He smiled. "Good."
*****
That was the last thing he said before he got to work.
The deer lay across the metal table, already cleaned and drained. Its eyes were dull glass, its fur stiff under the cold cabin air. Jinyue rolled up his sleeves and took the salvaged knife from the counter. The blade caught the light as he began cutting the carcass into manageable pieces, quiet and precise. The only sounds were the scrape of metal on bone and Cody's constant hum from the other side of the table.
"Processing efficiency has improved by thirty-one percent," Cody said, tone flat but suspiciously proud.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Jinyue muttered, setting another cleaned piece aside. His movements were clean, practiced. Too practiced. He hadn't known how to skin an animal before—not on Earth, not even when he'd first arrived here. Yet his hands moved without hesitation, muscle memory that wasn't his.
Part of him wanted to thank Jin'ar for it, though he wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Their boundaries were blurring. His body moved before his mind decided to act, guided by instincts that didn't belong to a man who once held board meetings in skyscrapers.
The knife sliced through the tendons smoothly, separating the meat from bone. He worked through the deer's limbs, removed the internal organs completely, then wiped down the table. It was messy work, but it no longer made him flinch.
When he was done, he portioned the cuts and stored them carefully in the cooler—a large, angular machine in the corner of the kitchen that he still didn't know how to operate properly. He pressed a few buttons until it whirred to life. The air inside grew cold, mist curling over the metal racks.
"Warning," Cody said almost immediately. "Prolonged use of the refrigeration unit will lower the ship's operational duration by approximately three months. Estimated functional period now reduced to two years and one month."
Jinyue stopped mid-motion and stared at the blinking indicator. "Let me get this straight. Keeping food cold shortens the ship's life span?"
"Affirmative."
"So if I don't use it, I starve. If I do, I freeze to death sooner. I'm doomed, how did he..."
"Correction: you will not freeze if you ration energy appropriately."
He glanced at the faint condensation forming around the cooler door. "So I die slightly slower. Fantastic." He shut the door with more force than necessary and wiped his hands on a rag. "Remind me why you don't have emotions again? You'd be great at spreading despair."
"I lack that capability," Cody said, though his tone carried what sounded suspiciously like smug amusement.
Jinyue ignored him. The temperature outside was dropping by the day, and even with the ship's heaters running at minimum power, he could feel the cold creeping through the floor. His joints had started to ache whenever he went out for too long, a slow stiffness that made him curse this weak body. He missed strength—the kind that came from being confident in his own flesh.
He'd been relying on the ship's thermoregulation system more often, but that too was draining power. Two years of operational time. Less, if the weather kept getting colder. The number sat in the back of his mind like a countdown clock.
He stretched his shoulders, rolling the ache out of them. His tail flicked lazily across the floor. It didn't jerk or twitch anymore; it responded almost like an extra limb now. The early days of tripping over it or having it smack him in the face were, thankfully, over. A small victory.
He glanced toward the viewport. Dust drifted past the glass, the pale sun hanging low in the horizon. Somewhere beyond those ridges, more deer roamed. He'd seen them twice since the first hunt—grey shadows slipping between the rocks, fast and silent. The second time, he'd caught sight of the feline beast chasing them. Sleek and black, it moved with the kind of power he envied. When it brought one down, he'd found himself staring longingly, jealousy twisting his gut.
It was absurd. He'd once been a normal human, for heaven's sake, not some predator mourning another creature's meal. He'd wanted to laugh at himself—then got angry instead.
That was when he'd decided: if a cat could hunt, so could he.
Now, as the cold deepened, he had the carcass to prove it.
"Specimen stored," Cody confirmed, stepping closer. "Would you like to review power expenditure statistics?"
"No. I'd like to not think about dying for a few hours."
"Inadvisable, young master."
Jinyue leaned against the counter, watching the frost gather along the metal edges of the cooler. He rubbed his arms, the air already cooling again. "Cody, how do you think I lived before getting my susceptibility period and losing my memories?"
"You most likely lived in the caves or other forms of shelter while hoarding food and layering cloths, young master. The probability of mortality rate is around 75% for your caste. You are fortunate."
He raised an eyebrow, then sighed, not having expected anything different but shocked by the chances of survival Jin'ar had. Could he survive as well as a person who grew up here? Probably not. He couldn't help but sigh once more, "That's more than half. Encouraging."
