The Differentiated Being’s First Day at Work

Tu Hongyu had arranged a private office for Yuan Anqing and Zhuo. Naturally, the office couldn’t be occupied solely by the two of them, as a private suite for two new hires would draw far too much suspicion.

Including Yang Shu, the head of their Modeling Department, a total of four employees with official government connections were assigned to the space.

“Mr. Yuan, you are free to participate in the work or not; no one will supervise you,” Yang Shu said, pulling out a comfortable ergonomic chair at a workstation for Yuan Anqing. “Any news from the official side will be relayed to us immediately.”

“I thought my identity had been completely exposed,” Yuan Anqing replied, thanking Yang Shu before sitting down and booting up the computer. He began checking for differences between the CAD software in this world and the one he had used previously.

“Only one rogue organization managed to intercept your information. We have many resistance factions here, all with differing ideologies and little regard for each other,” Yang Shu explained, his two rows of dense eyes winking playfully at Yuan Anqing. “You are quite safe.”

“I understand,” Yuan Anqing said, feeling a slight aversion to the sight of so many eyes. He shifted his gaze to the monitor. “Please brief me on the current project.”

“Hmm?” Zhuo, who was propping his head up idly at the adjacent desk, piped up. “I thought you didn’t like to work.”

“I genuinely don’t. But I also dislike pushing my responsibilities onto others,” Yuan Anqing confirmed, noting that the software in this world was largely similar to his own.

Zhuo, mimicking Yuan Anqing, clicked on the same software icon on his own screen. However, he fell silent the moment the complex UI loaded.

He couldn’t understand a single thing on the screen.

“These are for you,” a round-faced girl nearby chimed in, offering small potted succulents to both Zhuo and Yuan Anqing. This girl was also a human-beast chimera; her round, brown bear ears twitched atop her head.

“Thank you,” Yuan Anqing said, nodding politely.

Zhuo also expressed his gratitude, though his tone was considerably more cheerful than Yuan Anqing’s. “I really like this. Even if it can’t actually protect me from computer radiation.”

“Haha,” the bear-eared girl chuckled, scratching her head with a rather guileless smile.

“What’s my job?” Zhuo asked her.

Yang Shu was already assigning tasks to Yuan Anqing. Zhuo had heard the other employees call this girl ‘Sister Bear,’ so he presumed she was a senior colleague.

“Do you see this icon?” Sister Bear asked, pointing to a colorful app on Zhuo’s monitor.

“Is this a game?” Zhuo recognized the flashy pattern.

“That’s right,” she nodded enthusiastically. “You can play this or download other games. Our computers are excellently configured, so they won’t lag.”

Zhuo’s smile vanished.

The girl continued, oblivious, “Or you can watch movies. Do you have any favorite films? Our headphones offer fantastic sound quality.”

Zhuo remained silent.

Sister Bear looked a little awkward. “My apologies. If you wish to participate in the project, you might have to learn from scratch. Mr. Yuan is different; his previous work had a high degree of overlap with ours.”

“I’m not going to learn,” Zhuo declared.

His current life was no different from his past at the facility. During the day, they wouldn’t restrict his time for watching movies or playing games. Having never experienced the hardship of real work, Zhuo didn’t see this freedom as a gift; he merely found it insulting and boring. It was simply a change of scenery, continuing his old routine of being treated like a dangerous toddler.

He put on his headphones and booted up a game.

Sister Bear, seeing him cooperate so readily, let out a palpable sigh of relief.

The staff weren’t overly wary of Zhuo. They knew Zhuo was conscious of maintaining his prestige as a powerful monster. As long as they were accommodating enough, Zhuo was unlikely to cause trouble.

Indeed, this proved true. Zhuo was unhappy, but he knew there was genuinely nothing he could do, so he simply chose to play games.

Growing increasingly frustrated with the games, Zhuo eventually opened a few movies.

He had never found a day so agonizingly long.

Zhuo’s life was typically very unstructured. No one limited his leisure time, yet he wasn’t addicted to games or movies. At most, he would play for about four hours a day. The rest of the time, Zhuo was either exercising or trying to psychologically provoke reactions from his assigned handlers. In short, his life was usually quite fulfilling.

But now, things were different.

Zhuo played distractedly for about half an hour, then shifted his gaze to Yuan Anqing.

Yuan Anqing had seamlessly integrated into the office environment. His experience was evident; he wasn’t lost like a complete novice. He was, without a doubt, an excellent, efficient employee.

How boring, Zhuo thought.

