Familiarity
“The kid isn’t here? Did he leave on his own…” Seeing the empty office, Gong Chuang gradually sensed that something was off. “But didn’t you tell me… he can’t see anyone right now? Damn, could his condition have worsened again?”
Gu Yilan paused for only a few seconds before quickly turning and walking out.
“What… what’s going on? Wait for me.” Gong Chuang was completely baffled, unable to figure out how the man could have picked up any clue in such a short moment.
Gu Yilan walked fast, his voice low and calm: “Check the surveillance.”
“You need approval to check the surveillance. Doing it on your own is against regulations. Why don’t we send him a message first—see if he just wandered off somewhere?” Gong Chuang tried to reason with him, hoping the usually rational Gu Yilan would reconsider.
But the man’s expression remained resolute, his steps unhesitating. “He didn’t bring his phone.”
Gong Chuang suddenly remembered the phone that had been lying on the desk earlier. Sighing inwardly, he had no choice but to follow.
Gu Yilan used his fingerprint to unlock the door to the surveillance room. When the prompt appeared asking, “Have you reported in advance?” he didn’t hesitate for a second and tapped “Yes”.
He set the footage to the hour when he had just left the office, increased the speed to five times, and fixed his gaze on the office door on the screen without blinking.
Time passed second by second. Because he blinked so little, the black in his eyes slowly began to redden.
But before the faint figure of the boy appeared on the monitor, two loud knocks came at the door: “Bang! Bang!”
“Someone’s in there?! Open up, open up!”
By coincidence, a patrolling security guard happened to pass the surveillance room. Seeing the “In Use” indicator by the door and noticing a previously nonexistent reservation, he immediately sensed something was wrong.
As the sound of a card swipe beeped from the office door, Gu Yilan leaned on the console with both hands, eyes fixed on the monitor. He parted his thin lips slightly and said to Gong Chuang, “Go stop him for a moment.”
Gong Chuang was full of questions. He was about to ask how Gu Yilan could so nonchalantly leave such a issue to him, but the next second, with a click, the surveillance room door was opened from the outside. He had no time for words and scrambled to block it.
“What are you doing?” The guard looked at the students. They seemed familiar, not like any intruders, so he didn’t immediately order them to get down, but scolded instead.
“We…” Gong Chuang glanced at the man still focused on the monitor behind him, then blurted out, “We lost something important and wanted to check the footage.”
“What did you lose? Did you have a reservation?”
“We were just about to make a reservation… but the process is complicated, and the item is valuable, so we thought we’d look first.”
. . . . .
Gu Yilan pressed his lips together, eyes glued to the screen.
The two behind him mumbled awkwardly, but the footage showed people passing by, hurriedly walking. Yet the office door remained closed, untouched.
“Enough, enough. You can’t watch without approval. If you’re in a hurry, go through the emergency reporting process. Everyone out!” After Gong Chuang’s roundabout explanation, the guard, confused, finally became impatient.
“You! I’m talking to you. Stop looking and get out!” The guard’s footsteps approached from behind.
Gu Yilan lightly ground his teeth, ignoring the shouting, with no intention of moving. A few seconds later, a hand grabbed his forearm.
“Can’t you hear me? Still staring at it?” the guard barked.
“Uncle, just one last minute,” Gong Chuang hurriedly intervened, hands clasped in a pleading gesture. “We really need to find something—just one more minute.”
“Not a second.” The guard frowned and tried to pull him away, but the man’s core strength was too great; he couldn’t budge him at all.
The guard, face red with anger, raised his hand to press the shutdown button on the monitor.
But just an inch from the button, a large, bony hand gripped his wrist with such force that he couldn’t move it a millimeter.
“What exactly are you trying to do? Do you know this is illegal?!” the guard yelled angrily. “At worst, this gets reported for disciplinary action! You’re coming with me to register downstairs! Stop looking! I’m talking to you!”
Gu Yilan didn’t even flinch.
At that critical moment, the office door he had been staring at, almost seeing double, finally opened.
A small head cautiously peeked out. Seeing no one in the corridor, the boy sneaked out and finally reached—
Lab 1014.
