Chapter 141: Chaos (2)
141 – Chaos (2)
Long time no see.
Dong Jun bent down and suddenly embraced him. He didn’t say anything, just held him so tightly that if there were a way to merge Lin Xun’s flesh and blood with his own at this moment, he would surely recite that incantation.
Lin Xun gently patted his back, thinking to himself that he wasn’t too embarrassed after all—this person’s ability to express himself seemed even worse than his own, to the point where he couldn’t even utter a simple “long time no see.”
He buried his face in Dong Jun’s shoulder, turning toward his neck, almost greedily inhaling the faint, cool scent emanating from him. It seemed to trigger some kind of physiological reflex—this familiar scent made his entire body relax, as if all worldly worries and troubles had vanished. He knew he was absolutely safe here.
Absolutely… safe.
The moment he recalled these four words, memories of the past suddenly flooded his heart. Time gone by surged like a torrent rushing downstream, carrying with it all the glittering fragments of memory, like a brilliant Galaxy stretching across the night sky.
“But coding is so annoying.”
“Why is it annoying?”
“It’s so troublesome. I just want to write algorithms, not fix bugs.”
“I’ll write them for you.”
“You’ll write all the code for me?”
“Mhm.”
“Then wouldn’t I slowly forget how to do it?”
“It’s fine if you forget.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll always write it for you.”
“Then you’ll always be with me, right?”
“Mhm.”
He remembered Old Man Huo, their landlord in Chaoyang District.
When they were developing the self-driving project, the high costs made it difficult to get started. The first investment came from Old Man Huo—two hundred thousand yuan for a five percent equity stake, counting as the angel round.
Old Man Huo even said that if they did well, he’d cover next year’s rent—of course, they’d have to join him for Tai Chi practice in the square.
He also remembered Qi Yun.
In the sci-fi film False Slumber, directed by Director Gao Liao, Qi Yun played the scientist protagonist’s dream—dream artificial intelligence. The film took a full three years to shoot, funded by Galaxy. Qi Yun, who only had a pretty face, struggled to capture the essence of an artificial intelligence and was sent to Galaxy for six months to experience it firsthand. Now, the film was finally about to be released.
But Qi Yun wasn’t idle either. Director Gao, true to his surname, was highly productive. Qi Yun had joined another of Director Gao’s niche art films with a religious theme. To refine the religious atmosphere, he was now sent to study under Brother Chang Ji, a Ph.D. in religious studies. His life was quite fulfilling.
Drifting along this Galaxy of memories, flowing downstream, at the very end, he saw that person again.
That twenty-seven-year-old Lin Xun, bound by countless chains in the darkness.
Their eyes met.
Lin Xun said, “I’m safe now.”
That person smiled at him. With a soft rustling sound, the chains binding him began to shatter, fall, turn to dust, and finally dissolve into countless butterflies that fluttered away and vanished, returning to the vast Galaxy like a dream.
And the real Lin Xun curved his eyes into a smile, resting his head on Dong Jun’s shoulder as he chuckled softly.
The cicadas of summer, soda, hawthorn trees, the roses, cigarettes, and piano of late nights—suddenly distant yet clear, the past vivid before his eyes as if it had all happened just yesterday.
Dong Jun’s voice was soft: “What are you laughing about?”
“Do you know why I forgot you inside the nutshell? It wasn’t because my consciousness was damaged.”
“Why?”
“That day I was holding the chip containing the architecture of Luoshen 2.0, and then… the car accident happened. At that moment, I thought, this wasn’t my command, and it certainly wasn’t yours either. Someone had infiltrated the Galaxy system.”
“Crushing the chip was to destroy 2.0 and also to warn you. Did you receive it?”
Dong Jun: “…Perhaps.”
Lin Xun stroked his hair, understanding why Dong Jun said “perhaps.”
“But 2.0 was still in my mind. Before the accident, the doctor was discussing the Nut Shell medical pod with me, so I knew… to protect your Galaxy, I had to erase all information from my consciousness—whether it was 2.0 or any other Galaxy secrets. I didn’t know how to forget most thoroughly, and in the end, I only knew to tell myself: forget Dong Jun.”
