipes were fake, the lighthouse was fake. The only real thing related to finding the spore was Lu Feng.

He said to Lu Feng: “Should I bring you dinner?”

Lu Feng looked up at him, his cold eyes betraying no emotion.
An Zhe saw he had just flipped to the page for the “PL1109” fighter jet.

Lu Feng didn’t answer. An Zhe softly said: “Then I’ll bring it.”

“Tsk.” The doctor made a sound again.
Doctor: “I want some too.”
Lu Feng: “You’re not getting any.”

The doctor turned to An Zhe: “I want tomato soup.”
An Zhe: “There might not be any.”

He wasn’t lying. The food supply in the residential area varied daily, except for potatoes—it depended on Eden’s output.
However, tomatoes were indeed among today’s ingredients.

An Zhe stood before the tomato bin, hesitating for a moment.

—Then he turned to the fridge across, where the mushrooms were stored.
He remembered yesterday when he had dinner with Lu Feng, among the three soups—potato, tomato, and mushroom—that the cafeteria served, Lu Feng chose mushroom. Although his choice made An Zhe feel a bit uncomfortable…

He hesitated for two minutes, finally picking up two servings of mushrooms.
The base-grown mushrooms were grayish-white with chubby stems and soft caps. He came here often enough that the food staff recognized him and asked, “Making mushrooms tonight?”
“Yeah,” An Zhe asked, “Do I need anything else?”

Under the staff’s guidance, An Zhe returned with fresh meat and a seasoning packet. He used Lu Feng’s card. Originally, this amount of ingredients would have made him feel a huge loss, but compared to the balance, it seemed negligible.

An Zhe picked up a knife, took a deep breath, and began slicing mushrooms. They were soft—one gentle cut split them in two. Mushroom soup took less time than others—boil fresh chicken pieces in water, add the seasoning, then the mushrooms. Soon, a light and fresh aroma rose from the pot. He sealed the pressure cooker and set the timer, then left the kitchen.

With nothing to do, he watered the roses in the colonel’s room, tidied up, then turned on the TV in the living room.
It was news time. On screen, a familiar figure appeared.

—Hubbard, the former mercenary captain who once helped Boss Xiao get Lu Feng’s information.
Back then, it was a mission. Now he might also be involved in criminal activity.

“Going smoothly. This morning, the entire AR137 mercenary team returned to base. Apart from the base military, they are the only team capable of executing six-star missions. In new developments, our reporter interviewed AR137—”
The screen showed Hubbard in field gear stepping off an armored vehicle. A reporter was interviewing him.

“Mr. Hubbard, welcome back.”
Hubbard: “Thank you.”
A staff member nearby was guiding them for blood checks and said, “The main city welcomes you.”
“Thanks,” Hubbard said. “I was surprised by the base’s condition.”
Reporter: “Your return was later than other teams. Did you run into trouble?”
“No,” Hubbard answered shortly. “Bad signal, only just received the recall.”

The reporter smiled: “Where did you return from?”
“Outer rim of the Abyss.”
“What’s the current situation there?”
“Monsters are becoming more varied in form.”
“The Abyss is truly a terrifying place. What did you bring back?”
“Specimens.”
“Thank you for your contribution to the base,” the reporter said.
“You’re welcome.”

An Zhe thought Hubbard might rival Lu Feng in terms of being tight-lipped, but his eyes weren’t as nice.

The screen returned to the news anchor: “According to reports, after recalculating merit, returning mercenary teams will be reassigned to the military for continued service.”

After that news ended, another impactful update followed. There weren’t many noteworthy daily events in the main city, so most news was about the lighthouse’s scientific advances. The abundance of jargon made An Zhe sleepy.

Then the kitchen’s pressure cooker beeped, rescuing him. He opened the lid, and a rich aroma wafted out. The soup was thick, white mushrooms floating inside. He tasted it, satisfied, and happily packed three servings into thermal flasks to take to the lighthouse.

But just as he stepped out of the kitchen, he froze.

On the TV, there was a silver lab filled with complex machinery. At the center was a cylindrical glass tank filled with pale green liquid.
Floating in the center of the tank was a small, white object.

An Zhe’s eyes widened, rushing to the screen—just then, the camera zoomed in for a close-up.

Snow-white, fluffy—it looked like a cloud drifting in water, the same size as the mushroom he used for dinner.

Thin, white mycelia stretched out, drifting in the liquid, swaying with the water’s motion.

An Zhe’s breath nearly stopped.
He would never mistake his spore—even if it seemed slightly bigger than when it left him.

An Zhe raised his trembling hand, pressing his finger against the cold TV screen, as if touching the surface of the tank, separated only by glass. But then the news anchor’s voice broke the illusion:

“Four months ago, the Tribunal collected an abnormal fungal sample, now classified as a Level One observation subject. Fungi, as unique eukaryotes, have never shown such deviations from their species’ typical forms. The lighthouse believes this sample is valuable and may reveal the mechanisms of infection and mutation.”

An Zhe frowned—his spore had indeed been taken for research.

Then the anchor added: “Researchers said that the sample remained semi-dormant for four months, but in the past two days, it revived and grew—an exciting development…”

An Zhe’s heart pounded.
—He knew the spore recognized him.

Otherwise, why would it start growing only in the two days he had been in the lighthouse? The spore sensed him; it wanted to return to him.

The anchor continued: “The lab confirmed with the Tribunal that the sample’s growth pattern matches the original host.”

On screen, the spore drifted toward a certain direction. An Zhe thought—it must be where his lab was; the spore wanted to find him.

Next moment, a figure appeared beside the tank. Only their reflection was visible—unclear.
An Zhe wished the person would move away from his spore.

But the opposite happened. The person reached out, fingertip gently touching the glass. The fingers were long and well-shaped. An Zhe frowned; he knew those hands.

He also recognized the sleeve, the silver button.

An Zhe ground his teeth. He confirmed: the one trying to touch his spore was none other than that bad guy, Lu Feng.

Yet just then, the spore floated to him, and a soft, snowy mycelium reached out—touching his fingertip through the glass.

An Zhe: “?”