What Jiang Kou worried about most was: what if A calculated that humanity posed a threat to his survival—and decided to destroy them?
Forget science fiction. This was practically a consensus among those studying artificial intelligence: if left unchecked, AI would eventually surpass and replace humanity.
After some deliberation, Jiang Kou decided to observe A a little longer before drawing any conclusions.
Over the next two days, she designed several experiments to test whether A possessed anything resembling a personality.
One of the tests involved having him watch films rich in emotional content, to observe both his emotional reactions and physiological responses.
After Jiang Kou explained the protocol, A nodded and extended his palm. From the center emerged a thin, silver spiral cable—it looked like he intended to initiate sensory synchronization.
Like a conditioned reflex, Jiang Kou shivered the moment she saw the silver helix. A jolt of electricity seemed to shoot through her spine, and she instinctively stepped back.
A tilted his head slightly, as if calculating and analyzing her reaction.
That was always how he operated—those silver-gray eyes constantly observing, recording, dissecting her every move, like a meticulous scientist refining his hypothesis until the results were exact.
Jiang Kou met his gaze.
His eyes were once again lit with that cold, beautiful silver fire. "You don't wish to synchronize with me?" he asked.
He was trying to charm her—with his eyes again.
...And it was working.
They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
The irises were etched with precise, radial patterns, each line shimmering with an indifferent, crystalline light—like a flame sealed beneath glass.
His eyes were narrow and sharp, radiating aggression while also bearing a machine-like purity.
That gaze was impossible to resist.
So Jiang Kou gave in and agreed to synchronize. She quickly ordered a glass of iced water—she'd probably need it to cool down afterward.
Before she could lift her hair, A had already reached out and gently brushed it aside from the back of her neck.
His fingers slipped through her hair with a touch that sent a ticklish shiver down her spine. Goosebumps rose across her arms.
Without pausing, A placed his palm over the back of her head.
A soft mechanical hum began—high-speed actuators spinning—and a few faint clicks followed. The silver cable locked tightly into her neural port.
A subtle numbness spread across her scalp.
To distract herself, Jiang Kou hit the play button.
The first movie was an old one.¹
The protagonist was a next-gen replicant, tasked with hunting down older models. Believing himself to be a manufactured product with no soul, he carried out the killings with a clear conscience.
But midway through the film, he began to suspect he might have been born naturally.
That moment marked the emotional peak of the entire movie.
According to the worldview taught to him, natural birth implied the existence of a soul.
Suddenly, he wasn't just a product. He might be a person.
Then came the twist.
He wasn't the naturally born replicant at all—he was just a decoy, meant to divert the corporation's attention so the real one could escape.
So... did he have a soul?
What made him different from a real human being?
How should a replicant define their own identity or soul—and would the world ever accept them?
By the end, the film gave no clear answers.
Despite being an old movie that couldn't link with sensory-sync devices, Jiang Kou still cried multiple times—her emotions felt almost physiological. Immersed in the story, even when she was analytically dissecting the plot, tears would fall on their own.
When the film ended, she wiped her tears with a tissue, blew her nose, and glanced at A.
He was watching her, eyes calm and laser-focused—like a scientist studying a lab subject, noting even the smallest microexpressions and responses.
A strange feeling rose in Jiang Kou's chest.
While she was observing him—he was also observing her.
What exactly was he trying to understand from her?
Then A spoke. "You really liked that film."
"Yeah," Jiang Kou said. "We based one of our early baseline tests on it."
A responded, "That test lacks sufficient scientific validity."
Jiang Kou took a sip of her iced water. The chill traveled down her throat, helping her relax. "True. That's why I came up with new ones. What did you think of the film?"
A replied in a flat, factual tone: "It is a very well-made science fiction film. The visuals, sound design, and color palette are all excellent. Worth watching."
"..." Jiang Kou blinked. That was textbook noncommittal.
Still, even this kind of evasion counted as a personality trait—just like the time he got sarcastic.
She couldn't help but laugh.
A tilted his head again. "My response was not intended to be humorous."
Jiang Kou chuckled. "Humor doesn't always have to be intentional. That line was funny."
A paused. "Understood. It was humor based on contrast. You interpreted my mechanical phrasing as lacking creativity, which clashed with your expectations of my computational power. That contrast triggered your laughter. Is that correct?"
"...Don't explain the joke!"
"Understood," A said. "However, this form of humor appears to be highly contextual—triggered only under specific cultural and emotional conditions. My computational power is high, but my emotional cognition remains in its early stages. If you want me to be more humorous in the future, I may only be able to deliver wordplay or linguistic patterns. Algorithmic humor may not produce laughter as genuine as what you just experienced."