“Later… I truly forgot you, lost all memories with you as the keyword, and forgot Lo too. It wasn’t until I returned to your side and confirmed everything was safe that I remembered again.” Lin Xun kissed Dong Jun’s hair. “But I still liked you, instinctively liked you, and you became my idol.”
But then Dong Jun said, “During the two years you were gone, I did something wrong.”
“Hmm?” Lin Xun asked, “What was it?”
“I had people watch you, though it didn’t affect your life.” Dong Jun said, “They would tell me where you were and what you were doing. Someone followed you every time you went out because I couldn’t bear losing track of you.”
Lin Xun caressed Dong Jun’s hair, momentarily unsure of what to say.
Dong Jun’s voice grew hoarse as he continued, “But because of this, when you were in trouble, we were able to save you immediately. The time from the accident to connecting you to the Nut Shell was very short, preserving your consciousness as much as possible. Still, the fact remains that I monitored you. I’m sorry.”
Lin Xun laughed.
He said, “Baby… I have something to tell you.”
He waited for Dong Jun’s response.
He waited a long time, but no answer came.
“Idol?” he asked.
No answer.
“Baby?”
Still no answer.
Lin Xun turned his shoulders around and instantly shuddered, his heart skipping a beat. “Doctor!”
“He’s asleep,” the doctor said lazily, leaning against the instrument. “You slept for a month, but your man hasn’t slept for a month. How can he compare? Lay him flat and let him rest.”
Lin Xun held him, carefully removed his jacket and shoes, laid him flat on the bed, and covered him with the blanket. He hugged another pillow and just watched.
As he watched, he couldn’t help but tentatively reach out to touch the faint dark circles under his eyes. His fingers traced down the high bridge of his nose, then turned to the side, caressing the contours of his entire face.
He had lost weight and looked weary, but the bone structure of his face was so exceptional that it could carry any look, making his features appear even more profound and sharp. His facial features were vivid and striking, and even with his eyes closed, an air of aggression was palpable—dangerous and breathtakingly beautiful.
His complexion had paled significantly, and Lin Xun knew this was the result of working nonstop for an entire month. Others might not notice, but he could feel it. He leaned down to kiss his forehead, but before he could get enough, the airtight door opened again, and heavy footsteps approached. Lin Xun looked up to see a slightly overweight programmer in a plaid shirt.
Wang Anquan.
Wang. An. Quan.
Wang Anquan’s first words were: “You motherfucker—”
Lin Xun cut him off preemptively: “What kind of security are you running? You’re not secure. Wang Anquan, get over here.”
Knowing he was in the wrong and already resigned to defeat, Wang Anquan’s bluster deflated by ninety percent. “Bro, I’m sorry, really sorry. I’ll apologize ten thousand times, I’ll prostrate myself in apology. That Cultivation game is ancient history, and it shut down so fast. You could beat me to death and I’d never have imagined someone could dig that thing out of the dustbin of history. Could you have predicted it, bro?”
Wang Anquan actually had a point. That programming game had only operated for a brief twenty days before shutting down. Their original intention in creating it was to make learning programming more fun, but that path was fundamentally doomed—simply because programming is a metaphysical pursuit. Those who can do it will become masters no matter how dry the material; those who can’t will never stick with it, no matter how gamified it is.
Lin Xun: “Then why didn’t you come see me at KeKe? Don’t tell me Dong Jun wouldn’t let you in.”
“Algorithm, you’ve been asleep for a month, you don’t know.” Zhao Jiagou followed Wang Anquan into the room. “You were sleeping peacefully, but those of us outside, the entire Galaxy, went through a battle. How many fights did we have with Eagle’s hackers? How many times did we have to inspect Galaxy’s firewall brick by brick? And we still had to add bricks and tiles to your virtual world, while your son was busy causing trouble. It was too much, we smashed over a dozen keyboards.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Wang Anquan looked at Lin Xun, smiled, but his eyes reddened. “At least we brought Algorithm back to life.”
Lin Xun also smiled, suddenly pulling Wang Anquan into a tight hug. He patted Wang Anquan’s back, and then Jia Gou threw himself into the embrace. The three of them clung together in a huddle.
