A visit of thanks and respect

Ye Mo placed the last fragment of the Yellowjacket's armor into the analysis tank, swiped his finger across the control panel twice, and the data stream began to run. The room was quiet, with only the low hum of the equipment. An old jazz song was playing in his headphones, the volume kept extremely low, just enough to drown out the random thoughts in his mind. He took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on, staring at the waveforms jumping on the screen—this thing had almost turned Scott into a kebab last night, but now it had become research material on his desk.

He had just bent down to get his toolbox when the doorbell rang.

"Who?" He frowned, his first thought being that the base's alarm system was malfunctioning. Even deliverymen couldn't be found here; anyone ringing this doorbell was either experiencing a system failure or... an uninvited guest.

He got up and walked to the monitor. Scott Lang was standing on the screen, his helmet tucked under his arm, his jacket a little wrinkled, as if he had just come from an interview. He stood in the doorway, his back very straight, his eyes serious, looking more like he was there on official business than as a visitor.

Ye Mo looked at it for two seconds, then turned around and opened the door.

A cold breeze seeped in through the crack in the door, carrying a lingering dampness from the morning. Scott stood in the doorway, neither smiling nor exchanging pleasantries, and simply said, "I came to thank you in person."

Ye Mo was taken aback for a moment, then waved his hand, "Alright, alright, stop with the nonsense. If you're here to return it, let me tell you right now—the suit modification fee is non-refundable."

"I'm not kidding." Scott took a half step forward, crossing the threshold, his voice unusually steady compared to the usually joking Ant-Man. "I'm serious. Without you, I wouldn't have lasted three minutes in last night's scene."

Ye Mo closed the door and casually pulled his hoodie back. "You should thank Dr. Pym; I was just a middleman making a profit."

"Don't give me that." Scott placed his helmet on the small table in the entryway, his gaze fixed on the helmet. "I know what you're hiding. You don't answer media calls, you don't appear on camera, you don't even let anyone mention your name. But I don't need anyone to tell me who you are. I know myself—last night, the reason I was able to stand up and face so many people wasn't because I suddenly became brave, but because I knew that even if I messed up, someone would cover for me."

Ye Mo didn't speak, but turned and walked towards the living room. "If you really think that way, why don't you treat me to a meal? That would be more practical than reciting lines here."

Scott followed him in and sat on the sofa, which creaked slightly. He looked around—the place wasn't big, and the decor was so simple it was almost rudimentary. Various pieces of equipment were piled up against the walls, and a small particle jammer was charging in the corner. A whiteboard hung on the wall, covered with battle sequence diagrams and energy fluctuation curves, densely packed with annotations.

"This place... is more like a tech hub than I imagined," he said.

"Otherwise what? You expect me to hang a ' Mr. X ' plaque on my wall?" Ye Mo leaned against the workbench, unconsciously twirling a screwdriver in his hand. "I'm not running a hero training school."

"But that's what you do." Scott looked at him. "Teaching me how to change the controller synchronization rate, reminding me not to stay in hot zones for more than two seconds, even that sentence in the ventilation shaft, 'Just half a meter further and you'll be able to Wall Phasing' —do you know how panicked I was? But I trusted you because you said it as naturally as eating and drinking, not like you were gambling."

Ye Mo stopped turning the screwdriver and looked up at him.

"I didn't survive on talent alone," Scott said, his voice lower. "I was taught by you, word by word. The suit can shrink, but the brain doesn't automatically upgrade. You taught me that being a hero isn't just about putting on the suit; it's about knowing when to charge, when to hide, and when... to trust that someone is behind you."

The room was silent for a few seconds. The jazz music was still playing, and the sound of the saxophone drifted leisurely in the air.

Ye Mo lowered his head and chuckled, "You're being too harsh. It makes it sound like I'm obligated to take on a disciple."

"I don't want to be your apprentice," Scott shook his head. "I want you to know that what you've done has been seen. Not just seen in the way it trends on social media, but truly understood."

Ye Mo remained silent for a moment, then walked back to his workbench and pulled out a document from a pile of printed papers. It was a complete recap of last night's battle, with three key moments highlighted in red: the moment Scott successfully predicted the Yellowjacket's shift in center of gravity; the moment he used the cooling gap to penetrate the back of the neck; and the moment he completed the EMP implantation under the cover of others, using precise coordinates.

"You did it right here." Ye Mo pointed to the first mark. "Accurate judgment, quick action, no hesitation."

Scott leaned closer to take a look.

