Chapter 11: What Are You Really Thinking?

On the fortieth day of living together, Lin Xia began to systematically think about one question:

What exactly was Su Xin thinking about every day?

This question shouldn’t have been within the scope of her work.

Her duty was to observe, record, and evaluate, not to understand the inner world of the subject under surveillance.

But the problem was that she found herself increasingly unable to describe the person… the Meme in front of her with objective language, because she always got stuck on certain details that made it impossible for her to put pen to paper.

For example, yesterday afternoon, Yin Qi leaned against the balcony and spaced out for about forty minutes.

Lin Xia observed the entire process, tried to record it, and finally wrote:

“13:42–14:23, subject on balcony, no significant behavior, state…”

She paused for a long time after “state,” running through many words—”relaxed,” “spacing out,” “lost in thought”—but none of them felt accurate, because she felt that during those forty minutes, Yin Qi’s expression wasn’t relaxation, nor was it spacing out, nor did it look like she was thinking about something.

Her expression was…

Lin Xia thought for a long time and finally wrote: “State stable.”

Then she saved and closed it.

She didn’t want to change it anymore.

The problem was that while the four words “state stable” were correct, they were also the most useless.

As a rookie agent who had been on the job for three months, Lin Xia had undergone training, read the handbook, and dealt with a few other Meme cases, but none of them had taught her how to handle a situation where the subject’s daily state was impossible to describe.

That handbook had “Behavioral Characteristics of Hostile Memes,” “Disposal Procedures for High-Risk Emotional Memes,” “General Monitoring Standards for E-Class Memes,” but it did not have the chapter “What to Write in Your Log When Your Subject Looks Like They’re Thinking a Lot but Won’t Tell You What They’re Thinking.”

That chapter didn’t exist.

So Lin Xia had to rely on herself.

She started observing the details more closely.

For instance, every time Yin Qi picked up her phone, she would first quickly glance at the status bar to check the signal and time, and then do something else.

This move didn’t look like a habit; it looked more like she was confirming something.

For instance, when she didn’t have any drinks, she would only drink water.

Occasionally she’d drink tea.

If coffee was placed in front of her, she’d drink it, but she never poured it herself.

For instance, her sleep schedule was irregular, but every time she woke up, her mental state was very good.

It didn’t seem like she had poor sleep quality; it was more like her sleep needs were different from a human’s.

For instance, she turned pages quickly, but occasionally she would pause for a long time on a certain page.

It was unclear whether she was thinking about the content of the book or something else.

Individually, these details meant nothing, but put together—Lin Xia pieced them together over and over in her mind, and always felt that the shape she pieced together resembled something she recognized but couldn’t name.

She didn’t know how to describe it.

Then, on the afternoon of the fortieth day, Yin Qi suddenly spoke:

“Are you observing me?”

Lin Xia was organizing files at the table.

Upon hearing this, she didn’t look up.

“I’m always observing you. That’s my job.”

“It’s different,” Yin Qi said.

“The way you’ve been observing these past few days is different from before.”

Only then did Lin Xia raise her head and look at her.

Yin Qi was leaning on the couch, holding a book, but it was closed.

She was looking at Lin Xia.

“Different how?”

Lin Xia asked.

“Before, you observed me to see if there was anything abnormal about me,”

Yin Qi said.

“Today, you’re observing me to find out what I’m actually thinking.”

Lin Xia put down the folder in her hand and asked directly,

“So what are you thinking?”

Yin Qi looked at her for a while, then placed the book on her knees and said,

“You tell me what you’re thinking first, and I’ll tell you.”

“You observed me for over two hours just now,”

Yin Qi said, her tone calm.

“You must have a conclusion. Spit it out.”

Lin Xia was silent for a few seconds, then thought it over and decided to be direct.

“I think you think a lot more than you show, but I can’t put my finger on what you’re thinking.”

“Mm,” Yin Qi nodded, her expression unchanged.

“Go on.”

“I don’t think you’re just an E-Class Meme,”

Lin Xia said.

“But I don’t have any evidence.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I think you…”

Lin Xia paused.

“I think you’re living pretty peacefully here, but that peace doesn’t come from you naturally liking it. It’s something you actively chose.”

After saying this, Lin Xia fell silent herself, because she hadn’t expected to be able to put it so clearly.

Yin Qi looked at her, not speaking immediately.

She just tapped the book on her knee lightly with her finger, as if thinking.

“You’ve got it mostly right,” she finally said, her tone very calm.

“And then?”

“Then I don’t know,” Lin Xia said.

“So I’m asking what you’re thinking.”

Yin Qi picked up the book, reopened it to the page she was on, lowered her head, and said,

“I want to know if this world is interesting.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“Still observing,” she said.

“When I have a conclusion, I’ll tell you.”

Lin Xia looked at her for a moment, nodded, picked up the folder again, and continued organizing the files.

She didn’t ask any more.

But that evening, she added a new column to her observation log.

The title was “Subjective Assessment.”

This column had been empty before; she had never written anything in it.

There, she wrote a single line:

“The subject has a clear awareness of her current situation and chooses to maintain the status quo, for reasons unknown. Recommend continued surveillance.”