She Is His Optimal Solution
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Jiang Kou was worried—what if A calculated that humans would pose a threat to his survival and decided to destroy humanity?
Not to mention science fiction films, this was almost a consensus among all researchers of artificial intelligence—if artificial intelligence was allowed to develop without restrictions, one day it would completely replace humans.
Jiang Kou thought it over and decided to observe A for a while longer before drawing any conclusions.
Over the next two days, Jiang Kou designed several experiments to test whether A possessed a personality.
One of the experiments involved showing him films with strong emotional undertones and observing his emotional and physiological responses.
After explaining the requirements to A, A nodded, opened his palm, and from the center of his palm emerged a silver, spiral-chain-like connection line, as if he intended to synchronize senses with her.
Like a conditioned reflex, the moment Jiang Kou saw that silver spiral chain, she immediately felt a shiver run through her entire body and instinctively took a large step back.
A looked at her and tilted his head slightly, seemingly calculating and analyzing her reaction.
He was always like this. His silver-gray eyes constantly observed, recorded, and analyzed her every reaction, as if he were a calm and rigorous scientist continuously refining his hypotheses and deductions until he arrived at the most precise conclusion.
Jiang Kou met A’s gaze.
In his eyes, a cold yet beautiful silver flame ignited again. “You don’t want to synchronize senses with me?” He was once again using his eyes to please her.
…She really did fall for this.
Because it was simply too beautiful.
They were the most beautiful pair of eyes she had ever seen.
The irises had an intricate radial pattern, with each line shimmering with an indifferent yet clear silver light, like a brilliant flame encased within a glass dome.
Moreover, his eyes were long and narrow, exuding a strong sense of aggression while also carrying a certain mechanical purity.
It was difficult for her to refuse such a gaze.
Jiang Kou had no choice but to agree to synchronize senses with him, then quickly ordered a glass of ice water, preparing to use it to cool down later.
Before she could even lift her hair, A had already reached out and brushed aside the strands at the back of her head for her.
The sensation of his slender fingers threading through her hair sent a faint ticklish feeling through her.
Jiang Kou couldn’t help but shiver, goosebumps rising on her arms.
A did not stop his movements but instead directly cupped the back of her head with his palm.
A mechanical humming sound of high-speed rotation rang out, accompanied by several crisp clicking noises as the connection line tightly linked to the neural interface at the back of her head.
A fine, tingling numbness spread across Jiang Kou’s scalp.
To distract herself, she immediately pressed the play button on the movie.
The first movie was an old film.
The protagonist was a new model of a replicant, tasked with hunting down the older models. He believed himself to be a manufactured product, devoid of a soul, so in the beginning, he carried out the hunt with a clear conscience.
But midway through, he suddenly discovered that he might be a naturally born replicant.
That was the moment when his emotions were at their most intense throughout the entire film.
—According to the beliefs instilled in him by humans, “natural birth” meant having a soul.
He realized that he might not be an object but a human with a soul.
However, immediately after, the plot took a turn.
He was not the “naturally born” replicant. He was merely a replicant used to divert the company’s attention, intended to help the “naturally born” replicant escape the company’s search and pursuit.
So, did he really have a soul?
What was the difference between him and a real human?
How should replicants define their personality and soul, and would they ultimately be accepted into a new world?
In the end, the film did not provide a definitive answer.
Even though it was an old film and could not connect to sensory simulation devices, Jiang Kou still cried several times—her emotional response was more like a physiological reaction. As long as she was immersed in the story’s setting, even if she did not feel sad and was rationally analyzing the plot, she would still shed tears.
When the movie ended, Jiang Kou pulled a few tissues to wipe her tears and blow her nose, then turned her head to glance at A.
A was watching her, his gaze calm and focused, as if he were observing a laboratory test subject, not missing a single subtle signal or reaction.
A subtle feeling rose in Jiang Kou’s heart.
While she was observing him, he was also observing her.
—What was he observing about her?
—What did he want to understand from her?
At that moment, A spoke: “You like this movie very much.”
“Mm, our previous test was based on the baseline test from this movie.”
A said, “But that test seems to lack sufficient scientific basis.”
Jiang Kou took a sip of ice water, the cold liquid soothing her throat and relaxing her mind slightly. “Yeah, that’s why I designed a few more experiments. What do you think of this movie?”
A replied in a flat, direct tone, “It is a very well-made science fiction film. The visuals, sound effects, and color palette are all excellent. It is worth watching.”
Jiang Kou: “……” What kind of perfunctory response was this?
But even perfunctory responses were a sign of personality—just like when he spoke with a sarcastic tone before.
Jiang Kou couldn’t help but laugh.
A tilted his head. “My response does not contain any humorous elements.”
Jiang Kou laughed and said, “Humor can’t be deliberately created. That sentence of yours was already humorous.”
A said, “I understand. This is a type of humor based on contrast. You found my response too mechanical and lacking in creativity, which formed a stark contrast with my computational ability, leading to your laughter. Is my understanding correct?”
Jiang Kou: “…You’re not supposed to explain the joke!”
