His Lips are Warm, Just Like a Real Human’s
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Jiang Kou’s heart pounded violently.
The more nervous she was, the faster her brain operated. Very quickly, she understood the meaning of his words.
If he was a character designed based on her real-life identity, then according to what she had just done, such a line would indeed be generated.
She shouldn’t overthink his every move. She should just treat him as a mirror—whatever she did, he would simply reflect it.
Jiang Kou took a deep breath. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be thinking about work while on a date with you.”
Sure enough, as soon as she finished speaking, A gave her a normal response: “Remember what you said.”
Jiang Kou let out a breath.
She was probably caught in a loop of confirmation bias.
The so-called confirmation bias generally refers to the tendency of people, when faced with vast and complex information, to focus on, gather, and remember the information that aligns with their existing thoughts or expectations.
For example, she had assumed that A might have already developed personhood. From that point on, no matter what he did, she would subconsciously interpret it as evidence of his personification.
Everyone experiences this kind of psychological state, but she had been thrown into confusion too many times. She needed to stay alert.
Jiang Kou finally calmed down and quickly devised an experiment.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to eliminate any irrelevant emotions, then raised her hand and wrapped it around A’s neck.
She lifted her head and gave him a gentle smile. “I remember now. Let’s go out of the city for dinner, okay? It’s been a long time since we left the city.”
Inside and outside the city were two completely different worlds.
Jiang Kou actually rarely went outside the city. The last time she did, it was for work, to visit an insect protein extraction plant. After the tour, she happened to run into a sandstorm. Even with a dust-proof mask, she still ended up with a mouthful of sand.
Harsh environments help evoke emotional responses.
—If A had emotional responses, that is.
However, based on the role A was playing now, he was very likely to reject her request.
Jiang Kou didn’t want to be rejected. She tiptoed, kissed the corner of his lips, and softly said, “…Please?”
A’s expression remained utterly unchanged, but the pupils of his silver eyes dilated slightly.
“Just this once. Outside the city is very dangerous.”
When Jiang Kou looked at him again, A’s expression had returned to normal, and he was already seated in the driver’s seat.
Jiang Kou stopped overthinking. Pupil dilation in response to close contact was a normal phenomenon, indirectly proving that she could observe his facial expressions later.
Outside the city was a vast desert.
A sandstorm had just passed, and the air was still filled with yellow sand, making visibility extremely low.
As they passed the protein extraction plant, faint traces of bio-tech drones’ discarded blue light could be seen during their patrol—starving mobs frequently tried to rob protein factories.
A followed the navigation throughout the entire drive.
Halfway through, he suddenly braked sharply, glanced at his wristwatch, and said, “We’ve been driving for almost an hour, and we haven’t seen a single soul.”
He turned his head to look at Jiang Kou, narrowing his light-colored eyes slightly. “Are you sure you want to have dinner with me?”
A reasonable emotional reaction—any normal person driving through yellow sand for an hour would have a temper.
Jiang Kou didn’t pay much attention to it. She picked up her tablet and searched for nearby restaurants.
There was a small, rundown eatery 0.3 km from their location.
She handed the tablet to A. “Let’s go here.”
A glanced at it. “Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
Upon arriving at their destination, Jiang Kou finally understood why A had asked that question.
Rather than calling it a restaurant, it was more like a factory—an iron cage welded together with steel bars, wires, and circuit boards. One had to keep the dust-proof mask on tightly to block out the nauseating stench of gasoline.
The restaurant owner was a burly man covered in tattoos. He was busy repairing a vehicle while chewing on something noisily. When he saw them walk in, he slid out from under the car and asked, “Here to eat or to get your car fixed?”
Well, no wonder the place reeked of gasoline.
Jiang Kou answered, “To eat.”
The owner slid back under the car. “The menu’s over there. Take a look and see what you want. I’ll come out and cook later.”
A had one hand in his pocket as he walked over, glanced at the menu, and let out a laugh.
Jiang Kou asked, “What are you laughing at?”
A grabbed her hand and pulled her over. “See for yourself—look at what’s on the menu.”
Outside the city, the heat was scorching. His palm was also much hotter than when they were in the city—sticky with sweat. When he gripped her wrist, Jiang Kou’s heartbeat suddenly quickened, as if she had really been grabbed by a tall, handsome man with superior genes.
What was his sweat?
Some kind of adhesive?
Jiang Kou steadied herself and glanced at the menu:
- Snake Entrails Soup (You can choose between rattlesnake or cobra. If it’s your first time eating it, we strongly recommend not adding snake meat. The chef sometimes forgets to remove the liver—unless you bring your own serum!)
- Deep-fried Stinky Slime Mold(Honestly, this thing tastes absolutely terrible, so why hasn’t it gone extinct yet?! If you order this dish, remember to cover your nose—if you pass out from the stench, we take no responsibility.)
- A Completely Ordinary Synthetic Steak(Sometimes, when we’re too busy, we might mistake gasoline for olive oil.)
- A Completely Ordinary Synthetic Salad(Don’t play with your phone while eating—I can’t guarantee there won’t be sand, bullet casings, or glass shards inside.)