"It is neither encouraging nor discouraging. It is a statistic."
He rolled his eyes. "Remind me to remove sarcasm options on you later."
"I lack those as well."
He snorted, half-smiling despite himself.
He leaned against the counter, once Cody left to run diagnostics of the ship, staring at the faint mist fading from the cooler door. His reflection glimmered faintly in the metal—pale, tired eyes, silver hair sticking to his temple. He still didn't look right. The body was lithe, almost too graceful. It didn't carry itself like him. When he moved, there was a subtle drag between thought and motion, a half-second delay that reminded him this form wasn't built for him.
He flexed his hand slowly, watching the tendons shift under the skin. They were his hands now. They obeyed him. But they didn't feel like his.
Even the tail had quieted in recent weeks. It no longer flared or twitched without warning, though sometimes it moved before he thought to command it—like the body still had its own reflexes, its own will.
He rubbed his forearm absently, tracing the faint shimmer of the skin beneath the light. No matter how long he lived here, it still felt like wearing someone else's life.
Jin'ar had said the body would adapt. That the soul would eventually settle, that their essences would merge. That it would feel natural—eventually.
He'd even sounded sure when he said it.
But it had been months.
And Jinyue still woke up every morning feeling like an intruder.
The only changes he could name were physical—less dizziness, steadier hands, a faint increase in strength. But the rest of it? The feeling of wrongness lingered like static under his skin.
He sighed, lowering his gaze back to the table. The deer's remains were gone, yet he couldn't shake the thought that something else had been dissected with it—some small, quiet piece of himself.
He moved to clean the tools, each scrape of metal against metal measured and slow.
******
He'd tried not to think about it, but he knew what it meant. Jin'ar's memories were surfacing. The merge was happening. Slowly, quietly, but it was happening.
At least it came with benefits. His instincts had sharpened. A week ago, he'd constructed a trap Cody hadn't even shown him—woven from scrap wire, pressure plates, and tension locks. Primitive, but effective. Cody had only stared, blue optic flickering.
"Origin of design?" the robot had asked.
Jinyue had shrugged. "Don't know. Just… came to me."
"Unverified data sources are concerning."
"They're also useful."
He'd said it lightly, but deep down it unnerved him.
The truth is, he hadn't meant to build it. The design had come to him as he was finishing the dissection—quick, clear, detailed. Before he could question it, he'd assembled the parts in the corner, wiring the mechanism together with precision that shocked even him.
He stared at it now, heart beating too loud.
He knew that trap. Not just how it worked—he remembered the weight of it in his hands, the way Jin'ar had tested its tension, the sound it made when it snapped shut.
Except he shouldn't know any of that.
He sank onto the nearest crate, fingers tightening against his knees. His breath came unsteady.
The memories weren't his.
And yet they felt real.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his pulse flutter. It's just overlap, he told himself. The merge. It's what Jin'ar said would happen.
But even as he thought it, doubt cracked through the reassurance.
What if Jin'ar had lied?
What if the merge wasn't fusion, but replacement?
He tried to shut the thought down, the way he'd done for months. Compartmentalize. Contain. It had worked before. It had to work again.
He inhaled slowly, forcing calm.
He couldn't; he was shaking. He realised then that he was afraid. So deeply terrified that he couldn't even process it well. The longer he sat there, the harder it was to breathe. The cool air stung his lungs.
He looked at his hands again—steady, skilled, foreign. The tremor started there, spreading upward until his whole body shook.
Cody's head turned, sensors pulsing faint blue. "Master Jinyue, your heart rate has increased. Shall I—"
"Don't," Jinyue cut in sharply. "Don't come closer."
"Are you in distress?"
He laughed once, dry and unsteady. "You could say that."
"Would you like calming protocol—"
"Cody, shut up."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Jinyue pressed both hands to his face. His palms were cold. His throat burned.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He'd been promised it would get better. That the soul would adjust, that one day this body would feel like his own. Jin'ar's voice still echoed faintly in memory—You'll adapt... The body will remember…You'll start to feel it…When the soul starts to heal, we'll merge… maybe you'll get my memories like I got yours.
Well, he was definitely feeling it, and he felt sick.
