“Not an AI?”

Staring at the flood of messages, Never-Say-Quit froze at the rim of the crowd like a sparrow startled by thunder.

What AI would ever claim it isn’t an AI? The thought swirled like mist.

But thinking it through, the Treasure Imp kept showing a sharpness that cut past what any AI should have, like a blade hidden under silk.

“If you’re not an AI, then what are you?” Never-Say-Quit swallowed, throat dry like sand, and asked carefully.

“If you can pull the related case files, you’ll know what I am. Could be human experimentation.” The words fell cold, like rain on iron.

Nana Toki felt odd about who she was, a fogged mirror and a heartbeat behind. Her mood settled first, then her hands moved.

By now, she could guess seven or eight parts of the picture, like piecing paper lanterns in dim light.

Either it tied to human experiments, or Nan Jin’s earlier death was straight-up supernatural, a chill that wouldn’t lift.

But—

[Private Chat] Never-Say-Quit: “Why tell me this?”

Their bond wasn’t strong enough to trade shadows. The doubt hovered like a raven.

“You’re saying so much. What if I turn on you?” His heart thumped, drum on wood, thump-thump-thump.

He had known the Treasure Imp’s background wasn’t simple, but he hadn’t expected fireworks like this.

Human experimentation… The word burned like a brand.

In this era, that’s the most taboo thing, a red line drawn in fire.

“No choice. It’ll come out sooner or later. If I have to talk to someone, why not someone closer? If you’re a true people’s police, you wouldn’t watch a girl everyone adores drown.” Her tone smiled like a blade wrapped in silk.

While she typed, Nana Toki cut down the respawned freebie swordsman again, clean as a winter wind.

“And if you really help me finish this, it’s a big merit at work. Betrayal’s pointless.” Her certainty sat like stone.

[Private Chat] Never-Say-Quit: “...”

He had to admit it. By her logic, he was picking up benefits like coins in the road.

“Only—how can you be so sure you were used in human experiments?” He asked, voice tight like a drawn bow.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Nana Toki. It was that the picture felt too sci-fi, neon beyond night.

Even with today’s tech, he couldn’t believe a game company would dare cross that taboo, a line like a cliff edge.

“Then what am I? Some throwaway NPC you see everywhere? Say it out loud—do you believe it?” Her disdain slid through the screen like frost.

“...”

Even through the virtual glass, Never-Say-Quit felt her scorn, cold as a winter moon.

“I’ll log off and pull the files. If I find anything, I’ll come back.” His resolve set like ink.

“Mm.” The reply was brief, a pebble in still water.

He sent it and dropped offline fast, the cord cut clean.

Never-Say-Quit pulled off his immersive headset, climbed from the game pod, and ran out, feet light as wind on grass.

“Xiao Feng, why are you out of the game so early today?” Han’s mom cracked seeds on the couch, TV glow like warm lantern light.

Seeing Han Feng still in his work jacket, she blinked. “Heading to the station this late?” Her worry fluttered like a moth.

“Yeah, just handling a small thing.” He slid past the table, snagged a bread roll like a swift bird, and bolted. “Mom, it’s late. Please sleep first. Don’t wait up. I’m on early shift tomorrow. I’ll come home after.” His words scattered like leaves.

He yanked open the door and sprinted toward the police station, breath a white ribbon in the night.

“Tsk. Knew you’d be sleeping. Keep your post and stop slacking!” His voice cracked like a whip.

Rushing in, Han Feng found the night-shift guy snoring on the front desk, cheek pressed to wood like a cat in sun.

“Ah… Lao Han, what brings you?” Zhao Yuan peeled off his eye mask slowly, fog still in his eyes.

“No bros to game with, too lonely? Came to keep a good brother company on the night shift?” His yawn rolled like low thunder.

“Hell no! I’ve got other business here. Who comes at midnight to play with you three?” Han’s tone snapped like dry twigs.

He ignored Zhao Yuan’s dead-fish stare and headed for the offices quick, steps like flint. “Hm? Lao Zhao, where are the other two? Weren’t you three on duty tonight? Did those two blockheads ditch?” His annoyance smoked.

“Nah. We just logged off and came in. Old Chen and Old Li got hungry, went to the barbecue stall for stir-fried noodles.” Zhao waved lazily, hand like drifting weed.

Han Feng: “...”

These three childhood friends never took station rules to heart. The thought sat heavy as a stone.

Maybe he was too soft as their team captain, a net with holes.

“You really came just to stop me from slacking?” Zhao watched Han flip files, lids creaking like old doors. “C’mon, the station’s solid. Go sleep.” His smile was a smudge.