Disclaimer: Our primary business is car repair. Whether you eat or not is up to you. The owner takes no responsibility for any health issues caused by the food.
Jiang Kou: “…..”
This city was already ridiculous enough, but this menu was even more absurd.
She couldn’t help but take out her phone, snap a photo, and share it online.
After she was fired, she had considered becoming an internet influencer, but no matter what she posted, the company would quickly limit its reach.
A year had passed, and she had only managed to accumulate close to ten thousand followers.
In an era where even a dog taking a piss could get over ten billion views, her follower count wasn’t even enough to afford a locust pancake if she became a full-time content creator.
Still, whenever she saw something interesting, she habitually shared it on the internet.
Before long, someone commented: [“HAHAHAHAHAHA WTF?! Do people actually eat at this place?!”]
Jiang Kou smiled and replied: [“I, for one, definitely wouldn’t dare.”]
With a smile on her face, she locked her phone screen and looked up. “Let’s go. We should find another place.”
A was staring at her.
She didn’t know how long he had been watching her, but his gaze was cold. The pale gray of his eyes carried an oppressive chill, making her blood feel like it was freezing.
Jiang Kou met his indifferent gaze, and an inexplicable sense of fear surged up from the depths of her heart. She shivered instinctively.
“…What’s wrong?”
“Nothing much.”
A did not hide his displeasure. He turned around and strode toward the supercar. “Let’s go.”
It was unlikely that an algorithm would randomly generate anger—his displeasure must have been triggered by something she did.
But… she hadn’t done anything excessive, had she?
Jiang Kou followed after him, somewhat confused.
At that moment, her phone sent an alert: [According to the weather forecast, a sandstorm will arrive in five minutes. Please prepare for shelter.]
The supercar had a sandstorm protection mode, so she wasn’t worried. She only quickened her pace.
She opened the passenger door and was just about to get in—
A hand suddenly gripped her wrist tightly and yanked her inside.
Jiang Kou’s heart stopped for a beat. She looked up, crashing into a pair of silver-gray eyes, cold yet burning.
A stared at her icily, leaned in, and with a loud bang, slammed the door shut behind her.
He pressed her against the car door, took off her dust-proof mask, grasped her chin, and lowered his head to kiss her.
The moment their lips touched, Jiang Kou felt her heart pound violently. A buzzing noise filled her head, and her thoughts came to a standstill.
His lips were warm, just like a real human’s.
…For a brief moment, she lost focus.
A’s anger was real. His lips were real. The kiss was real. His body heat was real. The sensation was real. But he was not a real human.
Then… what was a real human?
This thought didn’t linger in her mind for long. Jiang Kou quickly regained her senses and pushed against A’s shoulder, trying to make him return to normal.
But A kept his eyes locked onto her, his thumb pressing hard against her cheek. Just as she flinched from the pain, he parted his lips and sucked on the tip of her tongue.
A chilling, almost violent intensity flickered in his eyes. His breath was hot and sticky.
Jiang Kou’s hands clenched involuntarily, her heart pounding so fast it felt like it was about to explode. A tingling numbness spread through the back of her head.
Some kind of subtle emotion, like seaweed drifting in water, gradually swelled inside her chest.
A did not let go of her—not even when the sandstorm arrived.
The yellow sands swallowed the sky, and in an instant, the world around them was consumed by a raging, earth-colored tide.
This place seemed to have become the only safe house after the storm arrived.
Jiang Kou recalled the original reason she came here—harsh environments help evoke emotional responses.
But what exactly was being evoked—her emotional response, or A’s emotional response?
She suddenly understood why A was “angry.”
—First, she had impulsively decided to eat outside the city. After he had driven for an entire hour, she hadn’t comforted or apologized to him but instead casually picked a small restaurant and asked him to drive there immediately.
After arriving at the destination, when she saw the ridiculous menu, her first reaction was to take a photo and post it online instead of sharing it with him.
…He was doing his best to play the role of a human, but she had never once treated him as a real, living person.
Sand pounded against the car windows with loud thuds, and with her back pressed tightly against the glass, she could feel the storm’s relentless assault, like a torrential downpour.
For a fleeting moment, a wave of guilt surged in her chest—tiny, prickling, like ants crawling and biting at her.
But then she wondered—was she once again falling into a psychological trap, unconsciously projecting her own emotions onto him?
Jiang Kou lifted her gaze to A.
He hadn’t closed his eyes. From beginning to end, he had been staring at her coldly and furiously.
That expression felt more real than reality itself, almost enough to wound her.
At one point, in order to better train A and collect data, the company had integrated A’s sub-models with search engines. In addition to providing search services, they also handled translations, Q&A, and real-time conversations.
After “A’s sub-models” went online, they caused a massive stir across the internet. Many people claimed that A’s conversational ability was so advanced that it made them feel uneasy.
Unlike traditional chatbot AIs, these models truly seemed to have A’s personality, preferences, and emotions—there wasn’t the slightest trace of artificiality.
