NASA Headquarters — Fifth Technology Division
Hollins peered through his reading glasses at the photo comparison on his monitor.
Two men with golden hair stared back from the center of the screen.
One image was pristine, frontal, passport-like—clean enough to be clinical. Beside it was the designation Subject 9.The other photograph was clearly taken without consent: the man’s face turned slightly to the side, as though he had been speaking to someone just out of frame.
They looked nothing alike.
And yet—despite the stark difference in style and bearing—both men possessed an unsettling, almost equal aesthetic pull.
Their hair, in particular, was abnormal. It carried a sheen that was not merely blond but metallic, as if each strand had been drawn from molten gold and cooled into silk-fine wire, reflecting light with an unnatural luster.
The corners of Hollins’s wrinkled mouth twitched upward, frozen into something dangerously close to madness.
“Perfect,” he murmured, extending a hand to rest lightly atop one of the photographs.“You… will be the key to my breakthrough.”
“Inspector,” a voice cut in from behind him, low and warning, “you may do as you wish—but—”
“I know,” Hollins replied leisurely, not even turning his head. “He’s only bait. That individual’s value extends no further than that.”
“Hmph. I only wanted to make sure you understood.” The voice sharpened. “Otherwise, HE will not forgive you.”
“Do not use him to threaten me,” the old man snapped, his tone stiffening despite himself. Fear flickered beneath the irritation. “My research serves his interests better than anyone else’s.”
“See that it does.”
The speaker turned and disappeared through the office door, leaving Hollins alone in his swivel chair, seething without an outlet.
“If my research succeeds,” Hollins hissed, his smile twisting into something grotesque, “you’ll all regret ever laughing at me. Just wait.”
Washington, D.C. — FBI Headquarters, Afternoon
“Sir, there’s something I need you to see.”
A young man in a tailored suit stepped into the office, a thick folder cradled in his arms. The elderly official behind the desk accepted it without expression and flipped through the pages in silence. After a long moment, he snapped the folder shut and tossed it onto the desk.
“And what exactly am I supposed to take from this?” the old man asked flatly.
“William Yan Qing reappeared with several military personnel at the exact location where the UFO vanished after the Genesis incident,” the young man said, voice rising with excitement. “One month later, this person suddenly shows up at Yan Qing’s residence.”
He tapped the photo clipped to the file.
“I ran a full background check. No history. No records. No identity. Nothing.”
“And your conclusion is?” the old man prompted dryly.
“This individual is very likely connected to the UFO, sir!”
“You should be taking this to SETI,” the director replied. “Not to me.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“But sir, don’t you find this strange?” The young man pressed on. “This—THING—appears out of nowhere and goes straight to New York. For what? Tourism?”
The old man rubbed at the corner of his eye, weary. “Enough. I don’t have time to indulge this nonsense. I have other matters to attend to. Leave.”
“Sir—”
“Out!”
The door slammed.
Outside, the young man hurled the folder to the floor, grinding his heel into the yellow cover in frustration.
“Some people have no vision at all.”
“People like that usually regret it.”
The voice came from his side.
The young man looked up sharply. “What do you want?”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said calmly. “Hollins Franklin. Inspector, Fifth Technology Division, NASA.”He smiled faintly. “And I find your file… extremely interesting.”
NYC—Residential Area
Yan Qing stood by the table, phone still in his hand, the screen dark. He didn’t sit down. He didn’t move. He looked like someone braced for impact, but the crash never came.
Chen leaned in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, gaze steady.
“You were speaking to her father,” Chen said.
Yan Qing flinched—just slightly—then nodded.
“Uncle Zhao,” he corrected, voice thin. “He… came by earlier. Asked to talk.”
Chen knew this, and that knowledge was why he spent the entire day hiding in a nearby café he had grown familiar with, allowing Yan Qing his privacy with Zhao Zhengyan.
“And?” Chen asked, voice tinted with a hidden irritation.
Yan Qing set the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter.
“He wants me to go ahead with the wedding.”
Silence stretched between them.
“She told you she didn’t love you,” Chen said. His tone was even, almost clinical.
“Yes.”
“She was seen with another human.”
“Yes.”
“And he still expects you to proceed.”
Yan Qing exhaled, rubbing his brow. “He thinks she’s confused. That formalizing things will stabilize her. He says people don’t always know what they want until the structure is in place.”
Chen tilted his head.
“And do you believe that?”
Yan Qing hesitated.
“He’s not a bad person,” he said finally. “After my grandfather passed, Uncle Zhao handled everything. Housing. Tuition. Connections. He made sure I wasn’t… stranded.”
He paused, voice barely above a whisper.
“He’s asking me not to embarrass the family.”
Chen stepped forward—not close, but enough to be felt.
“So this is repayment.”
Yan Qing’s jaw tightened. “It’s responsibility.”
“Is it?”
Yan Qing turned sharply. “This is how things work sometimes. Feelings don’t always align. People still move forward.”
Chen’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something like disappointment, or pity.
“Forward,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Yan Qing said, more forcefully. “You don’t understand. This is normal. Humans compromise. We endure things. It doesn’t mean—”
“It means you will live according to someone else’s decision,” Chen said quietly.
Yan Qing stopped, the words hitting him like a blow.
“You will bind yourself to a future already hollow,” Chen continued. “Because it is convenient. Because it preserves appearance. Because others will feel reassured.”
“That’s not fair,” Yan Qing snapped. “You’re simplifying it.”
Chen watched him for a long moment, unblinking.
“That is exactly how it is always described.”
Yan Qing felt something twist in his chest. “You don’t get to judge this. You don’t live here. You don’t—”
“I do,” Chen said, softly but with finality.
Yan Qing faltered. “What?”
“I live with consequence,” Chen said. “With structures built to outlast the people inside them. With lives justified as necessary.”
His gaze held Yan Qing’s—not accusing, just steady.
“Tell me,” Chen asked, “how long do you believe you can endure a life chosen this way?”
Yan Qing opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“That’s not—” he tried again. “That’s different. This isn’t the same.”
“Why?”
“Because—because this is human. This is how we survive. We fit ourselves into what’s expected.”
Chen’s expression didn’t change.
“Is survival still survival,” he asked, “when nothing of you remains at the end?”
Yan Qing’s breath came shallow. “Stop.”
Chen didn’t raise his voice. “You are about to do something irreversible,” he said. “Not because you want it. But because you are afraid of disappointing the dead and the powerful.”
“That’s enough,” Yan Qing said sharply. “You don’t get to decide what I can live with.”
“I am not deciding,” Chen replied. “I am asking why you refuse to.”
The words landed too cleanly. Too close.
Yan Qing stepped back.
“I can’t have this conversation,” he said. “Not right now.”
Chen didn’t follow. Instead, he said, “You don’t have to answer me, but you will have to answer yourself.”
Yan Qing turned toward the door.
“You think this is cruelty,” Chen added, very softly.
“It is not.”
Yan Qing’s hand froze on the handle.
“It is my life, and you have no right to judge.”
The sentence hung in the air, heavy with anger; Yan Qing slammed the door shut with a harsh bang.
The apartment fell deathly silent.
Chen stood unmoving.
Then his fist clenched.
Hairline fractures spread through the glass fixtures in the room all at once.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to regain control.
Too fast.
He had been too impatient.
“Not yet,” Chen murmured to himself.
“Not yet… my chosen Frolandii.”
