Ye Mo closed his training notebook, pen tucked between the pages, a languid saxophone solo playing in his headphones. He didn't take off the headphones, just turned the volume down a notch, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table, the rhythm matching the drumbeat. Outside, the sky was already bright; the milk truck was long gone, the stray cats had scattered, leaving only a sparrow pecking at the breadcrumbs that had fallen the night before. He stared at the sparrow for two seconds, suddenly thinking that it wouldn't be bad if life could continue like this forever—no one knew him, no one looked for him, even the system was as quiet as if it didn't exist.
But just as that thought crossed my mind, there was a knock at the door.
It wasn't a doorbell, but a knocking sound—three knocks, neither too loud nor too soft, the kind of knocking that someone knows the place well.
Ye Mo's eyelids twitched. He thought, "Surely not?" That heartfelt conversation, that phrase "the least heroic of heroes," had almost made him think the charade was over. But the person had barely left before they were back. Wasn't this a test of his acting skills?
He didn't move, pretending to still be looking at the waveform on the screen. In fact, the data had already finished running, and the analysis program was in standby mode. The interface was grayed out, with only a small icon flashing in the corner, indicating that it could be archived.
The knocking came again, this time four times, with a hint of urging.
Ye Mo sighed, got up, and walked to the monitor. In the video, Scott Lang stood at the door, his helmet tucked under his arm, his jacket still wrinkled, and his face no longer showed the solemnity of his farewell, but rather a look of barely suppressed laughter. He looked around to make sure no one was there, then winked at the camera.
Ye Mo pressed the door open button, said nothing, and turned to walk back.
A cool breeze blew in the sunlight. Scott entered and closed the door behind him, his steps much lighter than before. "I knew you weren't asleep," he said. "Someone like you, still adjusting parameters at three in the morning, how could you possibly catch up on sleep during the day?"
"This is my health-conscious way of staying up late," Ye Mo, sitting back in his chair. "A scientific schedule, a balance between work and rest, is much better than your last-minute cramming."
Scott didn't reply, but walked directly to the workbench, his gaze landing on the closed notebook. "You... did you prepare this a long time ago?" he asked. "I mean, that post-mortem chart. You didn't just give it to me on a whim, did you?"
Ye Mo looked up. "You're overthinking it. I write a summary every day; it's a habit. Otherwise, how would I remember how many conduits exploded yesterday?"
"Do you remember clearly when my right leg started having problems?"
"It was captured on surveillance footage; you can tell at a glance."
"Do you remember me saying, 'If I shrink down to five centimeters, will I get stuck in the air conditioner filter?'"
Ye Mo paused, "... You really said that?"
"No," Scott laughed, "But your reaction seemed genuine; I thought you'd pick up on the joke."
"That's just a conditioned reflex," Ye Mo said, taking off his glasses and wiping them. "A guy in my dorm used to always ask me, 'Will people think I'm a pervert if I wear this out?' I've practically memorized it."
Scott shook his head and sat down on the sofa, which creaked just like last time. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the whiteboard, the pile of equipment, and the charging jammer, before finally settling on Ye Mo's face.
"I'm not here to talk about the past," he said. "I'm here to ask about the future."
Ye Mo put his glasses back on. "The future is not my concern, it's the system's."
"Here we go again." Scott leaned forward. "You always bring up the system when it comes to crucial moments. Last night you said the low-temperature gas was a system alert, and before that in the ventilation shaft you Wall Phasing path was provided by the system. Even my controller synchronization rate optimization scheme, you said it was recommended by the system pop-up—do you think I'm stupid?"
"I didn't say you're an idiot," Ye Mo said seriously. "What I said was, I'm lazy, I only survive because of the system's push notifications."
"Which system?" Scott stared at him. " S.H.I.E.L.D..'s? Pym's? Or your own AI assistant?"
"None of those." Ye Mo patted his temples. "It's a gift from the transmigration, bound to an internal account, a lifetime membership, non-transferable. It sends three messages every day: the first is 'Don't go out,' the second is 'Get out of the way,' and the third is 'Don't believe what this person says.' There was an extra one this morning—" He paused, his expression suddenly turning serious, "'Warning: An overly curious individual is within three meters to your right. It is recommended to immediately change the subject.'"
