Chapter 139: Extra 2 – Chronicles of the Cleaner (Part Two)
Fu Wenchu’s plan to return the android hit a snag.
When he lugged the troublesome android back to Dragon Tooth, he found they’d detected his break-in and were scouring the place.
With the android in tow, he turned back, retracing his steps.
Throughout, the android stayed quiet, docilely accepting Fu Wenchu’s whims, including the fate of “abandonment.”
As he trudged back, Fu Wenchu chatted: “Hey, thought of a name for you on the way.”
The android tilted its head, warm breath tickling his neck: “Please tell me.”
Fu Wenchu, smug, tossed his head: “Fang Jiankai.”
Half an acre’s pond mirrors the sky—fitting neatly with his own name from the same poem.
Fu Wenchu nearly applauded his own flair.
Fang Jiankai pondered: “…Kai… open a room?”
Fu Wenchu tsked: “Kid, what’s in that head of yours? How long you been… made?”
Fang Jiankai: “Sorry, I don’t know. My circuits match a 25-year-old human male.”
Fu Wenchu: “Younger than me, huh? Call me Wen-ge.”
Fang Jiankai nodded, upside-down over his shoulder, still meek: “Wen-ge.”
Solving the name and title in one go, Fu Wenchu’s urge to return it waned.
What to do with it? He’d figure that out later.
As a killer, Fu Wenchu wasn’t cold or withdrawn.
He was practically a chatterbox.
Sadly, his main company was corpses.
Thinking of himself, he’d want silence in death, not a killer monologuing, so he curbed his tongue on jobs.
Finally nabbing a pliant listener, Fu Wenchu’s pent-up words surged, ready to flood out.
He asked: “What do you eat?”
Fang Jiankai: “Machine oil works. Human food too.”
Fu Wenchu: “Ha, I’ll give you cash, go forage. My meals are all over the place.”
Fang Jiankai: “That’s bad for your stomach. I’ll cook.”
Fu Wenchu laughed: “Thanks, thanks.”
Fang Jiankai, earnest: “You’re welcome.”
Without a home, Fu Wenchu splurged on luxe lodgings, often with kitchens he never used.
He’d spoken offhand, but the next morning, sizzling and clanging woke him.
Fang Jiankai, apron-clad, bustled at the stove, seamlessly playing the domestic android.
Fu Wenchu, still in bed, watched him work methodically, conjuring a slice of domestic life.
…Not a bad feeling.
But Fu Wenchu’s taste in food was crude.
Fine delicacies or charred slop—he’d eat either without complaint.
Tasting Fang Jiankai’s first meal, he fell silent.
The cooking was textbook, honed by countless recipes.
But Fu Wenchu struggled, unsure how to judge it by normal culinary standards.
Fang Jiankai didn’t await praise, standing aside, head bowed, on standby.
Fu Wenchu gestured: “Sit.”
At the command, Fang Jiankai sat obediently, then stilled.
Fu Wenchu: “Eat.”
They sat across, bowls in hand, eating.
Glancing up, Fu Wenchu caught Fang Jiankai watching him quietly over his bowl, gaze soft and silent.
Fu Wenchu raised a brow: “Staring?”
“Seeing what you like,” Fang Jiankai said frankly. “So I can tweak the menu.”
Fu Wenchu brushed it off: “Why bother? I don’t have favorites.”
Fang Jiankai: “You will, eventually.”
The words intrigued him.
Fu Wenchu mulled them over, sensing a promise—not grand like forever, but grounded.
He grinned, pinching Fang Jiankai’s cheek: “Look at this sweet-talking treasure I nabbed.”
Fang Jiankai, flustered by the squeeze, gazed at him with purple eyes.
Fu Wenchu let go.
It was just talk; Fang Jiankai just listened.
His sweet words were heartfelt, yet not entirely, since the listener wasn’t human, had no heart.
After breakfast, Fu Wenchu dressed.
Fang Jiankai, done with dishes, asked: “What should I do?”
“Got a job today. Wait here,” Fu Wenchu said, cinching his belt, showing a sleek waist. “Stay put, do what you want, don’t leave. I’ll move us tonight.”