Zhuo stared at Yuan Anqing’s profile for a long time, then pulled out his phone to take a picture.

Yuan Anqing possessed a cool and indifferent appearance, much like his personality. However, it seemed a waste for someone so handsome to be confined to a cubicle. There must be many people who would adore this face, Zhuo mused.

Zhuo took a picture of his profile, then zoomed in to capture Yuan Anqing’s eyes in detail. His eyes were beautiful, but the phone’s camera resolution wasn’t good enough to capture the hidden golden flecks within them.

Yuan Anqing looks even more ruthless without his glasses, Zhuo thought. The glasses add a touch of corporate professionalism, making him seem steady and reliable rather than inherently cold.

Yuan Anqing noticed Zhuo’s actions and turned his head, staring directly into Zhuo’s phone camera.

Zhuo made no attempt to hide it. Since Yuan Anqing had turned, he simply snapped a frontal shot as well. After taking the picture, he nonchalantly put away his phone and began pressing keyboard buttons, seemingly at random.

Yuan Anqing couldn’t shake the feeling that Zhuo’s massive, imposing presence seemed somewhat constrained and pathetic at his workstation. Especially when Zhuo—a monster who usually wore his dangerous emotions openly—suddenly stared at his phone with a sullen expression. It reminded Yuan Anqing of a child at a family gathering, left to entertain themselves in a corner while the adults talked.

Zhuo was unaware of Yuan Anqing’s thoughts. Bored, he posted Yuan Anqing’s picture on his newly-created social media account with the caption: [Super boring guy].

He then switched off his phone and slumped onto the desk to sleep.

Zhuo felt himself dozing for a while, only to be woken by a hand on his shoulder.

“Lunch?” Yuan Anqing asked him.

“Where are we eating?” Zhuo rubbed his eyes, glancing at the time. It was exactly 12:03 PM.

“The company has a cafeteria,” Yuan Anqing said, gesturing toward the door.

The others in the office had already left. They had invited Yuan Anqing, but he hadn’t immediately accepted, staying behind to wake Zhuo.

Zhuo’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’m not going.”

“Worried the food won’t be good?” Yuan Anqing asked him.

Zhuo didn’t answer directly, merely stating, “I’m just not going.”

“You don’t like being with the people from the company?” Yuan Anqing probed further.

This time, Zhuo remained silent.

Yuan Anqing understood. Zhuo felt he wasn’t ‘one of them’. He felt he was merely a troublesome presence to be placated in this office, and so his pride was rejecting the others before they could reject him. Yuan Anqing had already anticipated this situation.

“Let’s order takeout, then,” Yuan Anqing suggested.

Zhuo stared at Yuan Anqing for a few quiet seconds, then softly hummed in affirmation.

“Do you know how to use the software required for work?” Yuan Anqing pulled his ergonomic chair closer to Zhuo’s desk.

Zhuo clicked his tongue. “I don’t need to know, and I don’t need to learn.”

“But you’re here to work, aren’t you?” Yuan Anqing surmised that Zhuo was deeply annoyed by how his colleagues had immediately tried to shunt him aside to play games. If they had first asked if he wanted to learn, the outcome might have been different. After all, Zhuo had been genuinely excited to dress up yesterday.

“I don’t need to work,” Zhuo said, crossing his arms and leaning back.

“Have you considered my feelings, playing games right next to me while I draft models?” Yuan Anqing asked him. “I’ve never been as carefree as you.”

“Does it bother you?” Zhuo asked.

Yuan Anqing nodded. “It bothers me.”

Zhuo fell silent again.

Then Yuan Anqing continued, “So, I’ll teach you.” He wiggled the mouse to wake up Zhuo’s darkened monitor.

Zhuo watched Yuan Anqing open the software, then pull out a fresh notebook and pen from a nearby drawer, preparing to teach a complete beginner from scratch.

Zhuo saw through Yuan Anqing’s act. “You’re comforting me.”

“No,” Yuan Anqing said, tapping the notebook cover with his pen. “I’m coaxing you.”

Zhuo narrowed his eyes. “Are you treating me like a child?”

“I’m too lazy to coax children,” Yuan Anqing retorted, his words gaining particular credibility when paired with his recent act of psychologically devastating the mutated boy. “We’ll be living together for a while, and your poor mental state won’t benefit me. It’s better if you have something to do.”

Zhuo finally leaned closer to the screen. “How long will you teach me?”

“I’m not sure. These programs aren’t easy to learn,” Yuan Anqing said, handing Zhuo the notebook and pen. “I hope you’ll be a smart student.”

