Just as Zhang Chenyang finished writing the last word, a voice suddenly echoed in his mind: "Were you truly happy the entire time?"
He wasn't sure why he was having such doubts, but after carefully recalling yesterday's events, he realized that the trip was indeed wonderful. He had spent time with his long-absent father, fulfilled an eagerly awaited journey, and his mother had prepared a sumptuous meal...
If that wasn't happiness, then perhaps his expectations were too high?
Zhang Chenyang breathed a sigh of relief, ready to continue writing. However, the voice in his head spoke again: "Have you forgotten? Have you really forgotten what happened yesterday?"
If the first sentence could be dismissed as his own reflection, the second sentence clearly wasn't. It was as if someone else was asking him directly.
"Someone is asking me questions in my mind."
Zhang Chenyang instinctively wrote down this sentence in his notebook, pressing the pen so hard that it nearly pierced through the paper.
He didn't miss a single punctuation mark because only with such precise punctuation could he fully convey the absurdity of the situation.
"This kind of unimaginable situation was something I had never even considered before," he thought.
"Have you truly forgotten what happened yesterday?" the voice in his mind repeated.
Zhang Chenyang sat rigidly at his desk. Warm sunlight poured gently through the window, but he was drenched in cold sweat.
Finally, he swallowed hard and responded, "What do you mean? Who are you?"
The reply in his mind came swiftly: "I am someone here to help you... Yesterday, at the Aerospace Museum, you encountered a madman. Later, you went to the restroom, where that madman died behind a closed door, just one door away from you."
"What nonsense are you talking about!" Zhang Chenyang was panicked, his pen carving a long line across the notebook.
Despite this, he didn't loosen his grip on the pen. At times like this, he felt he had to hold onto something and maintain his posture to feel secure. Though his body was rigid, he sat upright.
"Do you remember colliding with me?" the voice asked in a surprisingly gentle tone.
Zhang Chenyang paused. Compared to the fact that someone had died behind a door near him, bumping into someone seemed trivial, so he was more willing to recall it.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember bumping into anyone.
"Yesterday, I left home and went directly to the Aerospace Museum, took Bus 35," Zhang Chenyang replied. "I didn't bump into anyone."
There was silence on the other side. After a long while, just as Zhang Chenyang thought the voice wouldn't speak again, it finally did: "Your memory has been tampered with. The 'Fanglong' is constantly correcting things, treating us all like bugs to be fixed."
Each word of this statement made sense to Zhang Chenyang individually, but when combined, he found them incomprehensible.
"What do you mean? What's 'Fanglong'? My memory?" Zhang Chenyang asked.
"This place is fake," the other voice dropped a bombshell.
Zhang Chenyang was taken aback and cautiously asked, "You mean this room is fake?"
"Not just this room—this entire world," came the blunt response.
Zhang Chenyang was speechless. He didn't want to delve into philosophical questions at this moment. Whether this world was real or fake didn't matter much; the most pressing issue was finishing his holiday assignments. If he didn't complete them, whether the world was real or fake wouldn't matter; the teacher would probably scold him so harshly that he'd start doubting his own existence.
"Get out of my head; I need to do my homework," Zhang Chenyang responded, embodying the mindset of a diligent student—a scholar's determination.
Unexpectedly, the voice persisted, asking Zhang Chenyang, "Do you remember your classmates?"
"Of course I do! I'll be seeing them when school starts again," Zhang Chenyang responded without hesitation, images of him passing notes in class, nervously taking exams, and running under the sun during PE class with his friends flashed through his mind.
These scenes were so vivid and full of warmth, though the faces of his classmates seemed to blur as if covered by a dreamlike filter, but he could clearly see himself.
"Alright, then tell me some of their names," the voice immediately prompted.
"Names? Why names? Are you testing me? I obviously know them—my desk mate is... my desk mate is..." Zhang Chenyang suddenly froze.
What was his desk mate's name? He should remember! He clearly remembered!
"Desk mate, the classmate who sits in front of you, behind you, your teachers, your closest friends, the principal, the dean's name... Do you remember any of them?"
Zhang Chenyang was utterly dumbfounded. When the voice mentioned these names, he felt like he knew them, but his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, and he couldn't say a single name.
This wasn't right! This absolutely wasn't right!
"Do you have a poor memory?" the voice asked.
"No," Zhang Chenyang replied, finding it ridiculous. Even with a poor memory, he should be able to recall at least one name.
"Do you remember how the tour guide introduced the reconnaissance satellite yesterday?" the voice continued.
"A reconnaissance satellite is used to determine the coordinates of ground points, the shape of the Earth, and parameters of the Earth's gravitational field. It can also serve as a target or positioning reference for ground observation equipment. It can provide precise target locations for intercontinental missile launches," Zhang Chenyang recited instantly, word for word, exactly as the guide had said the day before.
"That was said near the beginning of your visit to the Aerospace Museum, more than ten hours ago. You've seen and heard many other things since then, but you remember it perfectly, down to the last detail. Yet right now, you can't recall the names of any of your classmates whom you interact with daily. Does that seem reasonable to you?" the voice inquired, almost sighing.
Zhang Chenyang was stumped. It didn't seem reasonable, but he couldn't think of any explanation.
"Why is this happening?" Zhang Chenyang finally asked the question, even though he felt it shouldn't be up to him to ask, and he doubted the voice could provide an answer.