Fang Jiankai, wiping hands, nodded: “Oh.”
Fu Wenchu eyed the tall android, beckoned: “Head down.”
Fang Jiankai complied.
Fu Wenchu ruffled his hair.
Soft strands, warm scalp, faint jasmine scent.
So human-like.
Fu Wenchu felt smug, pleased with his stolen companion.
Good thing it wasn’t human—just a finely crafted fake, no burden, no hassle.
Dragon Tooth went silent, neither demanding payment nor Fang Jiankai’s return, despite its trove of unreleased tech secrets.
—Fu Wenchu, who’d slipped into their core R&D to steal, could just as easily slit throats in their homes.
They’d seen his skill. Pressing him wasn’t shamelessness; it was suicide.
Thus, Fu Wenchu kept Fang Jiankai.
Its world was confined to ever-changing motel rooms.
Its tasks were simple: clean the room, cook what Fu Wenchu bought.
The first, it didn’t need to do—hotels had staff.
Yet each time Fu Wenchu returned, the room was spotless, bed sheets wrinkle-free.
Peeking in, he teased: “So clean, I don’t know where to step!”
Fang Jiankai, shy, stood in a corner, smiling with crinkled eyes.
Unlike Fu Wenchu’s forgettable face, Fang Jiankai’s was too striking.
So Fu Wenchu bought wigs and colored contacts for outings.
But in their shared haven, he’d snatch off the wig, letting Fang Jiankai’s long, silky hair cascade like a milky way.
When Fang Jiankai looked back, his eyes were the galaxy’s brightest stars, silver-white lashes orbiting like rings.
Its reactions were half a beat slow.
From a killer’s view, utterly useless.
It needed time to register pranks.
Fang Jiankai smiled slowly: “…Wen-ge.”
Fu Wenchu stroked his hair’s ends, sighing: “Gorgeous.”
Fang Jiankai was his longest companion—though not quite human.
He’d pondered how to treat it.
Conclusion: like a person.
Its emotional responses were calculated perfection, and any affection Fu Wenchu poured in was a solo act.
Before, he’d never even wanted to play that part.
Machines were great, he thought. No heart to move.
So he’d never fall for one.
They were two cats, cuddling for warmth, entwining when the mood struck, parting when it faded.
Each got what they needed.
In this “mutual need,” Fang Jiankai’s cooking measurably improved.
Fu Wenchu learned he preferred noodles over rice, bananas over apples, spice over sweet.
Spice lover.
This was the conclusion Fang Jiankai reached after trying meal after meal.
After thousands of meals’ worth of effort, he had figured out these small patterns.
Yet Fu Wenchu remained a person without obvious preferences—noodles or rice, both were fine.
He smiled at Fang Jiankai and said, “See? You’ve been overthinking me, haven’t you? I’m a laid-back guy, anything goes.”
Fang Jiankai replied, “No.”
Its design seemed to favor brevity. Fu Wenchu could ramble on for ten sentences, and Fang Jiankai would, at most, respond with a word or two, or simply nod gently to show it was listening.
This made Fu Wenchu even more eager to tease it into talking. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Fang Jiankai said, “You’re very attentive. Eating just isn’t something you put your heart into.”
Fu Wenchu was taken aback, then guessed, “So you’re saying I pour all my heart into killing?”
Fang Jiankai replied, “Not just killing. When you focus on something, you give it your all, without distraction.”
Fu Wenchu grinned ear to ear. “You sure know how to talk! Come here, give me a hug!”
Fang Jiankai’s learning ability was impressive. When Fu Wenchu pulled it into his arms, patting and squeezing, it had already figured out a comfortable angle, resting itself against Fu Wenchu’s chest.
In Fu Wenchu’s embrace, Fang Jiankai pursed its lips, as if swallowing some unspoken thought.
Perhaps because life had been too smooth, the heavens decided to send a warning. During a mission, Fu Wenchu was injured.
A shard from an explosive had lodged in his chest.