"Here..." Ye Mo pointed to the second one, "It was pure luck. The enemy's power supply module just happened to be at its lowest point in terms of cooldown. Anyone else would have been blown away by now."

Scott nodded, offering no rebuttal.

"The last one." Ye Mo tapped the third spot. "I shielded you from it. Although his right arm was paralyzed at the time, his left shoulder had already reached the critical energy level. If I had released the cryogenic gas half a second later, you would have to sign with your left hand right now."

Scott laughed. "So you really are the mastermind behind it all."

"I'm not a big shot," Ye Mo said, handing him the blueprints. "I just don't want to see you die in front of me."

Scott took the blueprints, his fingers gently tracing the marked lines. The edges of the paper were slightly curled, clearly indicating they had been printed recently. He suddenly realized that Ye Mo had prepared this long ago—not for a report, not for archiving, but for this very moment.

"Will you continue in that role?" he asked.

"Be what? Your personal tactical advisor?" Ye Mo shrugged. "As long as you don't call me every night asking, 'Will I get stuck in the air conditioner filter if I shrink down to five centimeters?', we can still work together."

"I mean... being the one hiding in the back." Scott looked at him seriously. "You could have stepped forward, you're clearly better than anyone else, but you chose this path. Why?"

Ye Mo didn't answer immediately. He walked to the window, opened it a crack, and saw a deserted community alleyway outside. Several stray cats were rummaging for food near the trash cans, and a milk truck was slowly driving by in the distance. A small patch of sunlight shone in and fell on the floor.

"Do you think heroes must stand in the light?" he countered.

"At least people need to know he's there."

"But sometimes, the brightest spot is the hardest to see." Ye Mo turned around. "Look at the actors on stage. When the spotlight shines, the audience can only see their faces, not who's pulling the ropes, changing the scenery, or adjusting the lighting behind them. But without these people, the performance will still fall apart."

"So you're the one who's willing to pull the rope?"

"It's not that I want to, it's that I'm suited to it." He walked back and leaned against the table. "You have a daughter waiting for you to come home, a life you can return to. What about me? I have nothing but this hoodie and a bunch of junk that's never-ending to be repaired. Rather than forcing myself to adapt to the spotlight, I'd rather stay where I can contribute."

Scott looked down at the blueprints in his hand and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he looked up, his voice soft but steady. "I will remember what you said today. Not just these tactical markings, but something you made me understand—being a hero isn't about being seen, but about ensuring someone can be safely protected."

Ye Mo glanced at him but didn't reply.

Silence fell between them. The equipment was still running, the data stream scrolling slowly across the screen, and a gust of wind from the window blew through the cracks, ruffling a loose piece of paper on the corner of the table.

Scott carefully folded the drawings and tucked them into his coat pocket.

"Next time, I won't ask 'Can I do it?'" he said. "I'll just do it. Because I know that even if I fall, someone will catch me."

Ye Mo nodded. "Okay, then next time remember to let me know before you fall so I can charge the first aid kit."

Scott finally smiled, and his shoulders relaxed.

He stood up and stretched his neck. "I have to go. The news team has an interview scheduled for this afternoon, and I need to go back and catch up on some sleep, otherwise I'll be stuck with the mirror zombies."

"Go ahead." Ye Mo waved his hand. "Don't forget to sign the disclaimer, stating 'This hero does not have heat protection'."

"Definitely." Scott picked up his helmet and walked towards the door.

Ye Mo didn't see him off; she just stood there, watching him open the door, take a step out, and then stop.

"Oh, right," Scott said, his back to him, his voice coming from the doorway, "You said you didn't want thanks, and you didn't want labels. But there's something I still have to say—"

He turned around, his gaze serious to the point of solemnity:

"You are the least heroic hero I have ever seen."

After saying that, he closed the door and left without waiting for a response.

The room fell silent again.

Ye Mo stood there for a few seconds, then reached up and touched the back of his neck, where the numbness from last night's EMP recoil still lingered. He looked down at the workbench; tools were scattered all over the table, the analysis program was still running, and the waveforms on the screen were jumping around excitedly.

He went back, sat back down in his chair, and put his headphones back on.

The jazz music continued playing.

He picked up a pen and wrote a few words on a new page: ** Ant-Man's Practical Feedback Record - First Independent Response to a High-Risk Target**

The pen paused, then added: "Your mental fortitude has improved significantly; it is recommended to increase the intensity of training on unexpected variables in the future."

After finishing writing, he closed his notebook and reached out to press the start button on the main control panel. The last light in the training area lit up, reflecting on the lenses of his silver half-rimmed glasses like an unextinguished star.