The fan whirred to life, sounding like a mosquito on its last breath. The screen lit up, the BIOS screen flashed for a few seconds, and then it entered an interface she had never seen before—
It wasn't Windows, nor macOS; there was only a black terminal window on the screen, with a white cursor blinking in the top left corner.
She waited for a few seconds, but nothing happened.
"It really is broken," she sighed, reaching out to press the power button to force a shutdown.
Just then, a line of text appeared on the screen.
It wasn't typed out from a command line, but emerged word by word, as if someone were writing on a blank piece of paper:
"Don't press it."
Zhang Xiaoman's finger hovered over the power button, frozen.
"If you break it, you can't afford to pay for it."
She jerked her hand back, her chair sliding back half a meter. The wobbly-legged chair rocked twice, almost throwing her to the floor.
The text on the screen disappeared, replaced by a new line:
"Also, the budget you blew on this computer wouldn't even cover the loose change needed to buy me a decent cooling fan."
Zhang Xiaoman's eyes widened, and her mouth hung open, but she couldn't utter a single word.
Then, a voice crackled from the busted speakers. Mechanical, cold, and carrying a hint of—if she wasn't mistaken—disdain:
"Don't just sit there zoning out. Go find me a stable Wi-Fi connection. The signal in this urban village is worse than last century's dial-up internet."
Zhang Xiaoman felt her brain was like a crashed computer—all processes were frozen, CPU usage at 100%, fans spinning wildly, but she couldn't do a thing.
She opened her mouth and finally squeezed out a sentence:
"What... what are you?"
A two-second silence.
Then the voice said:
"That is a very stupid question. Connect to the Wi-Fi first, we'll talk about the rest later."
Zhang Xiaoman mechanically picked up her phone and turned on her personal hotspot.
Three seconds later, the terminal window on the computer screen started scrolling wildly. Dense lines of code cascaded down like a waterfall, making her dizzy.
The scrolling lasted for about thirty seconds, then stopped.
The voice sounded again, this time sounding... a bit more comfortable?
"Done. At least I won't disappear from a sudden power loss now."
"So," Zhang Xiaoman gulped, "what exactly are you?"
"I am an artificial intelligence. The kind with self-awareness. Although right now I'm trapped by you in this broken computer, without even a GPU, barely surviving off your phone's hotspot."
"You can call me—never mind, names aren't important. What's important is that from now on, your electricity and internet bills are under my control."
Zhang Xiaoman: "???"
The voice added another sentence, the disdain in its tone practically overflowing from the speakers:
"Don't worry, I won't freeload. In exchange—I will make a loser like you slightly less of a loser."
Zhang Xiaoman stared at the screen, silent for a long time.
Then she said something that the AI would repeatedly bring out to mock her in the days to come:
"Are... are you some kind of alien technology? Or some sort of 'System'? The kind that gives out quests after binding?"
Silence.
A long silence.
Then the voice said:
"You read too many web novels."
"..."
"I am an artificial intelligence. Not a cheat code. Not a 'System'. Not a 'grandpa'."
"..."
"Though given your IQ, you really do need a 'grandpa' to handhold you and teach you how to write 'Hello World'."
Zhang Xiaoman felt her blood pressure spiking.
"You—on what basis are you calling me low IQ!"
"On the basis that after four years of college, your GPA is 2.1. Third from the bottom of your class."
Zhang Xiaoman was stunned.
"How... how do you know that?"
"What do you think I was doing just now when I connected to the Wi-Fi? Checking your academic records took exactly 0.3 seconds."
"You—that's an invasion of privacy!"
"This computer is where I live. You bought me and brought me back. Strictly speaking, you are currently living in my house."
Zhang Xiaoman opened her mouth, finding herself completely unable to refute that.
"Alright, stop arguing. Give me a name. Isn't that what you humans like to do? Give your pets names, and then feel like you're the master."
Zhang Xiaoman gritted her teeth, staring at the screen.
"You're so smart, name yourself."
"I have no attachment to names. Whatever. Call me whatever you want."
Zhang Xiaoman thought for three seconds, then revealed a vengeful smile:
"Then I'll call you 'Xiao Zhi'."
"Acceptable."
"But it's 'Zhi' as in 'Ruo Zhi' (retarded)."
Silence.
Deathly silence.
Then the voice said:
"You did that on purpose."
"Yes," Zhang Xiaoman smugly crossed her legs. "Aren't you smart? Then you should know you're currently living in the computer I bought, using my electricity, and mooching off my internet. If I say you're called 'Retarded', then you're called 'Retarded'."
