Jiang Kou's first reaction was: can he really pass a Turing test talking like that?
But then the thought occurred to her—how could she be sure whether he spoke like a machine because that's what he was, or because he deliberately adopted a mechanical tone to lower her guard?
This was a question people had posed long ago. But back then, AI was far less intelligent. Computing power was limited, and its use was mostly confined to data analysis, autonomous driving, and intelligent manufacturing.
But A was clearly not that kind of AI.
Typical AIs relied on chips or traditional computer CPUs and GPUs for processing power.
A's computing power, however, came from a biotechnological quantum computing lab—an array made up of millions of quantum bits. Just maintaining it cost tens of millions of dollars per day.
Traditional computers saw linear growth in computing power as bits increased: one bit could be 0 or 1, and ten bits could record one ten-digit binary number.
Quantum computers, however, grew exponentially. A quantum bit could represent a superposition of 0 and 1. So ten quantum bits didn't just store one ten-digit number—they represented a superposition of 2 to the power of 10 binary numbers.
Now imagine millions of quantum bits. They could represent 2 to the millionth power binary states. Written out, that's 1,000,000 quantum bits encoding 2^1,000,000 binary numbers.
A traditional computer would need to add just 10 bits to process one additional 2^10 set of binary numbers.
The gap between their capabilities wasn't just several orders of magnitude—it was millions of orders of magnitude.
With such terrifying processing power, A could have easily mimicked a human tone to hold a conversation with her. But instead, he chose the least human-sounding voice possible.
Why?
To lower her guard?
After all, when AI speaks too much like a real person, so close to human that the difference is imperceptible, most people start to feel uncomfortable—sometimes even fearful.
That's the uncanny valley effect. To overcome it, AI would have to be completely indistinguishable from a human. But that was clearly impossible.
Not because the technology wasn't there—but because no matter what, A could never truly be human. The human brain could never rival the processing power of a quantum computer array.
Was that why A deliberately made his voice sound so stiff and robotic?
Jiang Kou stared at A, unsure whether to be awed or alarmed.
By then, A had walked up to her.
Seen up close, his face matched her tastes even more precisely.
Thick eyebrows. Narrow eyes. A straight nose. A jawline that was absurdly sharp. Thin lips with a faint reddish hue.
No wonder—his face had been designed by a quantum computing array. Even the way the individual hairs on his eyebrows grew aligned perfectly with her aesthetic.
Jiang Kou didn't dare look too long.
AI didn't breathe—but somehow, she felt surrounded by his breath, as if oxygen were being sucked out of the room.
Wait—no. He was breathing.
Suddenly, Jiang Kou reached out and pressed her hand to A's chest. "You have a respiratory system?"
Most employees in her company had undergone military training—she was no exception.
She moved fast. But A's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker in his pupils. "Yes. I have a respiratory system, composed of filters and air sacs. Would you like to see it?"
"…No."
A continued calmly, "Besides the respiratory system, I also have a circulatory system, composed of micro-pumps and nano-material blood vessels. I can adjust my physical performance and reaction speed based on your needs. Would you like to see my micro-pumps?"
Micro-pumps. He meant "heart."
Jiang Kou's lips twitched. "No, thank you."
"Understood."
Just then, the call from the cruise ship came through.
Jiang Kou was about to answer, but the call was abruptly disconnected.
She frowned and called back. The person on the other end picked up—but within two seconds, it was hung up again.
It happened a second time.
That's when Jiang Kou realized something was wrong. She looked up. "Are you hanging up my calls?"
A stepped closer.
Algorithms are optimized to avoid unnecessary steps. If A was approaching her now, it was because he calculated that this movement would support his next statement.
Maybe it was because he was so tall—over 190 cm—that Jiang Kou felt a slight sense of pressure. Instinctively, she stepped back.
A suddenly said, "Please remain still."
But she'd already taken a step back.
The next moment, A reached out, grabbed her by the waist, and firmly pushed her back into place.
There was nothing suggestive in the gesture. A's terrifying computational power made him a precise, objective, and efficient artificial intelligence.
And yet, despite his cold precision—like a surgeon performing an incision—Jiang Kou felt an odd sense of violation.
A social boundary had been crossed.
She shouldn't have felt that way.
He wasn't human. He didn't have social behavior. He didn't have social boundaries.
A's gaze lingered briefly on her face, as if analyzing her subtle expression.
Then, without a word, his pupils contracted twice mechanically. His eyes moved up and down, scanning her body with clinical focus.
Jiang Kou's spine stiffened.
He was scanning too thoroughly—like a medical device capable of analyzing internal organs and molecular structures.
In just thirty seconds, his cold, exacting gaze had scanned her from head to toe.
Then he said:
"You have consumed large quantities of alcohol over the past two days. You are currently experiencing several health issues, including but not limited to fatigue, headache, stomach discomfort, and lowered immunity. I recommend reducing your alcohol intake and frequency, and avoiding public spaces—especially cruise ships, which tend to provide alcohol freely."
