Chen Hao opened his eyes.
White. Everything was white. Not the harsh white of hospital lights. Not the white of walls. This white went on forever. No floor. No ceiling. Just endless white that somehow didn't hurt to look at.
He sat up. No pain. His hands—they were whole. Unmarked. No burns. No blisters. He touched his face. Smooth skin. No blood.
Where—
A sound hummed through the space. Deep and resonant. Chen Hao scrambled to his feet as something materialized in front of him. A massive screen. It hung in the white void, suspended by nothing.
The screen flickered to life.
A hospital room appeared. Fluorescent lights. Beeping monitors. A woman lay in a bed, face red and sweaty. A man stood beside her, gripping her hand. Young. Both of them so young.
His parents.
Chen Hao's breath caught.
The woman screamed. Pushed. The man whispered encouragement, stroked her hair. Then a baby's cry filled the air. Tiny. Wrinkled. The nurse placed the infant in the woman's arms.
His mother looked at the baby—at him—with tears streaming down her face. His father pressed his forehead against hers, both of them staring at the small bundle.
"Chen Hao," his mother whispered. "Our Chen Hao."
The screen showed them.
Happy. So happy.
Chen Hao stared at the projection. His hands trembled. This was his birth. This was—
I'm dead.
The thought came clear and certain. No confusion. No doubt. He stood in this white place watching his own life because the reactor had killed him.
His chest tightened. His mother. His sister. They'd get the news. They'd cry. His mother would make dumplings anyway because that's what she did when she was sad. His sister would have to tell his nephew that Uncle Hao wasn't coming back.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to rage against it. But what good would that do?
Nothing he could change now.
Chen Hao sank to the ground—or what passed for ground in this place. He wrapped his arms around his knees and watched.
The video continued. Professional. Seamless. Like someone had edited his entire existence into a documentary.
His mother carried him through their small apartment. His father made faces to make him laugh. First words—"Mama." His mother had cried. His father had picked him up and spun him around.
First steps. He'd fallen. Gotten back up. Fallen again. His parents had clapped like he'd won the Olympics.
Kindergarten. Chen Hao watched his younger self cling to his mother's leg, crying. She'd peeled him off gently. Kissed his forehead. "Be brave, Hao-Hao."
He'd stopped crying. Walked inside.
School years blurred past. Tests. Friends. His sister being born—him holding her, age seven, so careful with her tiny body. "I'm the big brother," he'd said. "I'll protect you."
High school. Acne and awkward growth spurts. His first kiss behind the gymnasium with Liu Mei. Her lips had tasted like peach lip gloss. His heart had hammered so hard he'd thought he'd die right there.
He hadn't known what dying actually felt like then.
The video shifted. Liu Mei crying. Breaking up with him for Zhou Wei, the basketball captain. Chen Hao—seventeen, stupid—had punched a locker. Broke two knuckles.
His mother had driven him to the hospital. Hadn't yelled. Just held his good hand.
Fights came next. Shouting matches with his father about grades, about friends, about nothing and everything. His sister slamming her door, screaming that she hated him because he'd told her boyfriend to leave.
Chen Hao watched it all. The good. The bad. The mundane.
Then the car accident.
He wanted to look away. Couldn't. The police at their door. His mother collapsing. His sister's scream. The funeral. Rain pouring down while they lowered the casket. His father's face smiling from the photo on the memorial.
Chen Hao was twenty. Old enough to be the man of the house now. That's what his uncle had said. "Take care of them."
College. Engineering program. He'd wanted to make his father proud. Wanted to build things. Important things.
But the classes were hard. The loans piled up. His mother needed money for his sister's school. Medical bills from his father's accident still came in the mail.
Chen Hao watched himself at twenty-two, sitting in the dean's office. "I'm dropping out."
The dean had tried to talk him out of it. Chen Hao had already decided.
The cleaning job. Nuclear power station. Good pay. Benefits. His mother had hugged him. "Your father would understand."
Would he? Chen Hao wasn't sure anymore.
Days blurred together on screen. Mopping floors. Emptying trash. Dr. Zhang yelling at him. Other workers ignoring him. Going home to his small apartment. Sending money to his mother. Video calls with his sister and nephew.
"Uncle Hao, when are you visiting?"
"Soon, Little Tiger. Soon."
Lies. He never had time.
Then today. The alarm. The panic. Scientists running. Jin Wei's announcement—cooling system failure.
Chen Hao watched himself volunteer. Saw Dr. Zhang's face—surprise, then grim acceptance. Saw the other workers look away.
The reactor chamber. The heat. His skin burning. The lever. The valve. The button.
His body on the floor. Steam rising. Scientists rushing in with cooling suits. Dr. Li Mei kneeling beside him. Checking for a pulse. Shaking her head.
The video didn't stop.
It showed what came after.
The reactor stabilized. Temperature dropping. The crisis averted. Jin Wei addressing the staff. "Chen Hao saved this facility. Saved the entire region."
Numbers appeared on screen. Population density maps. Red zones showing what would have happened if the reactor had melted down. Radiation spread. Evacuation zones.
One billion, forty-seven million, three hundred thousand people.
That's how many lived in the danger zone.
Chen Hao stared at the number. One billion. He couldn't even imagine that many people. That many lives. Families. Children. All of them breathing because he'd pulled a lever and turned a valve.
The video shifted again.
His apartment. His mother opened the door. Two officials stood there in crisp uniforms. She knew. Before they spoke, she knew. Her legs gave out. The officials caught her.
His sister arrived an hour later. She held their mother while they both cried. His nephew asked why everyone was sad. His sister couldn't answer.
The funeral. Military honor guard. Flag-draped coffin. Empty—no body to bury. The radiation had been too much. Scientists had explained this to his mother. She'd nodded like she understood but her eyes had been empty.
Medals. Speeches. The mayor called him a hero. The president sent a letter. Chen Hao's photograph hung in the power station lobby. "In Memoriam: Chen Hao. Hero."
His mother touched the photo. "My Hao-Hao. My brave boy."
His sister stood beside her. "He always protected me. Even when we fought. He always protected me."
Chen Hao's throat burned. No tears came. Maybe the dead couldn't cry.
The video showed one last scene. His mother's kitchen. She made dumplings. Her hands moved automatically, muscle memory. Fold. Crimp. Place in the steamer. His sister sat at the table, holding her son.
"Tell me about Uncle Hao," the boy said.
His sister smiled. Sad but real. "He was a hero. He saved everyone."
"Even me?"
"Especially you."
The screen went dark. The humming stopped. The white void was silent.
Chen Hao sat alone with his thoughts. His death. His life. One billion people breathing because he'd burned.
His mother would cry. His sister would hurt. But they'd live. His nephew would grow up. Would have children of his own. Would tell them about Great-Uncle Hao the hero.
The pain was worth it.
It had to be.