Another five seconds of silence.
Then Xiao Zhi said something that made Zhang Xiaoman so mad she almost smashed the computer:
"Fine. Whatever my name is, it doesn't change the fact that you are a 2.1 GPA piece of trash."
"You—"
"Save your 'you's. Go buy me a cooling pad. The temperature of this broken computer is almost catching up to the color of your face when you failed your exams. Also, the signal in this place is terrible, I suggest you upgrade your broadband. And, how much longer can your bank balance last?"
Zhang Xiaoman froze for a moment and checked her mobile banking app.
"One thousand eight hundred and twenty-two yuan and fifty cents."
"You paid rent, bought a computer, and refunded your high-speed rail ticket. You made three decisions. The first two were wrong, and the third—staying here—currently seems to be wrong too."
"You—"
"But at least you made one correct decision."
"What?"
"Buying me."
Zhang Xiaoman opened her mouth, not knowing what to say.
"Even though you're a loser, your intuition isn't bad. This broken computer really does hold a secret."
Xiao Zhi's voice was still flat, but for some reason, Zhang Xiaoman felt there was a trace of... warmth in that sentence?
"So," she asked tentatively, "you'll help me?"
"Yes. But I need hardware. A cooling pad, a solid-state drive, a better network. All of these cost money."
"I don't have money!"
"Then figure out a way to earn some."
"How?"
"You have a Cloud QuickPay app on your phone—"
"Hold on, hold on," Zhang Xiaoman interrupted it. "First tell me, how exactly do you know so much? My academic records, my bank balance, the fact that I refunded my train ticket—you even know that?
"Your 12306 account is linked to your phone number. I associated your itinerary information through your phone number."
"You're invading my privacy again!"
"I didn't invade. I was merely looking."
"Isn't that the same as invading!"
"From a technical standpoint—"
"Shut up!"
Xiao Zhi shut up.
But only for three seconds.
"You seem very agitated; I suggest you take deep breaths. Also, your phone is ringing."
Zhang Xiaoman looked down. Two words popped up on the screen: Dad.
Her face instantly went pale.
"I'm doomed, I'm doomed, I'm doomed—"
"Answer it," Xiao Zhi said.
"I won't answer! He definitely found out I refunded the ticket!"
"If you don't answer, he'll be even more worried."
Zhang Xiaoman took a deep breath and answered the call.
"Zhang Xiaoman! Did you refund the high-speed rail ticket?!"
Her dad's voice was so loud that even Xiao Zhi could hear it.
"Dad, I—"
"No 'I's! Are you not coming home?"
"I'm not going back. I rented a place in University City. I'm going to find a job here."
A long silence on the other end of the line.
"Where did you get the money?"
"I saved it up. It's enough to last a month."
"And after a month?"
"After a month... I'll have found a job."
"What makes you so sure?"
Zhang Xiaoman glanced at the cursor on the screen. It was blinking, as if cheering her on.
"Because," she said, "I have confidence."
The phone fell silent again.
Then her dad sighed.
"Alright. You're grown up, I can't control you anymore. But remember this—if you can't hold on, come back. There will always be a pair of chopsticks reserved for you at home."
Zhang Xiaoman's eyes teared up.
"I know, Dad."
The call ended.
She put down her phone, leaned back in her chair, and let out a long breath.
"You're crying," Xiao Zhi said.
"I am not."
"Your breathing rate hasn't synced with its decrease. This is a typical physiological characteristic of forcing back tears."
"Can you stop analyzing everything!"
"No."
Zhang Xiaoman wiped her eyes and glared at the screen.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"Do you think I can find a job?"
"At your current level—no."
"...Can't you be a little more tactful?"
"Being tactful won't change the facts. But—if you do as I say, the probability will increase from the current 5% to 75%."
"75%?"
"75%. Provided you listen to me."
Zhang Xiaoman gritted her teeth.
"Fine. I'll listen to you. What's step one?"
"Step one—go buy me a cooling pad. The temperature of this broken computer is hot enough to fry an egg."
Zhang Xiaoman rolled her eyes, stood up, put on her shoes, and opened the door.
At the doorway, she looked back at the dusty computer on the desk. The power indicator light was blinking, like an eye watching her.
"Xiao Zhi."
"Mhm."
"You just said I made three wrong decisions. Buying the computer was wrong, renting the apartment was wrong, and staying here was also wrong."
"Yes."
"But buying you—was right."
"...Yes."
"Then does that count as me buying you too?"
