Would You Be Willing to Give Me a Little Monster?
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Qiu Yu discovered that ever since she mentioned “the past events,” Chen Cebai’s expression had turned cold.
It wasn’t a deliberate coldness toward her but rather a kind of reflexive indifference that even he himself was completely unaware of.
If she hadn’t already made a habit of observing him, she wouldn’t have even noticed the change in his expression.
This wasn’t something that could be clarified over video, so Qiu Yu decided to ask him again when she got home.
After the video call ended, Qiu Yu stared blankly for a while. She lit up her tablet and found that it was still on the previous screen.
She frowned and hesitated for a moment before clicking into the homepage of that video and searching for the keyword “Chen Cebai,” then started watching in the order the videos had been uploaded.
These videos were clearly not made by the same person.
Some had extreme and aggressive wording, portraying Chen Cebai as a traitor to the working class, saying he went to great lengths to curry favor with capitalists.
Others, however, rationally speculated about his background, attempting to piece together his journey to becoming a top scientist.
The latter were slightly more credible than the former. They would carefully cite the sources they referenced, including books and interview footage.
Qiu Yu spent an entire afternoon watching all the videos related to Chen Cebai.
She noticed that no matter how these videos reconstructed his past, there was always a blank space in his timeline—
That was his experience from ages seven to fourteen.
In the internet age, every person’s actions leave traces.
Surveillance footage, electronic records, browsing history, chat logs, transaction records, purchase invoices—every single one of them is proof that you have existed in this world.
Yet during that period, there was nothing left behind about Chen Cebai.
If he hadn’t already developed an awareness of counter-tracking at the age of seven, then it meant that a company had deliberately erased those records.
Upon reaching this point, Qiu Yu closed the video.
She didn’t like making reckless speculations about such controversial matters. She preferred to confirm things directly with the person involved.
Just then, a chilling sensation suddenly shot up her spine.
Qiu Yu’s hair stood on end, and she whipped around abruptly.
She saw nothing.
—The watcher had been observing her all along.
She had been too focused on her thoughts and had forgotten to remain alert.
Her heart pounded wildly. Noticing that it was almost time to get off work, she immediately called Chen Cebai.
Chen Cebai was probably busy, as he only answered after more than ten seconds.
“Hello.”
It sounded like he had answered using his tablet. His voice was slightly distant, the sound quality like a snow-covered mountain under a dim moon—vague, cold, and piercing.
Qiu Yu softly asked, “Can you pick me up from work?”
Chen Cebai replied, “I’m already on my way.”
Qiu Yu’s lips curled into a sweet smile. Just as she was about to act coy and thank him, Chen Cebai abruptly hung up.
Qiu Yu didn’t think too much about it, assuming that the traffic conditions were tense and he didn’t have time to talk to her.
She packed up her things, took the flash drive given by her superior, and went to the underground parking lot to wait for him.
As soon as she arrived at the underground parking lot, she saw Chen Cebai.
He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the driver’s side door. As if sensing her gaze, he looked straight at her.
Even though she had met his gaze countless times before, colliding with it suddenly still made her inexplicably flustered.
It was strange—there were so many cars in the underground parking lot, and since it was a business center, every vehicle looked nearly identical. This was precisely why she hated underground parking—it was far too easy to get lost in the vast sea of cars.
Yet, she spotted him at a glance.
It was almost as if a herbivore had caught the distant scent of a predator.
Qiu Yu found this a little odd.
This scene felt familiar.
…It was exactly the same as when she instinctively believed, on a biological level, that the watcher’s gaze had fallen directly on her.
But Chen Cebai had no reason to spy on her.
If he wanted to look at her, he could just say so—they could be connected by video call twenty-four hours a day.
She wasn’t afraid of his gaze.
Thinking this, Qiu Yu dismissed the illusion from her mind. She jogged over and threw herself into his arms.
She wrapped her arms around Chen Cebai’s neck, buried her face against the cold side of his neck, took a deep breath of his crisp, cool scent, and murmured a complaint:
“That scared me to death… I thought that person didn’t spy on me today, but then, right before getting off work, I suddenly felt his gaze…”
At that moment, a thought flashed through her mind—
If the watcher wasn’t using their eyes but instead using an electronic device to spy on her, would they have recorded the footage of her watching Chen Cebai’s “black material,” edited it into a video, and uploaded it online to twist the truth?
Qiu Yu was not truly ignorant of the world. She had simply grown accustomed to always having someone clean up after her, which was why she had never truly understood the reality before her.
She had heard of corporate cover-ups. She had also heard of social media platforms using big data to manipulate people into attacking and cursing one another.
But to her, those things were like the shadows beneath a lamp. It is human nature not to notice what is hidden in plain sight.
In a way, her naivety concealed a certain cruelty—like a nimble, agile wild cat, pure and innocent in appearance, yet biting through its prey’s throat without hesitation.
But now, the shadow beneath the lamp had become a real threat to her.
If the watcher posted the video online, they would only need to add a few inflammatory words to incite the masses against Chen Cebai.
