Little Pink Starfish

The gunfire stopped. A few scattered personnel came upstairs from below, Ceylan bringing up the rear.

“These weren’t infected?”
Ceylan replied: “Yes.”

An Zhe listened to the doctor question these survivors about their movements today—eating, drinking, and breathing—none of these had any problems. All were supplied uniformly by the Lighthouse, and even the air was delivered by the ventilation system. If any of these three had a problem, the entire Lighthouse would be done for. But they had one thing in common: during the time since the magnetic field disappeared, none of them had been in close proximity to the experimental subjects. Some had been in offices organizing data all day, some had gone to other floors for meetings and just returned—like Dr. Ji himself.

And the infected staff members also had a commonality: they had all been in close proximity to aberrants—not actual physical contact, but spatially near the monsters or aberrants. For example, one researcher’s assistant had spent the entire afternoon in a small office writing code and fitting data models, but was still found to be genetically infected—the only suspicious point being that in the lab separated from him by a wall, two reptilian aberrants were caged.

Ceylan reported to military command: using the aberrant research center’s floor as the axis, three floors above and below would be sealed and thoroughly checked, with all personnel prohibited from entry.

“Water, food, air—all could be sources of infection.” In the Tribunal rest room, An Zhe and the doctor were alone. The doctor murmured to the wall: “If that’s the case, it would be easier. But it just isn’t.”

“Is it radiation?” he said again. “Suppose each monster is a source of radiation. At first, the radiation is weak—only serious wounds cause infection. Later, even light injuries lead to infection. Then the radiation strength increases… As long as you’re near a monster, your genes could change instantly due to radiation.”

An Zhe thought he made sense. But the next second, he saw the doctor bury his face in his palms, exhaling deeply—a near breakdown posture: “But our instruments can’t detect it.”

An Zhe felt the doctor was about to break. In his shoes, he understood the root of the doctor’s madness.

Those studies—those on monsters—made researchers suffer not because they were complex, resource-heavy, or dangerous, but because even now, they didn’t know what they were dealing with. Like walking in total darkness, having even the last cane taken away. You know a cliff is ahead, but not when you’ll step off.

He saw the doctor slowly raise his head. His sapphire pupils were slightly unfocused, facial muscles twitching—a despairing fear, like facing something vast, terrifying, and indescribable. Before him was an empty pale wall—the most frightening thing in the world is the unknown.

An Zhe poured him a glass of water. The doctor drank it, forcing a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. “No idea how many days the base’s water supply will last.”

The doctor wasn’t wrong. Since the night the aurora vanished, the entire base had entered emergency shelter status. Outside was solar wind and radiation—no one could leave the buildings. But the outside heat penetrated the thick walls, raising indoor temperatures above 30°C. With no climate control, the dryness was suffocating. Electricity barely powered essential systems. At 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. each day, the base distributed a piece of compressed biscuit or a pack of nutrition solution, with a bottle of drinking water.

By day three, only one bottle of water was distributed in the morning.

And this place was Twin Towers—the military command center and research staff zone. An Zhe sometimes wondered: if even Twin Towers’ resource supply had tightened to this degree, what about the regular residential buildings outside?

“PL1109 fighter needs 12 hours to fly from North Base to Underground City Base, and 12 hours to return. It’s been 120 hours now, and we still haven’t received any news,” the doctor said, writing complex formulas on paper. “Emotionally, I trust Lu Feng. But now we must prepare for the worst.”

By day five, even the nutrition packs were gone.

Elevators stopped. An Zhe snuck out of the Tribunal and climbed stairs. Along the way, he saw at least three couples kissing in corners—perhaps not couples, but at least inseparable in this moment.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
“For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

On the 13th floor, he passed a meeting room. Inside, a dozen dusty officers and researchers were reading the Bible aloud. At least half had tissues stuffed in their nostrils. The heat and dryness made nosebleeds common.

Actually, being a mushroom, An Zhe hadn’t slept well these past days. Sometimes he felt like drifting in the torrent of fate, sometimes dried up. When he finally woke, he’d feel very hungry.

But he could wait—it didn’t matter. Just this morning, the doctor had said: “You’re getting calmer and calmer.”

An Zhe indeed wasn’t panicked. He was a calm mushroom. These past five days, he quietly stayed in Twin Towers, coming and going with the doctor and Ceylan. Many staff now recognized him. The dark red lights indicating operational status still lit up. He listened closely to every broadcast.

Just yesterday—
And this morning, the doctor received a notice: due to energy shortage, all research activities were terminated.

An Zhe took a deep breath and stood in front of D1344’s lab door. Inside was completely silent. Even the beep of machines had ceased. He had finally waited for the researchers to leave.

The lab door was shut. The sensor at the entrance blinked faintly.

The next second, he took out Lu Feng’s ID card.