Jia Gou’s hands were trembling uncontrollably; this smooth-talker was now speechless.
“That’s enough now,” Lin Xun’s voice was hoarse. “My treasure is right here.”
“Your treasure won’t wake up anytime soon.” Wang Anquan, with massive dark circles under his eyes, released him. “Brother Jiang is leading the entire security department in cleanup right now. I’m heading out first—I just pulled three all-nighters.”
Jia Gou was also barely holding on, his gaze unfocused. “I’m leaving too. We’re right next door. If we don’t come out in twelve hours, remember to check if we’ve dropped dead.”
Lin Xun: “Go, quick.”
The two of them stared intently at Lin Xun for a long moment, truly unable to hold on any longer, before Lin Xun urged them out. They staggered away—still unsteady on their feet, nearly tripping as they left.
The doctor followed them, probably also concerned these two were at risk of sudden death.
After these past few days, many people were probably at risk of sudden death.
But none of that compared to Eagle. Eagle’s boss was likely already having a heart attack in front of his lawyers right now.
Thinking of this, Lin Xun carefully placed his hand on Dong Jun’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat before he could relax.
He felt something was still missing. The moment this thought appeared, a white shadow swiftly leaped onto the bed.
A small pointer with snow-white fur and deep blue eyes.
This time, it was a real cat.
Lin Xun and it briefly locked eyes.
Zhi Zhen: “Meow.”
—Then it burrowed into his arms, rubbing its head forcefully against him, emitting a faint “meow” as if it had suffered some immense grievance.
Lin Xun held it and softly coaxed, while Zhi Zhen first meowed desperately at him for many sentences, then ran to Dong Jun’s side and meowed, until its voice was nearly hoarse from shouting. Finally, it curled its tail and quietly fell asleep beside Dong Jun.
Lin Xun gently stroked the cat’s fur for a while, then turned to smooth Dong Jun’s hair.
Both the cat and the person had peaceful sleeping faces, and a strange feeling spread in Lin Xun’s heart. He felt that the past was right before his eyes, yet everything seemed like a lifetime ago. Perhaps this was what it meant to be reborn. The only downside was that the Goddess of the Luo River, deeply entangled in the shadows of family ethics, had completely ignored him.
But even though she ignored him, as Lin Xun walked out of the room’s airtight door and pressed the elevator button, he still heard a monotonous mechanical voice.
“Please pay attention to safety.”
Its tone was so monotonous and its voice so stiff that it could rival his own system. Perhaps when an artificial intelligence was in a bad mood, it couldn’t be bothered to use a human-like voice system.
With this loving reminder from his “son,” Lin Xun safely arrived on the third floor and entered the bedroom he shared with Dong Jun—a room that seemed to have been uninhabited for a long time. He opened a drawer, retrieved a small silver-white box from the very bottom, put it in his pocket, and prepared to head back down.
“Please pay attention to safety.”
Lin Xun, who was paying attention to safety, carefully opened the door and took his first step with caution.
The next moment, his eyes met someone else’s.
—He knew he wasn’t safe.
His Dong Jun stood outside the door, holding the cat, expressionless, looking at him.
Though expressionless wasn’t entirely accurate—in those ink-black lake-like eyes, there was a trace of bewildered helplessness.
Lin Xun knew then that he had once again left him alone in an empty room.
His heart softened instantly, melting into a puddle. He took his hand and led him back to the bed, only to be pulled tightly into his arms and tumbled onto the mattress.
Lin Xun hugged Dong Jun back, and neither spoke until Dong Jun slowly released him.
—Lin Xun actually wished he could have been held a little longer.
He leaned against the headboard, next to Dong Jun, shoulder to shoulder.
He spoke: “We haven’t finished what we were talking about earlier.”
But Dong Jun didn’t pick up the topic.
He only said calmly, “Have you remembered the reason you broke up with me back then?”
Lin Xun looked at him. “Yes.”
“Although we temporarily restored our relationship as a couple in the virtual world, you can still reconsider now.”
“Reconsider what?” Lin Xun asked. “Whether to continue being with you?”