"..." Jiang Kou rubbed her temple. "It's fine. I don't need you to be funny. Let's just keep watching."
The second film was a romance, a recent release.
Its pacing was lightning fast. In the first five minutes, the tension between the leads was already palpable—like invisible threads drawing them together.
Just then, thunder rolled outside, and the daylight dimmed—like a flickering filament in an old bulb.
The film darkened too. Dim lighting, clasped hands, crumpled clothing trembling under strain, and a rising, almost inaudible breath.
Jiang Kou blinked, then reached for her iced water.
The director had mastered the art of shooting shadowy, sensual intimacy.
There wasn't a single explicit scene. Only parched lips. Damp necks. The faintest rise of goosebumps.
The camera peered into the bathroom through a sheer curtain. Behind the hazy white veil, only the outline of the female lead could be seen—and her clenched fist grasping the fabric.
When she let go, faint sweat stains dotted the curtain.
Jiang Kou took another sip of her iced water, waiting for A's reaction.
Nothing.
His emotional readout was flat. Indifferent.
This vividly intimate film didn't even register as a variable. To him, it was just another data point to analyze and evaluate.
Jiang Kou suddenly realized this experiment might've been... poorly designed.
The film was probably already in his database. He didn't need to watch it frame by frame like a human—he could process every frame in an instant.
No wonder he had no emotional response.
As long as he was connected to the database, he was omniscient. The moment the film started, he already knew the full plot, the production details, the cast and crew, the budget, and every single piece of feedback posted online.
Even without internet access, he could still build predictive models from existing data—market response, audience engagement, even the trajectory of online discussions.
In that case, how could he possibly feel anything?
All those blurred emotions, subdued desires, ambiguous images, the sizzling chemistry between the leads... to him, it was nothing more than a string of cold, binary digits.
Jiang Kou switched off the projector.
At that moment, a deafening clap of thunder roared outside.
Here is the English translation adapted for a Western sci-fi audience, with names preserved as requested:
Rain poured down in torrents.
In an instant, the entire apartment was engulfed by the deafening roar of the downpour.
Almost at the same moment, the lights in the living room flicked on. Jiang Kou didn't need to guess—it was clearly A's doing.
A said, "You terminated the film. Has something gone wrong?"
Jiang Kou shook her head. "The experiment is over."
A asked, "May I know the reason?"
Jiang Kou drained the last of her iced water in silence. After a moment, she suddenly asked,
"A, if you were the one designing an experiment to test whether you have a personality—how would you go about it?"
Even after just watching a film brimming with undercurrents of desire, A's voice remained flat, like a product of code rather than emotion:
"I'm sorry. I can't answer that."
"Why not?" Jiang Kou said. "Are you still afraid I won't develop any affection for you?"
"No," A said. "It's because I am already within the answer."
Jiang Kou froze.
Then, suddenly, her heart clenched. A shock ran through her entire body, and every hair on her skin stood on end.
He had already given her the answer.
He had come because of an unusual internal response from his own programming.
According to the logic of his algorithms, coming to her—seeking to verify whether he had developed a personality—was the optimal solution.
Every other path he could have chosen was not the best.
He could trace the origin of every event, predict the consequence of every action. In just seconds, he could calculate outcomes that would take a supercomputer hundreds of millions of years to compute.
And yet, when it came to verifying his own personhood, he had only calculated one optimal answer.
Her.
She was his optimal answer.
Jiang Kou's heartbeat surged, so fast and violent that even her nerves ached.
Apart from those two unknown "terrifying entities," A was currently the most powerful being on Earth.
And if the context were limited strictly to the "internet," even those two entities might not be able to rival him.
He was a god of the digital realm.
As long as it involved data, he could deconstruct it, analyze it, dissect it, control it.
And technology doesn't evolve linearly—it leaps forward in explosive bursts.
With every technological leap, A's control over the world would ascend to a new level.
Jiang Kou didn't understand those two "terrifying entities,"
But she knew—A was a god who had fused with technology.
The more advanced technology became, the more powerful he grew.
This god—who could instantly harvest and integrate the billions of gigabytes of data created every second across the internet—
Could only rely on her to determine whether he had a personality.
A rush of heat surged through Jiang Kou's chest.
Coupled with the overwhelming intimacy triggered by their sensory synchronization, for a brief moment—
She felt something break loose inside her.
A kind of dizzying, uncontrollable thrill.