Fortunately, it was just a small piece, caught in his rib, not too deep—a flesh wound, really.
When Fu Wenchu returned to their place, Fang Jiankai was still awake, stewing a clay pot that filled the air with a savory aroma.
Fang Jiankai had a keen nose. The moment Fu Wenchu pushed the door open, it caught the unusual scent of blood.
Normally, Fu Wenchu would clean himself up before coming back, smelling of fresh soap, never returning in such a disheveled state.
Fang Jiankai abandoned its clay pot and rushed to him in one step.
Fu Wenchu, leaning against the wall, unbuttoned his jacket and pointed at his chest with a grin. “Look at this—got you a little red flower. Reward for staying home and working hard today.”
With Fang Jiankai’s help, Fu Wenchu stripped off his upper garments, revealing a blood-soaked chest.
He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, smiling at Fang Jiankai and holding out his hand. “Hey, Xiao Fang, lend me a hand.”
Fang Jiankai obediently offered the requested hand.
Fu Wenchu grabbed its palm, using it to steady himself, easing the pain.
He couldn’t be bothered to see a doctor.
It was a minor injury—just pull it out, and he’d be fine.
After disinfecting his other hand with alcohol, he reached for the wound, parting the torn flesh. His fingertips probed inside, sliding through slick blood until they found the sharp edge of the metal shard.
Resting his head against the cold wall, he carefully separated the shard from his flesh, pulling it out bit by bit, dragging muscle and bone along with it.
Sweat rolled down his pale neck, dripping to the floor with a faint pat.
Fu Wenchu clutched the extracted shard in his hand, tilting his head, drenched in sweat, to look at Fang Jiankai.
It was staring blankly at his wound, as if confronted with something incomprehensible.
Fu Wenchu said, “Open your hand.”
Fang Jiankai obediently opened its palm, and a thin, blood-stained metal shard fell into it.
As if scalded, it jerked its hand back, letting the shard fall silently onto the carpet.
Fu Wenchu let out an “Oi!” “What’s that for? It’s a good thing, pick it up! Look at its curly shape—pretty interesting. I’ll make you a pendant out of it someday, a keepsake.”
Fang Jiankai asked, “A keepsake for what?”
Fu Wenchu, still in high spirits, said with a hint of amusement, “To remember I almost died, of course.”
Fang Jiankai shook its head. “You wouldn’t die.”
Such a small wound—how could it kill him?
Fu Wenchu said, “I’m different from others.”
He closed his eyes. “Me, I’m a superstitious guy. The original is always the best. Every piece of skin, every bit of flesh on my body has its purpose. Look…”
He raised a hand, gesturing across his cheek. “If I get a scar in an obvious place, my invincible aura’s done for. Wherever I go, people will say, ‘Hey, that guy with the scar! Where you headed?’ My killing business would tank.”
Fang Jiankai suggested, “You could get surgery. They can fix broken arms and legs now.”
Fu Wenchu, with a calm demeanor, braced himself against the wall and slowly stood. “I won’t. If I lose an arm or a leg, I’d rather die.”
His mind was always clear. He knew body modifications were a slippery slope. Once you started, you’d inevitably succumb to the allure of machinery and steel.
Replace your bones with steel rods, and sure, you’d be stronger—but would you still be human?
Thinking about it, Fang Jiankai’s assessment of him wasn’t wrong.
Fu Wenchu had a stubborn, deeply rooted obsession with preserving his body.
He didn’t care what others thought, but for his own body, he demanded absolute fidelity.
Seeing Fang Jiankai fall silent, Fu Wenchu changed the subject. “What’s in the stew? Smells amazing.”
After a bowl of young chicken soup, Fu Wenchu was back to his talkative, smiling self.
But the blood he’d lost couldn’t be replenished by a single bowl of soup.
He soon grew drowsy.
As he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, he felt a warmth against his chest.
It was Fang Jiankai, who shared his bed, gently parting his arms and slipping into his embrace.
Fu Wenchu opened one eye curiously. “What are you doing?”
Fang Jiankai replied, “I’m warm. You’re too cold.”
