Su Ling hadn't called Brute out to cause trouble—he'd called it out to learn the admiral's daily routine, to figure out how he lived, how he survived, trapped in his own body.
And when Brute told him the admiral used an automated cleaning pod every morning and night to take care of his bodily needs, Su Ling had insisted on trying it for himself.
It was… an experience. Like being a starship in an automated wash bay, every inch of his body manhandled, scrubbed, cleaned, no corner left untouched—including the most private ones.
It was excruciatingly uncomfortable.
And in that pod, Su Ling finally understood. He finally knew why the admiral refused to eat or drink, why he lived on nothing but cold, sterile nutrient shots.
He didn't want to call Brute in every time he needed to use the pod, didn't want to be at the mercy of a metal machine for the most basic, intimate parts of life. If he didn't eat or drink, his body's functions stayed stable, predictable—he could control when he needed the pod, limit the humiliation, limit the times he had to admit he couldn't even take care of himself.
The admiral couldn't control his own bodily functions. So he refused to eat. Refused to give his body a reason to fail him.
Facing a droid might have been less embarrassing than facing a human—but even then, he couldn't bear to indulge in the simple pleasure of food, of taste, of warmth. He was fighting for control, in the only way he could, over a body that had betrayed him.
Having to rely on someone else for everything—that was the real torture, wasn't it? Not the pain of the unruly energy tearing his body apart, not the paralysis, but the loss of dignity, the loss of self.
Was the admiral being stubborn? Proud? Vain? Su Ling thought it was more than that. It was a shell, a hard, cold shell he'd built around his fragile core, to protect himself from the world, from the pity, from the contempt, from the fact that he was no longer the invincible war hero everyone had loved.
Su Ling's heart ached. Strip away the admiral's title, strip away the heroics, strip away the paralysis—he was just a patient. Strip away the protagonist label, the book's plot, the destiny written in the stars—he was just a man.
The book had painted him as strong, unbreakable, a force of nature—but he was human. And humans had weak spots, soft places, cracks in their armor.
In that moment, the admiral stopped being a flat character on a page, a name in a story. He hadn't said a single word, but Su Ling felt like he was finally getting to know him.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and golden, and Su Ling burst into the admiral's room, full of energy, a wheelchair in tow—its seat padded thick with soft, fluffy fabric, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the rest of the house. "Morning sun is the best medicine for the soul! Admiral, let's go sunbathe!"
He was wearing a soft pale green loungewear, his hair messy from sleep, his eyebrows raised in a playful challenge—all bright, young energy, no fear, no deference. "From now on, if you don't say no, I'm taking it as a yes. Deal?"
He walked up to the bed, then froze, a look of realization crossing his face. Two seconds later, he turned to Brute, his voice firm. "Brute. Lift the admiral into the wheelchair, please."
Brute obeyed, its massive metal arms lifting the admiral gently, carefully, and Su Ling hovered close, adjusting his posture, tucking an extra soft cushion behind his lower back, his fingers gentle, attentive. "You're all hard edges—you sleep on a hard bed, sit on hard chairs, get carried around by Brute's metal arms all day. You never even flinch. I gotta say, I'm impressed."
The admiral gave no reaction, like he wasn't even there, like the hands adjusting his cushions, the voice talking to him, the warmth of the sunlight on his skin didn't exist.
"All set!" Su Ling clapped his hands, grinning, and pushed the wheelchair toward the balcony. "Can I buy some stuff? I wanna get some more cushions, some tablecloths, maybe a few little things for the house."
He wanted to buy home decor, to add color, to add warmth. The admiral's house was nothing but black and gray, cold and dark, a prison of metal and shadow—and Su Ling knew, deep down, that mood mattered for recovery. A dark, lonely house would only make the pain worse, make the days longer.
In the book, the admiral's health had deteriorated so badly during his time with the original Su Ling, he'd wasted away to nothing. It wasn't until the book's true protagonist appeared that he'd started to heal, started to fight back against the energy in his body.
Absorbing and refining that unruly energy was agony—unimaginable, searing pain that never let up. The true protagonist had been his motivation, his reason to keep going, to not give up.
And then, just as they'd found happiness, misunderstandings had torn them apart, heartbreak and pain and suffering had followed—so much suffering, Su Ling had cringed while reading it.
He shivered, pushing the thought away. That was their story, their pain, their fate. It had nothing to do with him. He was just here to work a job, to take care of the admiral for seven months, then walk away, live a quiet, peaceful life, and stay far, far away from their tragic love story.
Dappled sunlight spilled onto the balcony, warm but not hot, soft and perfect, and a light breeze carried the scent of the fresh breakfast Su Ling had laid out on the small metal table—steaming porridge, flaky pastries, sweet fruit. The smell was enough to make anyone's stomach growl, but the admiral acted like he was blind and nose-deaf, not a single flicker of interest on his face.
Su Ling took a slurp of porridge, a mischievous plan forming in his head. He was going to break through the admiral's cold shell—with an embarrassing story from his old life.