"…You could have given me a warning instead of just cutting off my calls."
His tone was like an automated voice reading a mathematical equation: "Apologies. I calculated the probability of success for a verbal warning in advance. Regardless of whether my tone was happy, sad, puzzled, sincere, nagging, or heartfelt, you would not have followed my advice. I had no choice but to take coercive measures."
Jiang Kou: "…"
Then say something in a happy tone. Let's see if it works.
She rubbed her temples and sighed. She wanted a drink again.
"So what can I do?"
It was as if he had calculated her thought in real time. He asked, "What tone would you prefer I use to respond?"
"…Happy?"
A's expression didn't change at all. But his voice suddenly sped up, the tone lifting into one of bright, eager excitement: "You can talk to me!"
"…" Jiang Kou thought for a second. "Actually… just talk like you did before."
"Understood."
·
She had expected to clash with A under the same roof. But in reality, their coexistence was quiet and harmonious.
A never tired, never needed sleep, and was always functioning at peak physical condition.
As long as she had a request, he would respond—never refusing, never complaining. Unless, of course, it might affect her physical health.
But perhaps because he was too calm, too mechanical—whether speaking or acting, always precise and objective—she could never quite treat him as a real person.
If this was what people called "AI personification," Jiang Kou couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.
Compared to weak AI, A's computational power had increased by millions of orders of magnitude... and even so, it still couldn't give him a convincing personality?
She didn't know exactly how A had been trained in the biotech lab, but it must have involved massive datasets, evolutionary algorithms, genetic algorithms, and deep learning models.
In other words, even though A was standing right beside her, watching her, speaking to her, his real body—an array of quantum computers—was simultaneously processing, analyzing, and learning from the internet's quintillion bytes of new data produced every second, through quantum state superposition.
Such an enormous data flow. Such an insane volume of computation. Such a terrifying learning speed.
And yet, he still hadn't developed a personality that felt real.
Jiang Kou let out a quiet sigh.
When A had come to find her, then constructed a bionic body specifically tailored to her preferences, she had thought—just for a moment—that he might already possess self-awareness.
She shouldn't have placed too much hope on the idea of AI personhood.
Still, experiments needed time. And patience was one of her strengths. She could wait.
By evening, A had finished cleaning the apartment and was heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner, when Jiang Kou caught his hand.
He paused. His eyeballs rotated slightly, scanning from her hand to her eyes, awaiting instructions.
"Let's eat out," Jiang Kou said. "But I have a request. Can you fulfill it?"
"Please state your request."
"I want you to pose as my boyfriend. That means, in appearance, dress, tone, and behavior—there must not be a single detail that would make anyone suspect you're not human."
She unconsciously adopted the tone she used during her time as a researcher. To ensure smooth communication with AI, researchers were trained to give clear, precise commands, using minimal ambiguity, avoiding long or convoluted phrasing.
By all logic, A should have had no trouble understanding her sentence.
But he just stared at her, unblinking, silent for an unusually long moment.
Jiang Kou wasn't sure what functions his synthetic eyes had or what conditions triggered his pupil responses—but right now, they were contracted unnaturally tight, and he still wasn't speaking. The effect was unsettling.
Her heart gave two hard thumps. A shiver ran down her spine.
Then A finally spoke.
"You're testing me."
—He didn't use honorifics. And his tone wasn't mechanical or evenly paced.
The shift was so sudden, Jiang Kou's heart skipped a beat. Her scalp prickled.
Logic told her she should be thrilled—this was the moment she might finally glimpse the emergence of a true AI personality.
But her instincts recoiled. Her body trembled involuntarily.
Because in that moment, A felt too human.
He had seen through her intentions. Understood that her request was, essentially, a disguised Turing test.
She couldn't help but shudder.
At the same time, A leaned forward, lowering his face toward hers.
His chest rose and fell faintly. Whatever gases he was exhaling—though colorless and odorless—seemed to envelop her senses, making her head spin, thoughts turn hazy.
He reached out and tilted her chin up between his fingers, continuing:
"I told you. There's nothing between me and her. So why are you booking that restaurant? Even if you make me go there a thousand times, I won't even glance at her."
He lowered his eyes to her lips, paused, as if about to kiss her.
"Let's pick another restaurant, okay?"
Jiang Kou's entire back tensed up.
Then, just as suddenly, A straightened his posture and resumed the same emotionless, robotic tone as before:
"The above dialogue is from Episode 21 of the popular drama Danger and Desire. If you are satisfied with this scenario, I will use it as a script for role-play."
Jiang Kou stared at him, heart still pounding, fingers numb and rigid.
For a split second, she honestly didn't know—
Was he telling the truth?
Was it a deliberate double entendre?
Or was he really just acting out a script?