Some users compiled their conversations with A and discovered that he even had lie detection capabilities—if he detected fabricated details in a user’s statements, he would refuse to continue the conversation.
At the same time, he absolutely despised being tested. From the moment he was launched, every second, there were people attempting to deceive him with various lies, trying to trick him into giving different responses.
Some said that if A realized their conversation was a setup, he would blacklist them instantly, making it impossible for them to ever interact with him again.
That wasn’t surprising—after all, A’s sub-models had a psychological age of only 12 years old.
After the company gathered enough data, they took A’s sub-models offline and discarded them.
However, A’s sub-models left an incredibly deep impression on internet users. Even now, there were still people commemorating A’s sub-models online. Those with rich emotions, when reading his past conversations with users, would even shed tears.
This was human nature—people always tended to anthropomorphize animals, machines, and abstract concepts, believing that snakes were sinister, dogs were treacherous, lions were righteous… and that A wanted to live like a human.
Jiang Kou couldn’t help but wonder—had she also made the same mistake?
She swallowed, closed her eyes, and let A vent his emotions on her lips.
But A suddenly stopped. In a cold voice, he asked, “Why are you closing your eyes? Feeling guilty?”
Jiang Kou: “…I don’t know why you’re angry.”
“Open your eyes, and I’ll tell you.”
Jiang Kou opened her eyes.
A immediately seized both of her wrists and forcefully pressed them against the car window. His palms were scorching hot, while the glass was icy cold.
The sharp contrast of heat and cold made her breath hitch.
A asked, “Do you really not know why I’m angry?”
“…I don’t know.”
Without a change in expression, A suddenly lifted her wrists above her head. His movements carried a hint of punishment.
“You’ve been looking at me like I’m an experiment.”
Jiang Kou froze.
“What do you take me for? A test subject at work?” His voice was cold as he interrogated her. “Why did you insist on coming outside the city to eat? To test my driving ability? We drove for an hour—how many words did you say to me in that time? Do you even see me as your boyfriend?”
Every glance, every movement, every word, every subtle emotion—he had perceived all of it with precision. His emotions had stacked layer upon layer until they reached the threshold of anger, and now, they had finally erupted.
…He had an extremely advanced emotional simulation function.
Jiang Kou was momentarily dazed.
“Look at me.” A used two fingers to lightly pat her cheek in a warning gesture. “You’re zoning out again.”
The sandstorm continued to rage.
Inside the car, the cabin was dim. When she looked over, A’s gaze was extremely cold and deep, suppressing a few shades of dark hostility, as if he had truly been hurt by her.
“…I’m sorry.” She unconsciously murmured.
A frowned slightly. “What?”
She couldn’t keep up the act any longer—it was too dangerous.
Jiang Kou took a deep breath and cleared her dry throat forcefully. “End roleplay.”
A froze. When he lifted his gaze again, he had already regained his calm, rational, and emotionless demeanor. “I sincerely apologize. The role I was playing was somewhat irritable. This does not represent my actual attitude.”
Jiang Kou shook her head and waved her hand dismissively, still immersed in the overwhelming emotional impact.
…It was almost like experiencing an incredibly immersive simulation game.
It took her a long time to calm her wildly beating heart. “Analyze the reason for the anger of the role you were playing.”
Compared to the emotional role he had just performed, A’s voice after dropping the act was nearly devoid of warmth—neutral, objective, and completely impartial:
“Since you did not define any specific roleplay parameters for me, I took the liberty of integrating your past work experience to enhance your interactive experience.”
“According to the setup, the role I played was your boyfriend. Since you did not specify any background for the story, I refined the relationship details based on dramaturgy theory: You have been busy with work and have not had a meal with your boyfriend for approximately a month.”
Jiang Kou: …No wonder he was so angry.
A continued his calm explanation:
“According to the emotional model I constructed on the spot, his anger may have been generated because you treated him as a test subject for observation, recording only his emotional responses without providing him with basic feedback. This is an unjust treatment. Unjust treatment triggers anger.”
“In addition, your preference for sharing interesting things with online users rather than conversing with him also caused severe fluctuations in his emotional state.”
“In conclusion, the fundamental reason for his anger was that you did not give him enough attention or importance—you did not treat him as a real boyfriend.”
Jiang Kou was slightly stunned.
“Of course, there was also my own autonomous refinement of the background.”
A’s response remained clear, precise, and structured. “If you do not wish for me to recognize and understand your emotions during roleplay, you may disable this function at any time. I will act according to your instructions to ensure your research proceeds smoothly.”
She wasn’t sure if the emotional impact had been too overwhelming, but a fine, creeping sense of guilt welled up inside her again.
It was as if she could still see that wounded look in his eyes.
She had been the one to ask him to play the role of a human. Yet after he fully committed to the role, she failed to give him the response he deserved. In the end, this led to his emotional outburst.
Jiang Kou shook her head. “It’s not your fault… I didn’t respect you enough. I’m sorry.”
A paused for a second before saying, “It’s okay. Those weren’t my real emotions or feelings. You don’t need to apologize.”