By the third year of the pandemic's grip, the virus was no longer a cold warning sign in the news—it had seeped into the city's fabric as a chill. Buses still shuttled along their old routes, and convenience store lights stayed on all night, yet each person carried a taut string in their hearts, trembling at the slightest wind. No one could say for sure when that string would snap for them.
At six in the morning, Han Che's phone screen suddenly lit up. A red frame, like a burning red iron wire, branded the word "Positive" sharply. His fingertips froze instantly, and his breathing lightened instinctively.
He waited. Waited for fever to creep out from his bones, for his throat to burn like sandpaper, for all the symptoms he'd heard about for three years to arrive as promised.
Two hours passed, but his body remained abnormally calm. No fatigue, no cough—taking a deep breath, his nasal passages were so clear he could distinctly smell the laundry detergent wafting from the balcony.
Something was wrong.
It was as if someone had quietly taken something from the depths of his heart, and the world suddenly lost its warmth. The spring light outside clearly flooded the window panes, yet in his eyes, it was only a harsh glare, lacking even a hint of warmth. The laughter of children playing downstairs drifted up—not soft and sweet, but like shards of glass, scratching at his eardrums and making him anxious. By the dining table, the half-glass of milk Wen Qing hadn't finished still sat, water droplets sliding slowly down the rim. He stared at that drop of water, clearly knowing it was the result of the combined action of "surface tension" and "gravity."
Joy, sorrow, anger, tenderness... those emotions that had once surged in his heart like blood were suddenly drained away. He was like a formatted hard drive, left only with the cold processor in his skull—mechanically receiving information and analyzing problems, yet never stirring the slightest ripple of emotion again.
"Thud!" A dull sound suddenly came from the master bedroom, followed by Tongtong's heart-wrenching sobs. Han Che stood up, calm and unhurried, as if he were just going to the study to fetch an ordinary document.
The child huddled on the carpet, small hands clutching his forehead tightly, blood seeping continuously through his fingers. When Tongtong saw him enter, he cried out: "Daddy! It hurts..." Han Che circled around the bloodstain on the floor, squatted down, and said faintly: "Control your breathing. Don't cry." He grabbed a tissue, pressed his fingertips firmly against the child's wound, and added: "It's just capillary bleeding. Nothing serious." Tongtong stared at him through blurred tears—this wasn't the daddy he knew. Before, when he fell, Daddy would immediately pick him up, his eyes filled with heartache. But now, those eyes held only cold silence, as if separated by a thick layer of glass.
"Han Che! What happened to Tongtong?" Wen Qing's voice sounded like a snapped string. Her shopping bag crashed heavily at the entrance, vegetables and eggs rolling all over the floor. She rushed over, pushed Han Che aside in one swift motion, and hugged her son tightly, her fingers trembling uncontrollably: "Tongtong! Why is there so much blood? Call an ambulance! Hurry and call an ambulance! Han Che, what are you staring at?"
"Let's call a ride-hailing car to City No.3 Hospital. It's seven kilometers—eighteen minutes without traffic, and the fare is twenty-three yuan. An ambulance costs one hundred and ten yuan and will take at least ten minutes. This way, we can save eighty-seven yuan. You're emotionally unstable right now and prone to mistakes. I suggest taking deep breaths, otherwise you might faint."
Wen Qing held her son and looked up at him. This face she'd shared ten years of her life with still had the same features, but his eyes were completely different—no trace of worry, no hint of anxiety, only an almost cruel calm, as if possessed by something, so unfamiliar it made her heart race.
Han Che didn't look at her again, but lowered his head and opened the ride-hailing app: "The driver will be here in three minutes. Grab the medical insurance card and household registration book—let's go downstairs now."
The emergency room was filled with a strong smell of disinfectant. Tongtong had four stitches and leaned weakly against Wen Qing, fast asleep, yet his brows remained tightly furrowed. Wen Qing held her son tightly, her gaze fixed on Han Che standing against the wall—he was like the most dutiful "executor," able to recite everyone's ID numbers accurately, calculate the medical insurance reimbursement ratio precisely, and even remind the doctor "don't block the light." But from start to finish, he never touched Tongtong's hand, never said a word of "don't be afraid," and didn't even glance at him more than necessary.
Wen Qing's body trembled uncontrollably—not from cold, but from fear.
Though Han Che had no symptoms, he was still required to quarantine and work from home. The sound of his keyboard tapping was dense and heavy, thudding against people's hearts, oppressive and suffocating. The white bandage on Tongtong's forehead was glaring—a silent protest from the child. He had truly changed. Once, he would cling to Han Che, calling him "Daddy" over and over. Now, he avoided him when they met, his eyes timid, as if looking at a stranger.
Wen Qing had argued with him, cried, and questioned him countless times. But all her emotions, when they hit Han Che's "rationality," were like water poured on ice, freezing instantly without even a trace of echo. Her heart sank little by little into the cold abyss.
Late at night, all was quiet. Only a cold white desk lamp was on in the living room, its light stretching Han Che's shadow long on the wall, like a lifeless silhouette. He sat in front of the computer, and on the screen was clearly displayed "Marital Status Benefit Analysis and Future Strategy Deduction Report V2.0." The cursor blinked on the page, like the endless calculations running through his mind.
The master bedroom door was pushed open gently. Wen Qing stood in the shadows, her figure as thin as a leaf that would drift away at the slightest breeze, yet her eyes held a resolute determination. She walked to the desk and slammed the crumpled divorce agreement onto the keyboard with a loud "slap."
The sound of Han Che's typing stopped abruptly. He looked up, picked up the agreement, and scanned it quickly. His fingertip suddenly paused at a number: "Wen Qing, this plan doesn't match my data model. It has not only logical errors but is also illegal."
He picked up a calculator, pressing the buttons as he said in a deep voice: "The core issue is the property. 87.3% of the down payment came from my pre-marital savings, and the corresponding property appreciation cannot be counted as community property. Alone, based on the current market price, I will suffer an additional loss of 72,415 yuan and 83 cents."
He set the calculator down gently, then picked up a red pen and drew a cold horizontal line across the agreement: "I suggest you take the agreement back to revise it now, or I can draft the final version—both legal and reasonable."
Wen Qing's breath caught in her throat, her chest heaving violently. She didn't cry or argue, only left behind a faint, weightless sentence:
"You're not Han Che."
Han Che's fingers, hovering above the keyboard, froze completely for the first time.
The white light from the screen shone straight on his face—no expression, no emotion. Yet in that "processor" that had been running mechanically, a question that wasn't part of any calculation popped up for the first time—
Who am I?
These three words were like a stone, slamming hard into his icy lake of pure rationality. No loud noise, only ripples spreading slowly, carrying an indescribable tremor, splitting a narrow yet bottomless crack in the world he had built with absolute rationality.