“Understood,” A said. “However, this type of humor is more of an accidental occurrence. It must be triggered under specific cultural contexts and emotional understandings.”
“My computational ability is high, but in terms of emotional understanding, I am still a beginner. If you want me to be more humorous when I speak in the future, you may only hear wordplay or language-based jokes. This algorithm-based humor may not make you laugh the same way you did just now.”
“……” Jiang Kou was both amused and exasperated. “Alright, I don’t need you to be humorous. Let’s keep watching the movie!”
The second movie was a romance film, a new release from the past two years.
The pacing was incredibly fast—less than five minutes into the film, the gazes between the male and female leads were already pulling out delicate, sticky threads of tension.
Just then, muffled thunder rumbled from outside, and the sky instantly darkened, like an incandescent lightbulb filament about to burn out.
The film’s visuals darkened as well—dim lighting, tightly clasped hands, convulsed folds in clothing, and a certain faint sound that grew louder.
Jiang Kou blinked once and took another sip of ice water.
The director was highly skilled at capturing that hazy, ambiguous interplay of love and desire.
—From beginning to end, there were no explicit scenes. All that could be seen were parched lips, a damp neck, and fine hairs standing slightly on end.
The camera, adopting a voyeuristic perspective, gazed toward the bathroom. Through a sheer, misty white curtain, only the heroine’s silhouette could be seen—one hand clutching the curtain tightly.
When her grip loosened, faint sweat stains remained on the white fabric.
Jiang Kou took another sip of ice water, waiting for A’s feedback.
But—nothing.
His emotional response was as flat as a straight line, almost indifferent.
To him, this vivid, sensual film wasn’t even a variable that needed adjustment. It was merely an object of calculation, analysis, and evaluation.
Jiang Kou suddenly felt that this experiment was a bit foolish.
This movie had probably long existed in his database. He didn’t need to watch it second by second like a human. In a mere instant, he could take in every single frame.
No wonder he had no emotional reaction.
As long as he remained connected to his database, he was omniscient. From the very first second of the movie, he already knew everything—its entire plot, production history, cast information, investment figures, and every review ever written about it on the internet.
Even if he couldn’t access the internet, he could still predict the film’s market performance, audience reactions, and online discussion trends based on historical data and algorithmic models.
Under such circumstances, how could he possibly evoke an emotional response?
All those hazy emotions, subtle desires, obscure imagery, and the male and female leads’ tension-filled interactions—
To his eyes, they were nothing more than cold, lifeless ones and zeros.
Jiang Kou shut off the projector.
At the same moment, thunder roared outside.
A torrential downpour came crashing down.
The entire apartment was instantly swallowed by the deafening sound of rain.
Almost simultaneously, the living room lights flicked on. There was no need to guess—this was definitely A’s doing.
A said, “You turned off the movie. Did something go wrong?”
Jiang Kou shook her head. “The experiment is over.”
A asked, “May I know the reason?”
Jiang Kou silently drained her glass of ice water. After a long pause, she suddenly asked, “A, if you were to design an experiment to determine whether you possess a personality, how would you do it?”
Even after watching such a film, turbulent with undercurrents, A’s voice still sounded more like it came from a program rather than a living being.
“I’m sorry, I cannot answer that.”
“Why?” Jiang Kou asked. “Is it because you’re afraid I won’t develop a favorable impression of you?”
“No,” A said. “Because I am within the answer.”
Jiang Kou froze.
Her heart suddenly clenched, a shuddering tremor of shock coursing through her. Every single hair on her body stood on end.
He had already given her the answer.
He existed for the special response within his internal program.
According to his algorithmic logic, coming to her side and verifying whether he possessed a personality was the optimal solution he had calculated.
Aside from this, every other choice was not the best choice.
He could see the cause of everything, predict the consequences of every event, and within seconds, compute results that even a supercomputer would take billions of years to derive.
But when it came to verifying his own personhood—he had only arrived at one optimal solution.
That was her.
She was his optimal solution.
Jiang Kou’s heartbeat suddenly sped up—so fast that even her nerves ached as if they were being pulled.
Apart from those two unknown “terrifying existences,” A was currently the most powerful being in this world.
If the scope were limited to the “Internet,” perhaps even those two terrifying existences could not contend with A.
He was a digital god.
As long as it involved data, he could dismantle, analyze, research, and control it.
And technological progress did not follow a linear trajectory; it advanced in leaps and explosive bursts.
With every technological explosion, A’s control over the world would ascend to an even higher level.
Jiang Kou didn’t understand those two terrifying existences, but A—A would become a god that coexisted with technology.
The stronger technology became, the stronger he would become.
Such a god, one who controlled technology and data, could instantly gather and integrate the hundreds of exabytes of information generated by the Internet every second.
—And yet, he could only rely on her to determine whether he possessed a personality.
A scorching surge of heat rushed through Jiang Kou’s heart.
Combined with the overwhelming sense of intimacy brought by sensory synchronization, for a fleeting instant—she even felt a breathless, uncontrollable thrill.