“Yes.”
Lin Xun hugged his knees and gazed ahead. “Do you remember when we were kids? Twenty years ago. That day… when I climbed the ladder and opened the window to your piano room.”
“I remember,” Dong Jun replied, a faint trace of distant amusement in his voice. “You gave me a piece of candy then.”
“I remember too,” Lin Xun smiled. “Just now, when I entered the room, your eyes looked exactly the same as they did twenty years ago. The first time I saw you back then, I thought…”
“Thought what?”
“I thought… I wanted to take this beautiful child home, give him candy every day, make him happy for a lifetime, and never let him have that look in his eyes again.”
Dong Jun seemed to glance at him faintly. “And then you broke up with me two years ago.”
Lin Xun took his hand and said softly, “Then let me make it up to you for the rest of our lives, okay? When we die, let our ashes mix together, sink to the bottom of the sea, or be sent into space, where no one can find us.”
After a moment of silence, Dong Jun said, “Won’t you feel again that I’m restricting your freedom and inspiration?”
Lin Xun was stunned.
After a long pause, he replied, “Why… do you think that’s why I broke up with you?”
Dong Jun frowned at him. “Isn’t it?”
Lin Xun asked, “Why would it be?”
“Even when I told myself not to interfere with you, I would still unconsciously control your behavior and social interactions,” Dong Jun said. “During those two years, your condition kept deteriorating, and you told me more than once that you couldn’t produce anything. I tried to restrain myself, but in the end, you still wanted to be alone.”
Lin Xun stared at him blankly.
He finally understood why, in the virtual world, when he said he was willing to take a risk for Dong Jun, Dong Jun had asked him if it was worth it.
When this person asked if it was worth it, it meant he believed he wasn’t worthy.
That piece of candy—he never ended up giving it to him.
His voice trembled slightly. “Then what kind of freedom do you think… I want?”
“The greatest degree of freedom,” Dong Jun replied, stroking Zhi Zhen’s fur over and over again. “To do anything without restrictions, like when you write algorithms.”
“Is such freedom really possible?”
“I respect any wish of yours.”
“But even algorithms written from scratch are bound by mathematical rules,” Lin Xun closed his eyes. “I could be locked in a room by you, not allowed to see anyone, without social interactions, without friends, without private space…”
His words gradually sped up, and he pressed his elbow against his eyes, as if to hide his embarrassment: “I just need you… to need me. I know there’s no such thing as complete freedom in this world. The freedom I want is to be bound by the person I desire. You can do anything to me.”
“I didn’t understand my own feelings before, but in the virtual world, I dreamed of my childhood and realized why it’s like this—my grandmother passed away early, my father and mother weren’t around, Lin Ting never fell in love, and I had no idea what love was. I only knew that Dong Chen loved his wife deeply. I only knew that locking someone up meant love, that possessiveness meant love. So I’m a lemon—everything I do is like a lemon. When I like someone, I want to be locked up by them and lock them up too. Back then, I thought she committed suicide because she didn’t love Dong Chen, that people in love would lock each other up.” The sentence was too long, and Lin Xun paused to catch his breath, but he remained eerily calm, dissecting himself as if analyzing a math problem: “I know it’s wrong, but this is how I am for the rest of my life.”
“Like how you enjoy being tied up in bed?”
Lin Xun turned his head away in resignation. “Yes.”
Silence fell, as quiet as a butterfly resting on a windowsill. He could only hear Dong Jun’s breathing.
“So why did you choose to leave two years ago?”
“Because I couldn’t lock you up—you didn’t need me at all!” Lin Xun’s voice grew hoarser. To hide the bitterness in his tone, he had to shout it out.
“You’re not that child anymore; you have better toys now. The Galaxy is so important to you, the Galaxy Tower is so tall… its influence is immense, so many people admire you, and you once stayed up three nights in a row for it. I know most men are passionate about their careers, and I love writing algorithms too, but…”
“But,” he gasped for breath, his voice trembling with tears. He had never lost his temper with anyone, nor had he ever been this willful: “But I’m not happy. When I said I had no inspiration, I didn’t want you to leave—I wanted you to stay with me. I never thought about freedom, I just—”
Dong Jun turned and embraced him. Burying his face in Dong Jun’s chest, he finally uttered those words: “I just… was jealous.”