Maybe Jin'ar hadn't meant it cruelly. Maybe it was a kindness, a way to make the inevitable sound less terrifying. Maybe Jin'ar hadn't wanted him to know that, in the end, they should live in continuum.
He curled forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The pressure behind his eyes built until it blurred his vision.
"Cody," he said quietly, "you ever wonder what happens when two programs merge?"
"Affirmative," Cody answered immediately. "Usually, one becomes the dominant process."
Jinyue laughed, bitter and hollow. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. The ship's low hum filled the space, constant and indifferent. He could feel the tears before he realized he was crying. They slipped down easily, unrestrained.
He hadn't cried like this before. Not in years. Back then, he'd been too angry to cry. Too proud. Funny how things change.
Now it happened every few weeks.
Sometimes from nightmares, sometimes from nothing.
It wasn't fair.
"I wasn't like this," he whispered hoarsely. "Not before."
"Emotional variance detected," Cody said softly, almost as if lowering his tone might help.
Jinyue wiped at his face with the back of his hand, furious at himself. "I wasn't this weak. I didn't—cry—every time I couldn't control something."
"Crying indicates emotional release," Cody said, logical and useless.
He laughed again, the sound cracking mid-breath. "Then I'm overflowing."
He pushed to his feet, moving toward the counter, then stopped halfway, hands braced against the metal. His reflection swam faintly across its surface.
"I don't belong here," he said finally. The words came out quiet, even. Too calm to sound sane. "This body doesn't fit. It's like… I'm still pretending to be alive."
"You are alive, Master Jinyue."
He shook his head slowly.
No. Jin'ar was. I'm just borrowing him.
The words lodged somewhere deep. Saying them aloud made them heavier.
For months, he'd tried to believe otherwise—to live as Jin'ar said, to follow the plans he left behind, to build a life that honored the boy's memory. He'd even convinced himself it was noble.
But underneath it all was fear.
What if Jin'ar's reassurance had been a lie—a soft, kind lie told to calm him before the truth consumed him?
What if, when the merge finally completed, there'd be no Lan Jinyue left at all?
His hands trembled again.
He imagined waking one morning as someone else. His memories still intact, but his will not his own. He imagined smiling with another man's emotions, speaking in another man's voice.
He pressed his forehead to the counter, shaking. "I don't want to vanish," he whispered.
Cody's voice softened. "You are exhibiting distress. Should I activate support protocol?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I said no!" He slammed his palm against the counter, the sound ringing through the ship. His breath came fast and uneven.
He'd compartmentalized so well for so long.
Every worry locked away, every thought dissected, reasoned, filed.
Until now.
It all cracked open at once.
He slid down to the floor, back against the cold metal. Tears came freely now, no longer restrained. He didn't even bother to hide them.
He hated this. Hated the body, hated the helplessness, hated the quiet knowledge that he was living on borrowed time—borrowed everything.
He'd thought death was the end. That waking up again was a gift. But now, he wasn't sure if it was resurrection or punishment.
"I don't want to disappear," he said again, voice shaking. "I don't want to be someone else."
Cody moved closer, slow and careful, the faint whir of his joints echoing through the silence. "You are safe," the robot said softly. "The danger is not real."
Jinyue laughed weakly through the tears. "You keep saying that."
"It is true."
"Then why does it feel like dying again?"
No answer. Only the quiet hum of servos.
He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes half-closed. The tears had slowed, but the ache hadn't. It sat in his chest, cold and unyielding.
He wanted to believe this was temporary—that one day the disconnection would fade, that his thoughts would settle into harmony instead of war.
But the doubt lingered.
The fear whispered: You are a placeholder. A shadow wearing borrowed skin.
And in the silence that followed, he could almost hear Jin'ar's voice in the back of his mind, calm and distant. You'll adapt. It just takes time.
He wanted to believe him.
He really did.
But tonight, belief wasn't enough.
He closed his eyes and let the quiet take him. The hum of the ship became the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and faint. His tears had dried, but his chest still ached as if something inside him had cracked.
Maybe, he thought, this was what survival meant—not strength, not resolve, but learning to live with fear as company.
The lights dimmed. Cody stood beside him, silent, unblinking.
And Lan Jinyue—CEO, survivor, intruder in his own skin—sat on the cold floor, trembling quietly, wondering which of them would still exist by morning.