The delicate balance of attraction and repulsion trapped them in a bizarre symbiotic state. Pure attraction would lead to uncontrolled fusion, completely annihilating each other; pure repulsion would result in eternal separation. Only in the tension of mutual pull and resistance could they maintain a dangerous balance—neither fully merged nor completely apart. This opposing yet interdependent force ultimately bound them together, inescapably.
Han Che's figure quickly merged into the surging crowd at the entrance of Yucai Primary School and disappeared. No words were exchanged, no promises made, not even a glance shared. Yet in the filthy, suffocating air of the dead end, amid the pain of the virus tearing their souls and the resonance of the cold instruction, a connection beyond flesh and blood had formed. Without communication, the deepest layers of their consciousness had been forcibly connected by the same cold will. Like invaded terminals, they shared the core instruction of destruction and rebirth. Their "hearts"—if the core completely reshaped by the virus could still be called a heart—had locked onto each other's life signals in the most irresistible way from that moment on. Synchronized, resonating. From then on, life was lingering on the edge under the same instruction, and death was the collapse of the same string of code. A cold, fragile, loose alliance based on their shared alienated identity was silently forged in silence. Whenever one needed it, the other would answer the call.
In the shadows of the dead end, Han Che had finally found "him"—Feng Jian, a man who had completely lost himself to the virus.
As a fourth-grade homeroom teacher, Feng Jian had also failed to escape the virus's clutches. The invisible microorganism had replaced parts of his gene segments, completely rewriting his way of being. The virus stripped him of independent thinking, eroded his sense of self, leaving only a deep-rooted herd instinct, reducing him to a vessel for group consciousness—a hollow shell waiting to be filled.
On a rainy afternoon, Feng Jian passed an independent bookstore. A striking poster on the window read: "Must-Read Forbidden Book—The Truth They Don't Want You to Know." The store was packed with young people dressed similarly, their expressions solemn as if participating in a religious ceremony. Feng Jian's steps were pulled by an invisible string, stopping involuntarily.
His gaze was drawn to a young man speaking passionately on stage: "We are awakening! This book reveals the truth of the world! Everyone else is asleep—only we see clearly!" As if receiving a silent instruction, Feng Jian walked into the store and picked up the book with the gilded cover. As his fingers brushed the cover, his eyes gradually aligned with those around him—a mix of self-righteous clarity and unspeakable superiority.
"Have you awakened too?" a girl approached, her voice low and mysterious. "After reading this book, your perspective on the world will never be the same." Feng Jian nodded solemnly, even though he hadn't even read the title. As he lined up to pay, he noticed the tacit seriousness of the other buyers and subconsciously adjusted his facial muscles to mimic that "everyone else is asleep while I alone am awake" expression.
That night, Feng Jian sat at his desk piously and opened the book. But the words slid mechanically through his mind, leaving no trace. He couldn't absorb a single sentence, yet he flipped page after page—only because "all awakened people should finish this book."
The next day at a café, hearing someone discussing the book, he immediately joined the conversation, fluently repeating the book's viewpoints and sentences as if the ideas were his own. When the other person raised a different opinion, Feng Jian instantly displayed the same anger and contempt as the other "readers"—even though he had no idea what he was defending.
Tragically, when the book was exposed as a fabrication by a commercial writer, Feng Jian was the first to throw it into the trash, immediately embracing the next "truth." His beliefs were as light as a feather, always shifting with the wind—because he had never held a true belief of his own.
On a Saturday afternoon, the city art museum held a contemporary art exhibition. Feng Jian had no plans, but he accidentally heard a lively discussion among several art students on the subway. So, pulled by an invisible string, he got off at the next stop and transferred to a train bound for the museum.
The exhibition hall was noisy. Feng Jian stood in front of a huge abstract painting—canvas covered with tangled scarlet and pitch black, brushstrokes violent like torn wounds. Two fashionable young people beside him were talking enthusiastically.
