Humans are social creatures, bound to rely on unity and cooperation to accomplish tasks.

Some compare ants to humans, claiming their teamwork mirrors ours.

That’s a fallacy.

In an ant colony, each ant functions like a single neuron. The entire swarm’s nervous system answers to one command center: the queen.

But every human possesses independent thought, an inner world of their own. Even while cooperating, we can propose new ideas.

Those seemingly clever ants? Merely the queen’s mindless appendages—obedient tentacles without self-awareness.

By that logic, an entire ant colony’s intelligence barely equals one human’s.

Our need for unity to survive means this: no matter how strong an individual is, some things remain impossible alone. We need others to achieve our goals.

So we invented trade. Created currency. Built relationships. Forged communication tools—walkie-talkies, pagers, cellphones, the internet… We exchange everything we need.

Thus, when facing the impossible, wisely use available resources. Seek help promptly. Never blindly push through alone.

…

When Jiang Muqing’s kitchen knife slipped from her grip and hurtled toward me, I was certain I’d die.

I’d imagined ten thousand ways to go: peacefully old, sick in bed, honorably for my country, tragically by accident, or worst—murdered.

Never did I expect to be hacked to death by the fragile girl I’d just saved.

But as a white flash streaked past, pinning her knife into the wall three centimeters from my head, I realized: this wasn’t over yet.

Her aim was surprisingly terrible. Though her draw was slick, her skill couldn’t kill me.

I dodged—nimbly sidestepping the cleaver, the paring knife, the splayed scissors…

Each throw missed worse than the last.

The final attempt didn’t even leave her hand. It clattered to the floor.

Only a short watermelon knife remained—the kind for slicing fruit.

Close combat then?

She dropped the knife block she’d cradled in her arm.

Raised the blade. Charged recklessly, its edge aimed straight at my gut. Her black cat mimicked its owner, leaping to claw my pant leg.

I saw it all coming.

I sidestepped. Let her stumble past. Then seized her knife-wrist from behind while my other hand locked her throat.

The cat? One kick sent it flying.

Her resistance was half-hearted. After a few weak struggles, her body went limp, collapsing against me.

*Clang!*

The watermelon knife hit the floor.

I hadn’t expected her sudden weakness. Her backward fall dragged me down too, and we landed hard on the tiles.

Summer heat meant thin clothes. After the violent struggle, the sudden stillness made the softness of her skin unmistakable against mine. Her loose sleepwear had slipped open at the collar. From my angle, the view down her front was… unobstructed.

Curiosity made me glance.

?!

Damn it. That instinctive reaction.

I hastily adjusted her collar—then noticed she’d completely passed out.

Her forehead and pale cheeks burned under my touch.

"Fever!"

Her breathing was heavy but steady. Urgent, but not critical.

I grabbed my phone to call 120.

Then I saw the room.

Rotting snack stench hung in the air. Knives littered walls and floor. Scuff marks scarred the tiles. And Jiang Muqing lay disheveled on the ground, red marks circling her neck and wrists from my grip.

*Concealed corpse. Home invasion. Attempted rape.*

My student uniform might soften suspicion, but calling strangers? Risky. I didn’t want police officers glaring at me like criminals.

What could I do?

I searched the apartment. No medicine. No first-aid kit.

Panicked, I soaked a cloth in cold tap water and pressed it to her forehead—only to realize it was a dishrag.

*Unbelievable.*

I gathered the knives, returned them to the kitchen, and laid her flat on the cool tiles.

*What now?*

"So… uncomfortable…"

She twisted on the floor, face tight with pain.

I was helpless. Just like back then.

…

As a kid, I’d begged to ride the gas-powered go-karts at the park. Real engines. Real speed. Nothing like bumper cars or toy electric carts.

Adults navigated the tire-walled track effortlessly.

I was seven.

Still, I thought driving that beast looked cool. I tugged Mom toward it.

Others zoomed smoothly. Me? I just slammed into tire barriers—again and again—until my knees bled and Mom’s new stockings ripped.

I still remember her furious glare.

So I swallowed my pride. Jumped out. Grabbed the scruffy owner’s sleeve.

"Uncle… drive us one lap?"

He perched on the kart’s doorframe, cigarette dangling, one hand on the wheel.

"Just floor the gas," he said.

We tore through every curve at top speed. Crossed the finish line flying.

(We also forgot to release the throttle and plowed into a ditch—but that ruins the moral.)

…

With no options left, I dialed.

"Hello?"

"Mom… I’m in trouble."

"Come quick. Please."