Gu Yilan pressed his lips tight, released his hold, and strode toward the door, ignoring the yelling guard entirely.
“Uncle, don’t be mad—it’s bad for your health. Let me explain.” Seeing Gu Yilan leave, Gong Chuang hurriedly blocked the door and started arguing with the guard, trying to buy a little more time.
. . . . .
Often, memories in amnesia patients aren’t truly lost—they’re just dormant.
When familiar things appear, stimulating neural networks and reconnecting neurons, some memories can be reactivated.
Just like now, standing before the medium particle accelerator, Su Zesui vaguely remembered many things.
He recalled his university days—
After being admitted to university through a competitive recommendation, he threw himself into academia, joining a top research group early on and gaining access to a high-priced particle accelerator to conduct multiple experiments.
Later, an accident caused the accelerator to explode, and that’s when he crossed through time and space.
After this fragment of memory was triggered by the particle accelerator, Su Zesui recalled even more.
For instance, why he spent all day in the lab.
It was because he was afraid of interacting with people. Back in high school, he had endured painful bullying. At that time, his big brother had just passed away from cancer, and no one helped him—he struggled alone in the mire. Even then, he never managed to escape the clutches of illness.
In this world, he had experienced almost the same terrifying events, bore the same ugly scars on his arms, but it had all happened in middle school. After all, with his family’s boundless pampering, he rarely even went to high school here.
Clearly, if he wasn’t dreaming, he had truly crossed into the life of his parallel-universe self.
It wasn’t some memory confusion caused by illness.
Before the thought “my soul has taken over someone else’s body” could sweep over him, Su Zesui was hit by an even more devastating realization.
He froze, slowly turning his gaze to the voice recorder in his hand.
Since the hospital checkup, his condition had grown worse than ever. He couldn’t bear the sound of other people talking or walking—he would tremble, lose his voice, and be unable to walk.
This time, he had planned his escape in advance. Yet he’d only brought Gu Yilan’s card and the voice recorder—he didn’t even take his phone.
Listening to the recording, he told himself to be strong—
Strong enough to leave the office, strong enough to investigate why he had crossed over, strong enough to confront the memories he had long avoided.
But now, the very recorder that was supposed to give him strength and courage instead filled him with an unsettling familiarity. And this sense of familiarity came from a long-forgotten experience.
Su Zesui couldn’t pinpoint what exactly felt familiar—was it the recorder itself, the man’s voice, or… Gu Yilan?
He was more flustered than ever—but before he could even sort out his thoughts, the laboratory door was pushed open.
Hearing the sound, Su Zesui turned his head and saw Gu Yilan, lips pale and pressed together, breathing slightly fast. His dark eyes were fixed on him without blinking, anxiety and worry swirling openly in them, unable to be hidden.
The sight hit Su Zesui like a shockwave. In that instant, all the vague, ethereal memories—time travel, parallel worlds—faded, leaving only the reality in front of him.
He lowered his head, his hand gripping the campus card trembling slightly.
By his own experience and by observing other people’s parents when he was younger, he knew he was about to be scolded.
He had stolen someone else’s things, entered a lab he wasn’t allowed to enter, and caused Gu Yilan to search for him with both worry and anxiety.
Next, he expected to be grabbed by the ear, lectured with phrases like, “Why did you run off? Do you know how long I searched for you?” or “Don’t you understand your condition? Do you know what could happen if you run off?”
Those words, though sounding like scolding, were really care. Su Zesui held no resentment and even felt a sort of happiness. Only long ago had his big brother ever spoken to him like that.
Even thinking this, his body involuntarily shivered when he caught sight of the man approaching him.
“What’s wrong? Did going out today make you uncomfortable?” the man asked, ruffling his hair and sighing in helplessness. “Then let’s stay home tomorrow, okay?”
To Su Zesui’s surprise, there was no emotional reproach, no post-event interrogation. He wasn’t questioned for being so willful, nor was he made to immediately understand the severity of his actions.
There was only concern—asking why he had done it, whether he felt unwell. If he did, tomorrow could be a day without going out.