The only way to prevent such things from happening was to stop watching those videos and directly ask him what really happened during that time.
Qiu Yu pondered for a moment, then lifted her head and looked at Chen Cebai.
“…There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Chen Cebai’s glasses reflected a faint glint of light. He tilted his chin toward the passenger seat.
“Get in and talk.”
Qiu Yu nodded and walked to the other side of the car.
Chen Cebai didn’t immediately open the driver’s side door. Instead, he pulled out a cigarette box, flicked out a cigarette, and bit down on it with a cold and sharp expression. Leaning against the car, he slid open a lighter, lit the cigarette, and took a deep drag.
The entire afternoon, his mind had been split three ways—guiding researchers through their experiments, precisely recording every piece of experimental data, and at the same time, following Qiu Yu’s gaze to watch all of those videos.
He hadn’t made a single mistake from beginning to end.
Qiu Yu was someone who couldn’t hide her thoughts. She would definitely confess everything she had watched today and then ask him—
Why was his experience from ages seven to fourteen a blank?
Why was it blank?
Because, at that time, he could hardly be called “human.”
Genes have an upper limit. Exceeding that limit in genetic modification causes the entire genome to fracture.
Therefore, the “test subjects” the company sought all had IQs hovering around 180—only this level of intelligence could withstand genetic modifications at the cognitive level.
But when they reached the final step, they still failed.
None of the test subjects’ genomes could withstand modifications that broke the upper limit. Their genetic chains completely shattered, then were forcibly reassembled under artificial intervention.
The skin on the surface dissolved, peeled away, then regenerated.
The internal organs split open with bright red fissures, only to rapidly heal again.
They looked like brains floating in jars—no human form, just a mass of living, wriggling, self-aware tissue.
In the end, the company made a desperate gamble and injected them with a highly active, highly aggressive, infinitely proliferating mucus-like substance.
Later, Chen Cebai learned that this mucus came from an extrasolar system.
No one knew what it was, what it was made of, or what changes it would undergo once injected into a living body.
The company didn’t care whether they lived or died, nor did it care about their future. It only wanted to do whatever it took to preserve a single viable specimen.
He was the one who survived.
The internet claimed his IQ was as high as 240, but that wasn’t true—
Even with the most advanced instruments, the company couldn’t measure his IQ at all.
If he so wished, he could even deduce, just as described in Laplace’s principle, the causes and effects of all events in the universe—perhaps even foresee the future.
But no human brain could withstand the energy consumption required for such calculations.
Unless he transferred his consciousness into a supercomputer array, only then could he truly become what they called “Laplace’s Demon.”
In short, he was a monster.
How was he supposed to explain this to his wife?
The man who lay beside her every night was not as refined and composed as he appeared.
For a long time, he had been nothing more than a grotesque, writhing mass of flesh.
He might not have reproductive incompatibility with her, but their child…
Their child could very well be nothing more than another writhing mass of deformed flesh.
Chen Cebai held the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
His face remained as calm as ever, thanks to his exceptional control over his facial expressions.
However, physiological reactions could not be concealed.
Bulging veins stood out on his forehead, his jaw was clenched tight, and bloodshot streaks filled his eyes—an eerie and terrifying sight.
Like a predator suppressing its attack instincts, already at the breaking point, ready to snap into a violent assault at any moment.
Chen Cebai stubbed out the cigarette and shut his eyes heavily.
When he looked at the rearview mirror again, the veins had faded.
Only his eyes still remained faintly red.
Chen Cebai looked at Qiu Yu.
Of course, he knew exactly what little scheme she was up to.
Her thoughts had always been written all over her face.
For a few fleeting seconds, he had the urge to thread his fingers through her silky hair, grip her head a little roughly, lean down to her ear, and whisper:
“Then let me ask you honestly—would you be willing to give birth to a little monster for me?”
She wouldn’t even need to carry it herself.
There was no way he would let her take on the risk of pregnancy.
Artificial external gestation was not a technological challenge. He could easily design an artificial womb to nurture their child.
But their offspring would most likely be an unstable, writhing mass of flesh.
Only by injecting it with a certain mucus substance could it be “stabilized.”
Behind his lenses, Chen Cebai’s gaze remained chillingly composed—yet beneath that calm lay a touch of malice-tinged madness.
He wanted—desperately wanted—to see her reaction when she discovered that their child was just as grotesque and terrifying as his past self.
There was a perverse satisfaction in ripping open an old, scabbed-over wound and showing it to her, deliberately frightening her—just to earn her sympathy.
Just imagining the possibility that she might pity him, that she might shed tears over his past, sent a shiver of excitement down his spine, making his fingers tremble ever so slightly.
But unfortunately, there was still a fifty percent chance that she would react with fear.
That she would recoil from him.
Just the mere thought of that outcome filled him with an uncontrollable, ice-cold urge to destroy everything.
A moment later, Chen Cebai let go of the back of her neck, rested his hand on the steering wheel, pressed the ignition button, and said indifferently:
“I don’t like you bringing up the past.”