Chapter 235: The Human Part

The night was silent in Lingshu Villa, suffocatingly so.

No insects chirped, only the winter wind howled, and even the carefully tended plants in the courtyard seemed frozen in the cold air.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window lay heavy darkness; the living room held only a single warm amber wall lamp, its dim light barely outlining the furniture’s contours while leaving a vast blur of shadow at the room’s center.

Chris sat on the sofa, his body slightly leaning forward, hands clasped on his knees, knuckles pale.

He had not turned on the TV, played a game, or read a book—only sat quietly staring toward the door, like a statue awaiting judgment.

When footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, he moved imperceptibly.

Yang Yi walked in.

She had shed her usual sharp-lined business jacket, wearing only a simple white shirt and black trousers.

Her face showed no fatigue, no emotion—only the calm of a task completed, or rather—emptiness. Seeing Chris, she did not pause, merely nodded slightly and tossed the jacket onto the sofa arm.

“Still awake?” she asked, her voice low, unnaturally clear in the overly quiet space.

Chris took a deep breath, as if finally flipping a switch. He stood, walked toward her, and stopped a few steps away. The light behind him cast his expression in shadow, but the tension in his voice could not be hidden.

“I saw the news about Diego City… and those online posts, because of the recording…” He paused, choosing his words carefully, “The attacks against you—I’m… I’m sorry. The recording… I never thought the CIA would install surveillance in my home. I had people check it multiple times…”

“I know,” Yang Yi interrupted, her tone flat, almost forgiving.

She walked to the dining area, took a bottle of pure vodka from the temperature-controlled wine cabinet, poured herself a glass, moving slowly and deliberately: “I also know roughly how the recording leaked. You weren’t the source. Chris, don’t worry—I’m not the kind to punish the same person twice for the same thing.”

She took a sip of vodka stronger than medical alcohol, turned, and leaned back against the countertop, her gaze steady on him. “Your guilt already paid its price last time.” She meant the mansion reduced to dust, and the beautiful cage he now inhabited.

Chris felt a chill from her cold “forgiveness.”

He would rather she be angry, rather she blame him, than treat that life-altering conflict and its consequences like a file already archived.

“Yang Yi,” he stepped forward two paces, trying to see her eyes more clearly, “you’ve… changed too much since before.”

Yang Yi raised a brow slightly—a subtle expression, jarring on her otherwise expressionless face, like a pebble breaking the still surface of a lake, though the ripples vanished quickly.

“Before?” she repeated the word, as if amused, “Which before? When I nearly died saving the world and was called a monster? When I woke up and lived in constant dread? Or even earlier, when I hoped a bunch of cockroaches and vermin would love me?”

Her tone remained calm, almost inquisitive, but each question struck like a small hammer against Chris’s chest.

“I…” Chris fell silent.

“Chris,” Yang Yi set down her glass; the bottom clinked sharply against the marble countertop, “do you want me to remain stuck in that painful, fragile, perpetually anxious state? Do you like me better when I’m broken, out of control?”

She tilted her head slightly, as if observing an interesting subject. “I remember you said you loved me no matter what. Was that comfort for me then—or a lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie!” Chris replied urgently, his voice rising slightly, “I never wanted you to suffer! I just…” He could not find the right words for the immense unease and distance he felt.

“You just feel alienated,” Yang Yi finished for him, a faint, barely-there curve touching her lips. “When you say I’ve changed, you mean some part of me no longer pleases you, makes you uneasy, feels beyond your control. So tell me—what feels most alien? My power? The way I handle problems? Or…”

She paused, her gaze seeming to pierce through Chris’s body, toward some empty space behind him, “That I no longer let emotions dictate me?”

Her words were logical and relentless, dissecting Chris’s emotions as if analyzing experimental data; this rationality stripped away the warmth and tentativeness of intimate exchange, leaving only cold, exposed facts.

Chris felt a suffocating helplessness.

He shook his head, grasping for something real: “I’m not afraid of your power, nor of your otherness…”

“Oh?” Yang Yi interrupted, the faint smile deepening, yet chilling him further, “Then what are you afraid of? That I no longer need you? Or that… you can no longer influence me as you once did?”

The words pierced his heart like a blade.

Chris’s face paled. He realized the initiative had long since slipped from his hands—every attempt to draw near was gently pushed away, turned instead into a weapon aimed at his own soul.

Defeat and a deeper dread seized him.

“I’m afraid that the human part of you is fading, Yang Yi!”

He could no longer hold back, shouting his deepest fear into the empty living room: “You used to worry, get anxious when your mother came, feel sad over movie scenes, get jealous when I mentioned another woman’s name… You cried, laughed, were fragile, depended on others—even when that dependence made you ashamed! Back then, you were alive—warm, flawed, capable of hurt and healing!”

He stepped forward, eyes red, pupils dark blue in the dim light, voice trembling with emotion: “But now? Look at yourself! So many people in Diego City spat the vilest words at you, called you a demon—and you showed no reaction!”

“Our argument recording was used as a weapon against you across the world—and you calmly analyzed the pros and cons, told me you wouldn’t punish me twice! You face those protests, those accusations, like watching a clumsy play with no connection to you!”

“Where has the human part of you gone? Those vibrant emotions, those soft weaknesses, those flesh-and-blood capacities to feel pain, warmth, cold?”

“You stand here talking to me, but I feel I’m facing a cold stone statue in a temple, a symbol in a textbook—not a living person! Where has my lover gone?”

His fierce words fell like a downpour into the narrow space between them.

Chris’s chest rose and fell, eyes locked on Yang Yi, hoping to see a crack, a flicker of offended anger, or panic at being exposed—any human reaction would do.

But Yang Yi simply watched him, waiting until he finished. The wall lamp’s light settled in her eyes like two deep, bottomless pools of darkness.

Long moments passed before she spoke again, her voice even calmer now, carrying an odd, distant emptiness.

“The human part…” she repeated, as if savoring a strange yet familiar word, “Chris, what you miss—is it truly ‘the human part’? Or is it merely the version of me… easier for you to understand, predict, even save—a fragile object?”

“Worry, joy, sorrow, jealousy, dependence… these emotions are chemical reactions and psychological patterns shaped by biological instincts, social conditioning, and neurotransmitters. They serve survival and reproduction, but bring endless pain, self-destruction, and flawed decisions.” Her tone was flat, clinical, like a biologist describing a phenomenon; her figure, cast in dim light, stretched into a blurred, solitary shadow.

“When one must bear the survival probability of six billion people, when one must calculate how every decision might trigger chain reactions on a macro scale—Chris, tell me: should she prioritize the emotional response that makes her ‘feel human,’ or the rational path most likely to ensure civilization’s survival?”

Her gaze was calm, almost cruel: “Did those ‘human’ traits you cherish ever protect her when she was powerless and abused? Did they ever granted her anything but pain during humanity’s repeated betrayals, manipulations, and this current siege?”

Chris opened his mouth but could not speak.

“You say I’m like a god.” Yang Yi smiled faintly—this time, the smile was genuine, yet filled with endless exhaustion and a detachment beyond weariness. “Perhaps I am… But if becoming a ‘god’ means stripping away the parts that make me hesitate, suffer, and err, so I can see the path clearly and do what must be done—what no one else dares to bear the guilt for—then, Chris, this is not a choice. It is a cost.”