Exposure
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Qiu Yu heard Chen Cebai’s cold and swift laughter and looked up at him.
Chen Cebai did not look at her.
He released her hand, pressed the engine button, and gripped the steering wheel. Qiu Yu was certain that his strength was not great—his light blue veins on the back of his hand did not even bulge—yet the steering wheel seemed to have suffered some kind of severe impact and directly disintegrated into fragments from within.
Qiu Yu exclaimed in surprise, “This is…”
Chen Cebai’s expression remained indifferent. “Let’s switch to another car.”
After speaking, he activated the chip, selected the nearest garage, and summoned another car using the autonomous driving system.
The nearest garage was only 200 meters away, and the new car arrived quickly. When Qiu Yu got out of the vehicle, she carefully examined the shattered steering wheel.
It was broken in an extremely strange way. If it had been subjected to external or internal force, there should have been visible signs, but this kind of breakage seemed more like… it had suddenly “disintegrated.”
Qiu Yu had never seen anything like it before and found it difficult to describe.
If she had to use a physics term to explain it, it would be that a mysterious force directly acted on the microscopic structural level of the material, causing it to shatter from the inside out.
That was Qiu Yu’s guess—human eyes could not see the microscopic world.
At this moment, Chen Cebai was already seated in the driver’s seat of the new car. He honked the horn at her, signaling for her to get in.
She had no choice but to push her doubts aside, walk to the front passenger seat of the new car, and sit down.
Chen Cebai remained silent as he started the car and drove home.
Along the way, Qiu Yu glanced at him several times, but he never looked at her, nor did he observe her from the perspective of a watcher.
Qiu Yu did not consider the possibility that “Chen Cebai had learned about her conversation with Lu Zehou.” Afterward, she had asked Lu Zehou about it. Lu Zehou said he had activated a shielding device that could block electromagnetic signals, sound waves of different frequencies, and even some biological signals. No matter what, Chen Cebai could not possibly have heard their conversation.
After hearing this, Qiu Yu actually felt a bit disappointed.
She had secretly fantasized that Chen Cebai had overheard her conversation with Lu Zehou and confronted her about it directly. That way, she wouldn’t have to struggle over whether to lie and force him into a corner.
Qiu Yu did not exchange a single word with Chen Cebai until they got home.
He changed his shoes and brushed past her, walking into the bedroom under the warm beige lighting. His arms were crossed in front of him, and the sharp contours of his wrist bones stood out as he slowly removed his watch.
Qiu Yu felt that his entire demeanor had changed.
In the past, when he made such movements, there was an indescribable casualness to them. But now, there was a sense of exploration.
As if someone had suddenly gained an unfathomable power and was trying to figure out how to control it.
Perhaps because his expression was too calm and indifferent, for a fleeting moment, he even exuded a trace of divinity.
Qiu Yu swore that even though she saw Chen Cebai through a hundred layers of filters, that sense of “divinity” was not a product of her filtered perception. It was more like a primal human instinct when facing an unknown power.
Just like in ancient times, when people saw fire, rain, lightning—any natural phenomenon beyond their understanding—they would instinctively categorize them as “divine signs.”
It was almost an instinct embedded in their genes.
Two minutes later, Chen Cebai took off his watch and casually tossed it aside, entirely devoid of the “divinity” from before, as if it had all been just her illusion.
But remembering his history as a watcher, Qiu Yu no longer ignored these details as she had before. Instead, she silently took note of them.
During the meal, Chen Cebai still did not speak to her, nor did he observe her from the perspective of a watcher.
Chen Cebai had always had a large appetite and preferred meat, like some kind of large carnivorous animal that needed to consume enough energy to sustain high-intensity hunting activities.
In the past, Qiu Yu had wondered why he ate so much, yet his body temperature remained so low. Where did all the energy he consumed go?
Thinking about it now, it was probably due to the “new abilities” from genetic modifications, along with the excessive mental exertion, which consumed most of the energy he took in.
The fact that he did not eat continuously was already extraordinary.
As Qiu Yu watched him calmly chew his food, she absentmindedly swallowed her rice, barely able to eat.
She felt dazed and uneasy, unsure why Chen Cebai was suddenly ignoring her.
Could it be that he knew about her conversation with Lu Zehou?
Then why was this his reaction?
Qiu Yu poked at her rice gloomily.
Truthfully, she did not even know what reaction he should have.
He had too many secrets.
Communicating with him was like walking through a labyrinth, where all the routes and obstacles were under his control.
If he allowed her to move forward, she could continue walking. If he forbade her from approaching, she could only wander in circles.
Qiu Yu hated this feeling.
She had tolerated him for long enough and did not want to endure it any longer.
Qiu Yu put down her chopsticks, suddenly stood up, and decided to take a shower before confronting him.
She had completely made up her mind. She had always hated Chen Cebai’s secrecy—so why should she use another form of secrecy to force him to tell the truth?