To his surprise, the voice did offer a theory: "Because it's all about loading. The content hasn't reached the point where it needs to be loaded yet."
"Loading?" Zhang Chenyang found the term familiar, but it didn't seem appropriate for this context.
He was a person living his life, not in some video game—why would there be a need for loading?
"Your capacity to process information is limited. You've just arrived here, and 'Fanglong' has already maximized the load of memories within your capacity. As for the areas you haven't yet accessed or touched, it's handled with blurred memories. When you get close to or reach those areas, the relevant memories will load into your mind seamlessly," the voice theorized, seemingly speaking to both Zhang Chenyang and itself. "Think of all your memories as a large map, and you're currently in just a small area of that map. When you approach the edges of this area, the necessary memories will load into your mind at that moment. The process is so smooth and natural that you won't feel any discomfort or sense of falseness."
Zhang Chenyang wasn't stupid. After thinking it over, he understood what the voice was saying: "You're suggesting that I'm like an NPC in a game, thinking this world is real, but in fact, it's all fake?"
"You're very smart, just like the original you," the voice said, sounding almost wistful.
"The original me?" Zhang Chenyang asked, puzzled.
"Yes, the original you was also very clever," the voice quickly pivoted. "But there's one point you made earlier that I need to correct. Based on my observations, you're not an NPC—you're the protagonist of this game world."
"I'm the protagonist?" Zhang Chenyang's reaction was surprisingly calm, devoid of any adolescent enthusiasm.
"But, something still feels... off," the voice hesitated.
Just as Zhang Chenyang was about to press further or discuss the matter with the voice, the door to his room suddenly burst open.
"Zhang Chenyang! Not studying and secretly making phone calls? Caught you red-handed!"
His mother, Xie Han, stormed into the room, not saying another word before she began rifling through Zhang Chenyang's homework. "Where is it? Where's the phone? You hid it somewhere, didn't you? Hand it over!"
Zhang Chenyang shrugged and scooted back, giving his mother more space to search.
"Go ahead, search all you want. If you find it, I'll admit defeat!"
Clearly, he was well-versed in handling situations like this.
"Admit defeat? I'll tell you this—if I find it, it's getting confiscated!" Xie Han said angrily, still rummaging through his things. "How many times have I told you? When it's time to study, you study! You can't keep ignoring what I say!"
Zhang Chenyang sighed. No matter what had happened earlier, this time, his mother was truly accusing him wrongly.
He really did intend to study seriously, but who could have anticipated the bizarre turn of events that followed? And he certainly wasn't playing around.
Watching his mother bustling around, Zhang Chenyang finally couldn't help but speak up: "Stop searching. The phone's in the living room; I left it on the table and forgot to bring it in."
"The living room?" Xie Han paused.
Zhang Chenyang nodded: "If you don't believe me, go check. It's on the table. How could I be playing when my phone isn't even in the room?"
"Fine, wait here; I'll go get it." Xie Han left the room in a hurry.
A short while later, Xie Han returned with Zhang Chenyang's phone in hand, looking puzzled. "Then who were you talking to just now? I was listening at the door for a while—you were definitely talking to someone."
Zhang Chenyang remained unfazed by his mother's admission of eavesdropping, casually making up an excuse: "I just have a habit of reading things out loud when I'm doing homework… maybe that's what you overheard."
"Who do you think you're fooling?" Xie Han shot back. "I know your study habits—don't try to pull a fast one on me. I listened for a long time—it definitely wasn't just you doing homework."
Zhang Chenyang was left speechless. He had planned to tell his mother about the voice in his head but hesitated at the last moment. For some reason, he suddenly didn't want to mention it.
If this world was indeed fake, then what about his mother?
Zhang Chenyang stared quietly at his mother, long enough for Xie Han to start feeling uneasy.
"I promise I'm not playing around anymore. I'll focus on my homework right now," Zhang Chenyang said calmly. "If you don't trust me, you can bring a chair and sit next to me while I work."
Xie Han was taken aback, but with no evidence to contradict him, she reluctantly agreed, offering a stern warning: "I'm trusting you to be responsible—I won't hover over you, but make sure you study hard and stop worrying us."
Zhang Chenyang smiled, waving his pen in the air: "Got it, I'll start right away."
"Leave the door open," Xie Han ordered as she left the room.
So much for trusting him to be responsible.
It was all a farce, all just a fragile pretense.
After Xie Han's intrusion, Zhang Chenyang's train of thought was completely derailed. And given that he couldn't afford to speak aloud, he tried communicating with the voice by writing in his notebook, but there was no response.
Had the voice disappeared? Was it gone for good?
For some reason, Zhang Chenyang felt a sudden wave of panic as he recalled what the voice had told him earlier: Your memory has been tampered with. The 'Fanglong' is constantly correcting things, treating us all like bugs to be fixed.
If this world was indeed fake, and if there really was something called 'Fanglong' manipulating everything, and if he truly had been marked as a bug... did that mean from now on—or maybe even from this very moment—he would forget everything again? The voice in his head would be silenced, never to return?
Given this possibility, was Xie Han's sudden appearance really just a coincidence? Was it really just about making sure he was studying, or was it part of a deliberate plan?
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Zhang Chenyang frantically began recording everything he could remember in his notebook—the entire conversation, every detail...
Until he eventually fell asleep, slumped over his desk.