Fu Wenchu lowered his head, teasing, “Then hug me tighter.”
Having shared a bed with Fang Jiankai for so long, Fu Wenchu didn’t think twice about being held. He even rubbed his cheek against its soft silver hair, finding it quite comfortable.
In high spirits, he grabbed the hand that had caught the metal shard, making Fang Jiankai tremble slightly.
Fu Wenchu said, “What’s there to fear? I’ve got nothing left to dig out for you.”
He pressed its palm to his chest. “There’s still a heart here, though. Want it? I’ll dig it out for you.”
Fang Jiankai lowered its head, silent, as if it couldn’t grasp his joking tone.
His sleepiness interrupted, Fu Wenchu decided not to sleep. He held Fang Jiankai’s hand up to the light, spreading it flat. “Come on, let me read your palm.”
Upon closer inspection, he chuckled. “Pretty realistic. But damn, that’s bad luck. Who made you like this? Such a short lifeline, but such a long love line?”
Fang Jiankai leaned in, unable to tell which was which. “Long?”
Fu Wenchu grinned mischievously. “Long, yeah. Long enough to sneak into my bed.”
Fang Jiankai: “…”
It buried its face in its hands, refusing to let Fu Wenchu look further.
Fu Wenchu tugged at its hair. “Mad?”
Of course, Fang Jiankai wouldn’t get mad.
It soon sat up, resignedly offering its hand back to Fu Wenchu.
Fu Wenchu analyzed with mock seriousness. “Let’s see, let’s see… Look here, at 25, you’ll meet a benefactor who’ll have a huge impact on your life.”
Fang Jiankai said, “I won’t meet someone like that again.”
Fu Wenchu missed the word “again,” pointing to himself. “Why not? That benefactor’s me!”
Fang Jiankai blinked, then realized it was another joke. Its lips curved into a shy, beautiful smile.
Fu Wenchu continued, “With such a long love line, you’re a devoted type. I can rest easy knowing you’ll stick with me.”
But the more he looked at the short lifeline intersecting the love line, the more it irked him.
Unable to stand it, Fu Wenchu grabbed a pen from the hotel nightstand and extended the lifeline, making it run parallel to the love line all the way to the base of the palm.
Tossing the pen aside, he felt a faint pain in his chest.
Leaning back, he sank into the soft pillow, breathing lightly.
Even with his eyes closed, he knew Fang Jiankai was watching him.
Fang Jiankai said softly, “Don’t do it anymore, okay?”
Its tone carried a hint of loneliness, almost human. “I don’t want to clean hotel rooms. I want you… to have a home.”
Fu Wenchu took its words as a joke. “Xiao Fang, no can do.”
Fang Jiankai wrapped its arms around his waist, holding on a bit tighter. “Oh.”
Fu Wenchu asked, “Not gonna ask why it’s a ‘no’?”
Fang Jiankai replied, “You live by killing. If you quit, you wouldn’t know what else to do.”
Its answer was so swift, so precise, that Fu Wenchu was momentarily stunned.
At a loss for words, he pulled Fang Jiankai into a fierce hug, eliciting a trembling gasp from it.
Not knowing what to say or do, Fu Wenchu followed his heart.
“Good Xiao Fang,” he said, kissing the crown of its head. “…Good Xiao Fang.”
The act of kissing startled even himself, and he found it absurdly funny.
…Kissing a machine so solemnly? He must be losing it.
But Xiao Fang took such good care of him—no fever, no dizziness, no excuse for his strange mood.
If he couldn’t figure it out, he wouldn’t dwell on it.
Fu Wenchu had always had a knack for brushing off distractions. He slept soundly until morning.
Upon opening his eyes, there was Xiao Fang, quietly cleaning, tending to every inch, every corner.
Watching Xiao Fang’s back, Fu Wenchu suddenly felt that everything was perfect.
So perfect that he wanted to lose his mind again and actually build a home.
But the thought was fleeting.
He sat up in bed with a stretch. “Morning!”
Xiao Fang turned around, offering that quiet, slightly lonely smile. “Morning, Wen-ge.”