A prickling sensation rose at the tip of Su Zesui’s nose. He opened his arms, voice choking: “Hug.”
Gu Yilan opened his arms and lifted him up without hesitation.
Being that close, Su Zesui could feel the man’s body heat, higher than usual, and the strong, fast beat of his heart. It was clear it hadn’t been easy for him to find him.
“I’m sorry for running off,” Su Zesui said apologetically.
Gu Yilan gently pressed the boy’s head against his neck and walked him along the corridor where people were present, steadying his voice: “I’m willing to search for you.”
Su Zesui’s chest ached as he buried himself against the man, his muffled voice barely escaping: “I want to go home.”
“Mm,” Gu Yilan said, carrying him toward his office. “Sleep for a bit. When you open your eyes, you’ll be home.”
After recalling so much at once, combined with the emotional highs and lows, Su Zesui’s head was already dizzy and feverish. Hearing the man’s words, he finally relaxed, slowly closing his eyes.
He slept straight from morning until the sun set.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Gu Yilan lifting his hand to check his forehead. “Hungry? Want something to eat?”
Dazed, Su Zesui nodded.
Within minutes, the butler delivered the warm meal, even setting up a table on the bed for him.
Lying there, Su Zesui ate the porridge in big gulps while sneaking glances at Gu Yilan beside him.
“You want to tell me something?” Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow.
Su Zesui paused, then nodded slightly.
He had expected Gu Yilan to wait until he calmed down before asking why he ran off. But the man didn’t. Actually, Su Zesui himself hadn’t figured out what to say yet.
Perhaps because of the repeated rollercoaster of emotions these past days, facing the reality of seemingly inhabiting someone else’s body, he felt an almost numb calm.
Like a lake just before a storm.
So, in a small, tentative voice, he asked the question he most wanted to know: “Did we… meet before?”
Even though Gu Yilan had told him they never met before the club, given the man’s history of deceit and Su Zesui’s extreme lack of security, he asked again.
But after hearing the question, Gu Yilan fell into a silence that made him panic.
Su Zesui stared at the frowning man, frozen, his hand trembling so much the spoon almost fell onto the bed.
——Why… isn’t he answering?
——Did he really… lie to me again?
——No, no… if it’s true, he’ll be devastated. But if it’s not… then why won’t he speak?
“Don’t be nervous.” Gu Yilan held the boy’s trembling hand and placed his spoon in the bowl. “I was just wondering… if seeing you from a distance once counts as having met you.”
Su Zesui felt a bit of the tension in his chest ease, but he still asked, “Th-then… when was that?”
“June 27th, at the hospital,” Gu Yilan recalled. “That day was your birthday. You had just been discharged after an emergency check-up. I went to get stitches for an arm I had accidentally cut badly, and happened to see you on the first floor.”
Su Zesui remembered. That day was his birthday—and the day he had arrived here.
He had fainted and was carried home wrapped in a blanket by his big brother, so he had no memory of being discharged and hadn’t seen Gu Yilan at the hospital.
Subconsciously, Su Zesui glanced at the man’s now-healed arm. Once reassured it was fine, he urgently asked the question he’d been dying to know: “Just that once?”
Gu Yilan nodded. “Mm.”
Su Zesui lowered his head, fiddling with his fingers, frowning in thought.
Gu Yilan definitely wouldn’t lie to him anymore; he trusted him. That meant, in this world, he really hadn’t had much interaction with Gu Yilan before.
——Then… where did that familiar feeling that dragged him into an emotional abyss come from?
He couldn’t help but think of the voice recorder.
To be precise, it was the sense of familiarity triggered by the recorder.
——So… in this world, had he often used a recorder to document things?
“I didn’t lie to you before. The reason I took so long to think about it is that I was defining what counts as ‘having met’ someone,” Gu Yilan said. “It mainly depends on why you asked the question, so I thought about it carefully.”
The man’s voice was calm, and the way he spoke—soft and deliberate—didn’t just soothe the panic in Su Zesui’s heart; it subtly tested him in a way that felt perfectly reasonable and reassuring.
“Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll tell you everything,” Su Zesui murmured, his head lowered. “I just… need to think about how to say it.”