This silence lasted even longer, as Dong Jun’s fingers slowly closed around his right arm.
“Do you think I like the Galaxy?” Dong Jun asked.
Lin Xun didn’t understand why he would ask such a question but simply replied, “Yes.”
Dong Jun’s next words, however, were far beyond his expectations.
His voice was low and resolute: “I don’t like it.”
Lin Xun’s mind went blank. He looked up and asked, “Why?”
“You said you like algorithms, so I’ll write all the code for you. You like creating products that can change the world, so I’ll do everything I can to bring your ideas to life. The bigger the Galaxy grows, the faster your visions and algorithms will become reality. I’m not like you—changing the world gives me a sense of achievement too, but I don’t truly love it. What I love is you.” Dong Jun cupped his face, his cool, thin lips kissing away a tear at the corner of Lin Xun’s eye. His voice was as fragile as that trembling droplet: “I just… wanted to make you happy.”
Lin Xun watched as Dong Jun bit his lower lip hard and closed his eyes. “Why…”
Why did I only tell you now?
Why did you only tell me at this moment?
He opened his eyes and looked at the young man before him. They were the same age, their life paths intertwined.
They met at six, became a couple at sixteen, graduated and founded Galaxy at nineteen, perfected the Automated Driving System at twenty-one, saw Galaxy go public at twenty-two, broke up at twenty-five, and faced life and death separation at twenty-seven.
He wondered: if he hadn’t skipped so many grades as a child, if they hadn’t started developing automated driving so quickly in college, if they hadn’t thrown themselves so wholeheartedly into endless calculations and research as adults—would they have had more time to understand each other?
But time flows ceaselessly, fate rushes past, and this world left them no room for reflection or looking back.
Clearly… they both tried so hard to make each other happy, yet they still ended up in a failed relationship.
“I’m sorry,” Dong Jun held his hand. “You were my first friend, and my first boyfriend. I couldn’t…”
Lin Xun no longer knew whether he was crying or laughing. He forced a smile: “And was I your second?”
After saying this, he suddenly remembered something. His hands trembled, but he managed to pull the box he had just retrieved from his pocket and opened it.
Inside were a pair of silver cufflinks, made from a special material he had searched for a long time to find. They shimmered like a brilliant galaxy under the light—a gift he had never been able to give in the real world.
He opened the box and placed it in Dong Jun’s hand: “…For you.”
Cufflinks are not an ordinary gift, because for a man, it is difficult to elegantly put them on by himself—giving cufflinks as a gift signifies that you are willing to help him put them on every morning thereafter. At that time, he intended to use these two cufflinks as a final gesture of courtship, but in the end, a momentary hesitation led him to choose to leave on his own accord.
He thought, this time they were finally given away, and once given, they were gone forever.
But then Dong Jun said, “Back then, I also had something I wanted to give you, right on the Ferris wheel.”
Lin Xun looked at him. “…What was it?”
Dong Jun spoke softly, “It’s in the coat.”
Lin Xun took two deep breaths, finally steadying his emotions. He picked up Dong Jun’s suit jacket from the bedside, and inside was also a square silver box, similar in shape to his own.
His heart suddenly gave a heavy thump, as if sensing something. Slowly, slowly, he opened it.
The Galaxy flowed past.
The exact same material.
—Two silver-white plain band rings.
Dong Jun’s arm wrapped around him from behind, his lips brushing past Lin Xun’s ear.
“Being your boyfriend the second time will be better than the first. Will you accept it, my dear?”
Lin Xun closed the silver box, slowly gripping it in his palm as if holding twenty years of scattered time. “I… will.”
Outside the window, the night sky stretched endlessly, the Galaxy boundless. Dong Jun took the box from his hand, and each of them picked up a ring, placing them on their fingers.
Lin Xun lifted Dong Jun’s slender fingers and gently kissed the ring. He had always felt that a pair of rings were like the two ends of handcuffs, and loving each other was like being each other’s romantic shackles.
Starting over.