Hank's approval

Ye Mo's fingers were still on the sleep button on the main control panel when his peripheral vision caught sight of a familiar figure on the monitor screen— Hank Pym was walking out of the elevator. His steps weren't fast, but each step was measured and steady, like he was on a metronome. Scott followed behind him, his helmet tucked under his arm. The ease he had shown when he first entered was long gone, replaced by an inexplicable tension, like a student frantically flipping through notes at the last second before an exam.

Ye Mo didn't move or make a sound. He knew this group wasn't there for idle chatter.

A gust of cold air blew in as the door opened, and the lab lights automatically switched on, changing from a dim yellow to a cold white, casting a blank expression on people's faces. Hank walked straight to the main console, not even removing his gloves, and inserted an encrypted data card into the reader. The screen flickered a few times, and the battle replay interface popped up, the timeline stopping at the point where Scott's first zoomed-in raid took place.

"The recording from last night," Hank began, his voice as flat as reading a manual, "I want to see the whole thing, unedited, without any speed-ups."

Ye Mo nodded, swiped his finger across the touchpad, and the complete battle log began to play. In the video, Scott moved through the pipes, his figure sometimes large and sometimes small, his movements still somewhat stiff, but the rhythm was no longer as rigidly controlled by external prompts as it had been at the beginning. By the third level, he had even actively adjusted the zoom frequency without Ye Mo's prompting, thus avoiding the cross-locking of the particle beams.

Hank stared at the screen, his brow furrowed. When he saw the part where Scott was hit in the right leg, he tapped his finger on the table, as if noting down some data. When the EMP jamming sequence played Scott infiltrated the armor alone, he suddenly raised his hand. "Pause."

The image freezes on the moment Scott shrinks and squeezes into the gap in the armor.

"This part," he said, "What is the neural synchronization rate?"

Ye Mo pulled up the backend log, which displayed a series of numbers. "Peak 91.3%, duration 4.7 seconds. During this period, the suit's feedback delay was less than 0.2 seconds, falling within the autonomous decision-making range."

"You didn't intervene?"

"I was surfacing in the water at the time," Ye Mo shrugged. "If I could be in two places at once, I would have been trading stocks on Wall Street."

Hank didn't laugh; his gaze returned to the screen. He pulled up the data stream from the suit's built-in sensors and scanned it line by line. The air was so quiet you could hear the hum of the main unit's cooling fan. Scott stood to the side, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the edge of his helmet, his nails scraping against the coating with a soft rustling sound.

After half a minute, Hank finally spoke, "Did you know back then that the cooling-off period was only three seconds?"

Scott swallowed hard. "... I know."

Who told you that?

"Nobody's here." He looked up. "I figured it out myself. The first time I played, I noticed that it would automatically release heat when it reached 87% charge, so the second time I kept an eye on that point. The third time, I bet it wouldn't change the mode."

Hank paused for two seconds, then suddenly asked, "How old is your daughter?"

Scott was taken aback. "Eight years old."

"Does she know how to read the instructions when she builds Lego?"

Sometimes I look at the pictures, sometimes I just randomly piece them together.

"And what about you?" Hank stared at him. "Which one are you?"

Scott didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands—hands that had repaired circuits, disassembled alarms, and even held his daughter's little backpack. Finally, he said, "I used to always try to follow the instructions. But then I realized that some things aren't written in the manual."

Hank stared at him for a full five seconds, then turned and walked to the access control platform, pressing the palm recognition button. A system notification sounded, "Biometric authentication successful, administrator privileges activated."

He turned around and beckoned to Scott: "Come here."

Scott walked over and stood in the other side of the recognition area. Ye Mo didn't follow; he just stood there, hands in his pockets, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen, like a display screen that wasn't powered on.

Fingerprint registration begins. First attempt failed. System message: "Abnormal stress level. We suggest you relax and try again."

Scott sighed, his fingers still trembling.

Ye Mo walked over and gently patted his shoulder. "Don't think of this as an armor upgrade. Just think of it as modifying your daughter's toy car. Didn't you say last time that her pink electric car had too sensitive a throttle?"

Scott paused for a moment, then laughed, "I modified that car three times, and the fourth time her dad just bought a brand new car."

"Look," Ye Mo said softly, "You clearly have experience."

Scott took a deep breath and put his hand back on.

Recognition successful. The interface redirects, and a prompt to unlock the secondary subsystem pops up: [Dynamic Mass Compensation Module] [Short-Range Phase Transition Protocol] has been activated.

Hank stared at the green confirmation box, glanced at Scott again, took a metal key card from his pocket, walked to the equipment bay door, and inserted it into the special interface of Scott's suit storage slot. With a click, the lock cylinder turned.

"Don't let me regret pressing that button today," he said.

Scott stood up straight, his voice low but clear. "I won't make you wait another seven years."

The two looked at each other. There was no handshake, no hug, not even a slight nod. But something truly settled down on them—not an award, not a medal, but something much heavier, pressing down on their shoulders, yet also supporting their backs.

Ye Mo stood a few steps away, silent. He saw Scott slowly tighten his grip on the control terminal with his right hand, his knuckles turning white, as if afraid that the thing would fly away if he let go. He also saw Hank turn and walk towards the elevator, his steps a beat slower than when he came, as if he had unloaded something or carried something new.

The lab lights gradually dimmed, leaving only a faint glow around the control panel. Ye Mo walked back, casually touching his headphones. The jazz music had long since stopped, the screen was black, and only a small icon in the corner was still flashing, indicating that it could be archived.

He didn't move. He just stood there, watching Scott stand motionless in front of the equipment bay, as if waiting for something, or as if processing something.

The daylight outside was already fully bright, and the sunlight slanted across the vent, drawing a golden line on the floor that fell right in front of Scott's shoes. He took half a step forward, and his shadow blocked the light.

Ye Mo suddenly remembered what happened last night. Scott knocked on the door for the third time, asking if he could add the system as a friend. Now that he thought about it, it was no joke at all. That kid had been looking for confirmation from the very beginning—confirmation that he wasn't a temporary worker, a backup plan, or a pawn in someone's game.

He got it now.

It wasn't through connections or luck; it was earned through sheer hard work and dedication—those three words: trust, responsibility, and authority.

Ye Mo's lips twitched, but he didn't laugh; there was no need to. At times like this, silence was more powerful than anything else.

He turned to turn off the equipment, and just as his hand touched the power button, he heard Scott say in a low voice, "Should I... say something else?"

Ye Mo turned around. "For example?"

"For example, thank you? Or a promise?"

You said it.

Did I say that?

"Don't you remember?" Ye Mo pointed to his head. "You said 'I won't let him wait another seven years.' That's more ruthless than a ten-thousand-word guarantee."

Scott paused for a moment, then slowly nodded.

As the elevator doors closed, Hank was putting his helmet back on, his movements much more steady than before. Ye Mo looked at him and suddenly felt that this person was a little different—not in terms of ability, but in terms of posture. Before, he always seemed ready to apologize at any moment, but now he finally dared to straighten his back and stand where he should be.

The final archive process on the main control panel was completed, and the screen went out. Only the status light in front of the equipment compartment remained in the entire laboratory, its green glow serene.

Ye Mo took off his glasses, wiped them with the corner of his clothes, and put them back on. Just then, he saw Scott reach out and touch the surface of the suit, his fingertips tracing the newly unlocked interface, as if confirming that the thing really belonged to him.

He didn't say anything, just stood there, tapping the terminal casing lightly with his fingers.

Once, twice.

The rhythm is steady, unlike before when it was chaotic.