"It's stunning!" the man wearing a beret exclaimed. "The violence of these colors is the most direct representation of the alienated state of modern humans!" "Exactly," his companion echoed. "Look at the struggle in these brushstrokes—how similar it is to our spiritual predicament in the city!" Feng Jian's gaze wandered between the two and the painting. He tried to see something in the chaotic colors, but only felt confusion. But when he noticed the admiring expressions around him, his facial muscles began to mimic that "profoundly moved" look.
"It is stunning," Feng Jian said to a stranger beside him, repeating the words he had just heard. "The violence of the colors... directly presents the alienated state." The man looked at him in surprise and nodded before walking away.
Feng Jian continued moving through the exhibition hall like a ship without a rudder, changing direction with the crowd. In front of a set of sculptures, hearing someone criticize them as "too commercial," he immediately frowned, showing contempt; in front of an exquisite landscape painting, when everyone praised its "courage to return to tradition," he quickly nodded in agreement.
The most ironic piece was an all-white painting—nothing but a blank canvas. Standing in front of it, Feng Jian was completely lost. Glancing around, he saw the audience divided into two groups: one looking awe-struck, whispering about the "philosophy of emptiness"; the other openly mocking, calling it "the emperor's new clothes."
Feng Jian's lips trembled, sweat beading on his forehead. He tried to mimic both reactions at once, only to stand stiffly, his face contorted into an expression that was both reverent and mocking.
"What do you think of this work?" a clear voice asked. Feng Jian turned around and saw a young girl—a museum volunteer wearing a badge that read "Welcome to Discuss," looking at him expectantly.
Feng Jian's mouth opened and closed. His brain frantically searched for others' opinions, but a flood of contradictory views surged in. "I... I think..." he stammered, his fingers twisting together unconsciously. "It's... very profound, but perhaps too..." The girl tilted her head in confusion. Panicked, Feng Jian blurted out: "It perfectly interprets the duality of contemporary art!" This universal sentence he had heard from a critic became his lifeline.
The girl nodded as if understanding, smiled politely, and turned to leave.
He fled the museum in a hurry, his steps unsteady. The setting sun stretched his shadow long, yet faint as if about to blend into the twilight—just like his almost non-existent self.
Late at night, when all was quiet, Feng Jian occasionally stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Staring at the person reflected there, he slowly ran his fingers across the mirror, as if trying to touch the "self that should have existed." Sometimes he would suddenly make various expressions: smiling, frowning, surprised, angry... but these expressions were like props in Sichuan opera face-changing, none belonging to his true self.
That night, Feng Jian lay in bed listening to the rain. Suddenly, an unprecedented feeling seized him—profound loneliness, a sense of unfamiliarity with his own existence. At that moment, he almost touched the self buried by the virus...
But just then, his phone lit up. Social media notifications kept popping up, showing the hot topics and trends he followed. Hypnotized, Feng Jian picked up the phone and started scrolling. The fleeting moment of self-awareness was drowned in the flood of fragmented information.
He was safe again. Once more part of "we." No need to think, no need to choose—only to follow. This was the most terrifying gift the virus had given him—peace in conformity, calm in losing oneself.
And beneath all this, deeper down, that cold instruction began to awaken, like an undercurrent in the deep sea, stirring his empty interior: "Find him." Feng Jian sat up abruptly, the phone slipping from his hand with a "slap." This time, the voice was no longer vague—clear enough to send chills down his spine, carrying an undeniable inevitability.
"Find him." The voice resonated in his bones, echoed in his blood. It was not a request, not a suggestion, but the sole purpose of his existence.
Feng Jian slowly stood up and walked to the window. The rain had stopped, and the city lights flickered on the wet streets.
"Find him." Feng Jian repeated softly, his voice free of doubt, only acceptance.
He didn't know who to find, why to find him, or what to do once he found him. But none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was that he finally had an instruction that was completely his own—even if that instruction likely came from elsewhere.
In this life filled with duplication and imitation, this was perhaps the only thing truly belonging to him: a mission he must fulfill.
And who... was he?