“...”

This bastard never listens. The frustration bit like frost.

“I said I’ve got things to do. Get back to the front desk. I’ll leave when I’m done.” Han pushed aside stacks, paper like falling snow, grabbed a form, eyes tight.

“What’re you looking for? Need a hand?” Zhao yawned again, a slow tide, and scratched his back as he wandered in.

“Old Li runs filing. Want to wait till he’s back?” His offer was lazy as smoke.

“No. It’s urgent. If you’re not sleeping, help me look.” Han’s voice was clipped, a nail driven in.

“Then I’ll sleep.” Zhao turned, playful as a fox.

“...”

Damn it. Twenty years of brotherhood was on the line like a frayed rope.

“Alright, alright, messing with you. Say it. What?” Zhao narrowed his eyes and joined him, hands riffling paper like wings.

“If you’re digging old cases, it’ll take a while.” His warning dropped like rain.

“How’d you know it’s a case?” Han froze, a deer in brush, an armful of files in hand. He hadn’t said why he came.

“You think I’m an idiot?” Zhao shot him a look, sharp as a pin. “You’re not here to catch us slacking. You’re here for files. What files do we keep? Use your brain. You a pig?” His tease flashed like a spark.

Han Feng: “...”

Annoying—but fair. The thought clicked like a lock.

“Help me find cases with a victim named Nan Jin, or anyone whose name includes the character ‘You.’ I’m in a hurry.” His voice carried urgency like smoke up a chimney.

“What do you need those for?” Zhao glanced up, eyes turning odd, a shadow crossing like a cloud. “What did you promise that Treasure Imp again?”

Nan Jin and that ‘You’ character—those are the names those two bug-tier women keep chanting like a spell.

“What do you mean ‘again’? We still owe that NPC one favor. I’m here to repay it.” Han spoke while skimming, eyes moving like fish.

“You can trade favors across game and reality now? You sick?” Zhao shook his head. “We told you to keep your distance from the Treasure Imp. You never listen.” His concern rustled like reeds.

“I don’t think she’s a problem. Why keep so far?” Han’s belief stood like a lantern in wind. She’s just a girl. How bad can a girl be?

“Man… are you naive or what?” Zhao pulled a folder from the cabinet, paper worn as bark, and set it by Han. “Then tell me—what is that Treasure Imp? Does her smarts look like any normal NPC to you?” His gaze pressed like weight.

“What… else could she be? A normal NPC.” Han sounded unsure, feet shifting like leaves. “She said she’s artificial intelligence. You don’t believe it?”

“Xia Xiaoyou. Seventeen. Born July 10, 2046. Attended XX High School. Classmate of Nan Jin. In 2063, a sudden accident. Became a vegetative patient. Disappeared in December of the same year.” Zhao read it flat, words like pebbles.

He slid the file onto the desk. The photo stared up, the face exactly like the Treasure Imp in-game, a mirror across worlds.

“What do you think she is now?” His question hung like smoke.

“...” Silence soaked the office like ink.

“She’s not an ordinary NPC.” Zhao’s tone turned hard, steel under cloth. “A woman missing for three years suddenly appears inside a game. This touches things way above our pay grade. I told you to stay away for your own good, Lao Han. Got it?” His worry bit like winter.

After the last time with Nana Toki, Zhao had felt something off—like a chill under spring sun.

He dug through the office, every drawer and box, dust rising like ghosts, until he found a case buried at the bottom.

Without that photo, he couldn’t imagine a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl being that vicious, venom like a snake coiled under ribbons.

And that wasn’t the worst part. The report’s filing name chilled him more than snow.

It was Nan Jin.

He thought of the posts about the Hundred Ghosts’ Reincarnation, words like crows circling, and of those two girls who were once human—gone in unknown events, then reappearing in a game three years later with no memory, like paper boats on a dark river.

Zhao felt fear climb his spine like ice.

This didn’t look like anything a normal man should touch.

He tried to keep digging. The deeper he went, the more the path was lined with talk of human experiments, suffocating like stale air in a sealed room.

He had a gut feeling: if he kept pushing, the fallout would be more than a small officer could carry, a mountain over a reed.

“But she’s still a person, isn’t she?” Han asked softly, voice like a candle flame. “As people’s police, we should help, right?”

“Lao Han, it’s not the old days.” Zhao sighed, hand on Han’s shoulder like a weight. “In a time where tech runs ahead like a wild horse, the rich and powerful aren’t folks we can charge with hot blood alone.”

“Listen to me. Stay out of this.” His plea settled like a stone in water.