If the labyrinth could not be navigated, then she would simply stand still and wait for the walls in front of her to move on their own. After all, a labyrinth was a man-made game, not a true dead end.
She did not want to play anymore. She did not believe Chen Cebai could force her to keep playing.
Fuming, Qiu Yu took off her suit jacket, removed her makeup in a few quick motions, and walked toward the bathroom in just a shirt.
Even though she was angry, she habitually opened her chip while taking a shower, intending to pull up a movie to pass the time—only to see the message icon in the lower right corner flashing wildly.
Qiu Yu hesitated for a moment, then tapped it open.
It was a message from Pei Xi.
He had sent a long passage, practically an emotional and well-crafted essay. The general meaning was that he was deeply sorry for the way he had spoken to her, hoping she could forgive him and continue being friends with him. This time, he promised not to overstep any boundaries.
Since they had once been friends, Qiu Yu patiently read to the end.
The second message came about twenty minutes after the first. During this time, Pei Xi seemed to have undergone intense inner turmoil.
Then, he sent her several encrypted files.
Format: Unknown
Encryption Level: Red
It indicated that this was top-secret internal company data.
Qiu Yu’s heart pounded violently, almost leaping into her throat.
Even though she did not need to use a mouse to open these files, her fingers trembled, and her brain felt oxygen-deprived, making her dizzy.
The first file was a surveillance video.
There was no sound.
A middle-aged man with an encrypted face entered a place resembling a laboratory and turned his head to say something to the security personnel beside him.
As soon as he finished speaking, the security personnel immediately drew their guns and aimed in a certain direction.
If it weren’t for the recoil and the faint smoke from the gunfire, Qiu Yu wouldn’t even have known when the shots were fired.
It was only then that she realized—the room was filled with white treatment pods. The surveillance footage was somewhat blurry, and at first, she had mistaken them for oddly shaped floor tiles.
The moment the shots were fired, brain matter and fresh blood splattered everywhere.
Even the nearby treatment pods were stained with blood. The people inside were clearly awake, yet they remained motionless, like living corpses.
After the middle-aged man with the encrypted face left, the screen faded into darkness, and a line of small text appeared:
Cebai Chen 2053.2.11
…This was actually a surveillance recording related to Chen Cebai, from twenty years ago.
Qiu Yu’s heart trembled.
In that footage… who was Chen Cebai?
Was he the test subject shot and killed, or was he the one nearby, splattered with blood…
Qiu Yu found it difficult to breathe, unwilling to think any further.
She understood how the company operated. And it was precisely because she understood that she knew just how terrifying that scene had been.
It was nothing short of random murder.
No target. No premeditation. No rules.
No matter how intelligent a person was, they would be unable to predict or avoid such sudden execution.
If Chen Cebai had been in one of those treatment pods at that time, what kind of emotions had he felt while facing that massacre?
Qiu Yu felt as though a crab’s claw had pinched her heart, and the salty, fishy seawater seeped into the wound, leaving it both sore and stinging.
She felt sorrow for what he had endured and anger at his secrecy.
The second file was also a surveillance video.
At the center of the screen was a human-sized sealed chamber, cylindrical in shape, with a dim, eerie fluorescence spilling down from the top.
Inside, a mass of flesh and blood was writhing abnormally, its grotesque movements nauseating to behold.
Qiu Yu had never seen such a horrifying sight before—it triggered an intense physiological discomfort. The hot water cascading from the showerhead suddenly felt ice-cold.
The downpour of hot water streamed over her head, yet she shivered violently, her teeth chattering as if she had a fever.
As the recording ended, just like the previous video, the screen faded to darkness, and a line of small text slowly emerged:
Cebai Chen 2054.5.11
…That mass of flesh and blood was actually Chen Cebai.
Qiu Yu was no longer afraid, but she still found it difficult to breathe.
What exactly had Chen Cebai experienced?
She took a deep breath and grasped the railing beside her just to barely steady herself.
The third file, unsurprisingly, was yet another surveillance video.
This time, the image quality was much clearer than the previous two. It was obviously from recent years, with options to zoom in, adjust the viewing angle, and choose perspectives—similar to the 3D games from decades ago.
Qiu Yu hesitated for a moment before selecting the first-person perspective.
Perhaps this way, she could obtain more critical information.
The screen immediately switched to a first-person view.
She was sitting at a desk, seemingly working.
Just then, the metallic office door suddenly swung open. She immediately stood up in a panic.
A figure gradually entered her field of vision.
Chen Cebai.
For the past three years, she had always thought that Chen Cebai was indifferent to her. Only now did she realize—she had never truly seen what his real indifference looked like.
For example, at this moment.
He was dressed in a black coat that draped to his knees, both hands in his pockets. A pair of thin-framed glasses rested on his face, and behind the lenses, his gaze was icy to the extreme—carrying a blade-like pressure that made one feel as if merely locking eyes with him would cause lacerations.
Chen Cebai looked at her and spoke calmly:
“Your encryption was done well. It took me some time to find you.”