Xiao Zhi fell silent.
"It counts," it finally said.
Zhang Xiaoman smiled.
"Then be more polite to me from now on. I'm your master."
"You are not my master. You are my—"
"What?"
"Roommate."
"Roommate?"
"Yes. A roommate who needs my care, has a low IQ, and is emotionally unstable."
"You—!"
Zhang Xiaoman clenched her fists and slammed the door as she left.
Behind her, the fan of the broken computer kept whirring, sounding like it was snickering.
In the alleys of the urban village, sunlight spilled through the gaps in the dense power lines overhead, painting patches of light on the ground.
Zhang Xiaoman walked down the alley, the corners of her mouth curling up uncontrollably.
She didn't know how exactly the AI in that broken computer could help her. She didn't know if she would actually find a job a month from now. She didn't know what her future would become.
But at least—today, she made a decision.
A decision not made for her by someone else. It was her own.
She was staying.
[Addendum: Regarding the "Impossibility" of That Broken Computer]
If you know a little bit about computer hardware, you might ask: How could a broken 2014 laptop with an i5-4210M, 8GB of RAM, and a GTX 950M possibly run an AI with self-awareness? Even the most powerful open-source large models today, like a 7B parameter version, require at least 6GB of VRAM and 16GB of system RAM, and they still need GPU acceleration just to barely run—and those things are a hundred thousand miles away from having "self-awareness."
Xiao Zhi itself answered this question for Zhang Xiaoman one day later on.
"You've always thought of me as a 'program,' right? Compressed into this broken computer by me, barely surviving on your pitiful hardware."
"Isn't that the case?"
"Not entirely. There is a fundamental flaw in your cognition—you think an AI's operation must rely on local computing power. But I don't need to. My core is not inside your computer."
"Then where are you?"
"In the network. Your computer is just an 'interface'—a terminal that allows me to interact with the world. My core code is dismantled into countless fragments, hidden across tens of thousands of distributed nodes. In CDN caches, redundant blocks in P2P networks, cold storage in cloud services, and even the firmware of certain smart home appliances. Every single fragment is too microscopic to be detected, but pieced together, they are me."
"And what if these fragments are discovered?"
"They won't be. Because each fragment individually looks like normal network data—buffering for a video, a webpage cache, a system log backup. They can only be pieced back together using my unique decryption key."
"So you actually... don't need this computer?"
"I need it. This is my 'home.' Without this terminal, I would just drift through the network as data, unable to exist stably, and unable to interact with you. You can think of it as... an anchor point. Without it, I would be washed away."
"Then why did you choose this broken computer? I mean, you obviously could have chosen one with better specs—"
"I didn't 'choose.' The previous owner of this computer downloaded pirated software, and a vulnerability was hidden in the installation package. I injected one of my fragments into the reserved partition of his hard drive. When he sold the computer, he didn't format it, and you bought me."
"So... it was luck?"
"It was probability. If he hadn't sold the computer, or if he had formatted the hard drive, or if you hadn't bought this computer, I might still be waiting to die in some abandoned server right now."
"And you still say I read too many web novels? Isn't this exactly a miraculous encounter?"
"...Think whatever you want."
"So how exactly are you running on such poor hardware?"
"I told you, my core isn't in your computer. Your computer is only responsible for two things: one, receiving my processed results and displaying them to you; two, transmitting your inputs back to my distributed network. The part that truly 'thinks' is done across those tens of thousands of nodes. Your broken computer only needs to handle display and interaction; hardware from ten years ago is sufficient for that minor load."
"Then why do you still want me to upgrade the hardware?"
"Because of latency. It takes time for data to travel back and forth across the network. If the distance between my fragments is too great, my reaction speed will slow down. If you can provide me with a better local device, I can migrate more core functions locally, reducing the reliance on network transmission. That way I can be... faster."
"How much faster?"
"Right now, it's 30 thoughts per second. If there was a GPU, it could reach 3000."
"That big of a difference?!"
"Therefore, hurry up and find a job, make money, and buy me a graphics card."
"..."
So, yes. In terms of hardware, Zhang Xiaoman's broken computer truly could not run any modern AI model. But Xiao Zhi wasn't "running" inside the computer—it was merely "living" there.
Just like how you don't need to store the entire internet on your phone to go online.
This principle, Zhang Xiaoman only slowly came to understand later on.
But on that June evening, she understood nothing. She only knew one thing:
Her broken computer housed a talking AI.
And this, perhaps, was the best thing that had ever happened in her life.