Scott froze, then burst into laughter, nearly sliding off the sofa. "So you're saying all those amazing plays you made were done by AI-generated orders?"
"Otherwise what?" Ye Mo shrugged. "You think I'm a genius? I got a 23 on my high school physics test, and I blew up a test tube during a chemistry experiment. My teacher said my practical skills were negative. If it weren't for the system constantly urging me to study, I'd probably still be figuring out how to microwave a pizza without it exploding."
"Your system is quite responsible."
"It's really annoying." Ye Mo casually picked up an abandoned police scanner from the table and pretended to press a few buttons. "Look, it just popped up a window again—'Detected persistent questioning behavior, recommended to activate defense mechanism: play dumb + shift blame + reverse sarcasm'. I've already done it, can't you tell?"
Scott laughed and waved his hand, "Okay, okay, I give up. Next time I'm in danger, I'll check if my system has subscribed to your service package first."
"There's a trial version." Ye Mo tossed the screwdriver into the toolbox. "It's free for the first week, then it's 9.9 yuan per month, and you can pay in installments via Huabei."
After they finished laughing, the room fell silent. The jazz music was still playing, but the saxophone had been replaced by the piano, and the tempo was slower. Ye Mo lowered his head and tidied the cables on the table, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as if he wanted to completely bury the conversation into the cracks of everyday life.
Scott looked at him, but his gaze wasn't completely relaxed. He knew Ye Mo wouldn't really tell him; this "system blames" excuse was already the other party's signature defense mechanism. But he didn't press further. Because he also understood that if the other party didn't say something, it wasn't because they didn't believe him, but simply because the time wasn't right.
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 capabilities.'"
"Definitely." Scott picked up his helmet and walked towards the door.
Ye Mo didn't see him off; he just sat there, the music in his headphones still playing, and his fingers started tapping on the table again, keeping time with the beat.
Scott walked to the door, put his hand on the doorknob, but then stopped.
"Oh, right," he said, his back turned, "you said you didn't want thanks or labels. But there's something I still have to say—"
He turned around, his eyes serious to the point of solemnity. "You are the least heroic hero I have ever met."
After saying that, he didn't wait for a response, and simply closed the door and left.
The room fell silent again.
Ye Mo sat 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: "Psychological resilience 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.
He didn't move; he just sat there, listening to music and tapping on the table.
There was another sound outside the door.
It wasn't a knock, it was the sound of the doorknob turning.
Ye Mo frowned, his finger hovering over the power button.
The door opened.
Scott leaned in halfway, his smile barely concealed. "I forgot to ask—can I add friends with your system? I'd like to follow each other."
Ye Mo remained expressionless. "System rules prohibit adding real-life friends to prevent information leaks."
"Can I file a complaint?"
"Cannot."
"Why?"
"Because you're the customer service representative yourself." Ye Mo pointed to his head, "Go ask yourself."
Scott grinned, then finally closed the door completely and left.
This time, he's really gone.
Ye Mo breathed a sigh of relief, took off his headphones, and casually placed them on the table. He got up and walked to the whiteboard on the wall, picked up a pen, and drew a simple flowchart next to the original tactical map, writing "Sudden Threat → Detection → Response → Evacuation," and then added a question mark.
He muttered to himself, "Next time we encounter a faster target, this reaction chain needs to be compressed to within 0.8 seconds."
Footsteps sounded; was Scott back?
He turned around, but there was no space.
It turned out that his voice had startled the sparrows, and a flock of them fluttered away outside the window.
He shook his head, put down his pen, and walked back to his workbench. He shut down the analysis program, the main console went into sleep mode, and the lights in the training area went out one by one, except for a small lamp in the corner that was still on, reflecting the cold light of his half-rimmed glasses.
He sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table, the rhythm coinciding with the jazz music playing again in his headphones.
Scott looked at him, hesitated, and finally only said, "I'll be ready."
Ye Mo didn't look up, only waved his hand. "Go on, don't be late."