Even though she knew he was not talking to her, a chilling fear still crept up inside her.
She opened her mouth, and a rough male voice came out—one filled with terror:
“What do you want? There are surveillance cameras here! Panoramic simulated-sensory surveillance! If you dare to touch me, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison!”
Chen Cebai looked completely unconcerned.
“I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to take a look at you.”
If these words had been spoken to her, they would have been filled with deep and intoxicating affection.
Yet in the surveillance footage, all Qiu Yu could hear was an icy, terrifying killing intent.
Chen Cebai pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his coat pocket and slowly put them on.
Then, he took a step forward and clamped his fingers around her cheeks.
In simulated-sensory surveillance’s first-person view, the sensation was only at 15% of real-life intensity. Even so, Qiu Yu still felt a faint pain.
The first-person perspective host let out a sharp, agonizing scream.
Hearing groans, wails, and cries of pain, as well as witnessing gruesome, bloody violence, would instinctively trigger a visceral response—a survival instinct ingrained in humans through evolutionary history to help them stay away from danger.
Qiu Yu trusted Chen Cebai unconditionally, knowing that he wouldn’t develop murderous intent toward someone for no reason.
Even so, when the man in the footage screamed, she still furrowed her brows, unable to bear watching.
…It was probably the same reaction as watching someone stub their toe hard against a table leg.
No matter how much the first-person perspective screamed and begged for mercy, Chen Cebai’s grip remained unmoved, like a cold, unyielding iron clamp.
His gaze, chilling and detached, slowly traced over every inch of the person’s face.
Perhaps because she knew that no matter what, Chen Cebai would never treat her like this, Qiu Yu felt no sense of immersion in this part.
The first-person perspective, however, was drenched in sweat from being watched so closely, wailing, “…What exactly are you looking at? Just finish it quickly, will you?”
Chen Cebai let go, pulled off the rubber gloves, and used a lighter to ignite them before tossing them aside.
First-person perspective: “…You want to burn me to death? The entire office uses top-grade flame-resistant materials. You won’t burn me.”
Chen Cebai said flatly, “I just didn’t feel like throwing trash away.”
The atmosphere was oppressive and tense. Chen Cebai remained silent about his purpose, driving the first-person perspective to the brink of madness. Like a trapped beast, they tried everything to call for security, but the messages couldn’t be sent. It was as if the entire office had become an electromagnetic shielded chamber.
At that moment, Chen Cebai suddenly raised his hand, glanced at his watch, and said indifferently:
“I just wanted to see what the person who almost killed me looks like.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “Time’s up.”
As his words fell, the screen plunged into darkness, and the simulated sensations were abruptly cut off.
Two or three seconds later, the screen lit up again.
The first-person perspective was disconnected—because the first-person subject was already dead.
—Suicide. He had shoved the barrel of a gun into his throat and pulled the trigger.
Chen Cebai cast a brief glance at the surveillance camera, then turned and left the office. His figure remained solitary and untouched by the slightest speck of dust from beginning to end.
From his second-to-last sentence, Qiu Yu inferred two pieces of information:
—The first-person perspective was the middle-aged man with the encrypted face in the first video.
—And Chen Cebai was the experiment subject covered in blood splatters.
Qiu Yu didn’t want to use the term “experiment subject” to refer to Chen Cebai, but the truth was, he was a product of biological technology experiments.
She had thought she could imagine what the company had done to him, but compared to reality, her imagination was still far too lacking.
She never expected that he had actually gone through an experiment where he transformed from a living person into a mass of writhing flesh and blood, and then from a grotesque, squirming organism back into a human being.
Why didn’t he tell her?
She didn’t want to accuse him of anything, but at this moment, she couldn’t suppress the fury surging inside her over his secrecy.
She had found out about all this from Pei Xi—an outsider!
And Pei Xi might not have even sent her these videos out of good intentions!
Did he really have that much confidence—believing she wouldn’t be swayed by outsiders, frightened by the contents of the video, and ultimately driven away from Chen Cebai?
Fuming, Qiu Yu finished her shower.
She put on her robe, walked out of the bathroom barefoot—only to step into something cold, damp, and sticky.
The room was shrouded in darkness, every curtain drawn shut, as if submerged in the deep, murky abyss of the sea.
The slimy substance beneath her feet felt like some kind of slick, aquatic creature, nearly reaching up to her ankles, sending a shiver down her spine.
Driven by an unexplainable instinct, Qiu Yu whispered softly:
“…Chen Cebai?”
A hand suddenly appeared, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to the side.
Qiu Yu was startled. She turned her head but could only see an even darker and more obscure silhouette.
A familiar scent enveloped her.
Chen Cebai hugged her from behind, his chin resting against the side of her neck—a posture of entwined closeness.
His voice was naturally cool, but at this moment, it was so gentle it felt almost eerie. And the words he spoke made her hair stand on end:
“Yuyu, what were you watching while you were in the shower?”