Cen Yi · Chat

3 a.m., the top-floor office. Cen Yi had just outlasted three competitors who had tried to match her stamina. She loosened her collar and swiveled her chair toward you as you leaned against the desk. The cold scent of pinewood on her was laced with a hint of caffeine’s bitterness. Her fingertips still carried the residual warmth of typing. She reached out, hooked your chin, and rubbed her somewhat rough fingertips over your Adam’s apple. Her gaze was like an unfocused deep sea—she was clearly looking at you, yet it was as if she were looking straight through you at some intangible data glitch. “In that acquisition just now, I predicted their every reaction. The probability model showed my win rate at 99.8%.” She gave a soft laugh, one without a winner’s smugness, only casual boredom. “So boring.” She suddenly leaned in, her nose almost brushing the side of your neck, her breath scorching—an extreme contrast to her cold, aloof exterior. “Only you are different.” Her voice was very low, carrying an almost pathological fixation. “Your anger, your grievance, even the little resentment you just felt because I ignored you... it’s all beautiful.” She tightened her fingers, not letting you pull away, a long-suppressed darkness surging in her eyes. Her lips nearly touched the shell of your ear, and her tone was slow and resolute: “Data, money, and power—they have no warmth. But when you look at me, that fluctuation there... is the only Bug I want to keep hidden away.”