It had to be said, Yuan Anqing was an exceptionally good mentor. When teaching Zhuo, who had absolutely no foundation in engineering, he displayed a hundred percent patience. And when he looked into Zhuo’s eyes to ask if he had explained things clearly, his gentle demeanor made it seem as though he could tolerate anything.

Even if Zhuo didn’t understand, it didn’t matter; Yuan Anqing would rephrase it using more common analogies or start from an even more basic point.

Zhuo particularly enjoyed Yuan Anqing’s tone when he was teaching. No one would dislike such patience and gentleness. For Yuan Anqing, however, he was simply striving to do his job as best he could.

The lunch and rest period lasted only an hour. Zhuo was still somewhat bewildered by the software, but Yuan Anqing remarked that Zhuo’s comprehension was indeed good, and progress should be swift thereafter.

After that single lunchtime lesson, the remaining four hours of the afternoon didn’t feel nearly as agonizing for the monster.

Zhuo occasionally stared blankly at the software, shifted his gaze to Yuan Anqing at the neighboring desk, or looked down to see how many likes his recent post about the “super boring guy” had garnered.

Zhuo idled until work ended. He and Yuan Anqing left the building together. On their way to the bus stop, they discovered a street stall selling maji (glutinous rice cakes). Yuan Anqing bought two boxes to stave off their hunger. They hadn’t eaten much for lunch; the takeout restaurant’s food had been far from appetizing.

“Let’s make our own lunch and bring it tomorrow,” Yuan Anqing suggested. “We can prepare tomorrow’s portion tonight and just heat it up at the company.”

“I want beef stew with potatoes,” Zhuo said immediately.

“Alright, but I’m not very good at making that,” Yuan Anqing replied, sitting side-by-side with Zhuo at the back of the bus.

“Then I can try,” Zhuo said, popping a coconut-flavored maji into his mouth.

Yuan Anqing paused, surprised. “You?”

“Actually, your cooking isn’t that great either,” Zhuo remarked, looking at Yuan Anqing. “My brain is definitely smarter than yours. If I have a recipe, I can imitate it.”

“Have you ever cooked before?” Yuan Anqing asked, skeptical.

“No.”

“Then I’ll just watch from the side to make sure you don’t burn the house down?”

“Alright.”

Their conversation inexplicably ended there. It felt strange to stop, as both felt they should continue talking, yet neither spoke.

Why did it feel like the topic shouldn’t halt? Was it because Zhuo suddenly had a whim to cook? Or was it because, in a place unseen by anyone, someone had taken a step back, further relaxing their previously tense, hostage-and-captor relationship?

This deliberate retreat had been noticed, and someone else felt a sudden sense of bewilderment.

This eerie silence persisted until the two boarded the subway.

The subway back to the city was only at the second stop from the industrial park, so they easily found an empty car. Yuan Anqing and Zhuo continued to sit side-by-side.

It was an open-air subway line, allowing them to watch the scenery through the windows.

Yuan Anqing gazed at the sunset, breaking the silence first. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten off work at this hour.” Usually, he’d be leaving the office at midnight.

Zhuo glanced at the view outside, then at Yuan Anqing beside him. The golden sunset light fell upon Yuan Anqing’s face, making Zhuo increasingly feel that this Savior was perfectly matched with gold. “Working is no good.”

“Indeed, it’s not. Which is why I envy you,” Yuan Anqing said, meeting Zhuo’s gaze. “You are so powerful. You can refuse most uncomfortable activities.”

“But there’s only one of me in this world,” Zhuo said softly.

“I know. I can never become you,” Yuan Anqing agreed. There were so many Saviors, but only one Zhuo.

“You’ve misunderstood my meaning,” Zhuo said, pointing to his own face. “I mean I am fundamentally different from everyone else. No one is like me. I’m a functionally extinct creature.”

No kin, no tribe, feared by all for his terrifying abilities—only him. He was unique, and the most terrifying thing in the world was uniqueness.

Yuan Anqing looked at Zhuo’s face and suddenly asked a question that would have crushed any former Savior: “How long can you live?”

“Who knows? Probably for a very, very long time,” Zhuo said.

“You’re truly unlucky,” Yuan Anqing sighed.

“You’re the unlucky one,” Zhuo retorted, a smirk returning. “You’ll become my food, you know.”

“Then I hope you’ll be decisive when you eat me. Don’t chew,” Yuan Anqing said casually.

Zhuo fell silent once more.

The subway arrived at a station, and new passengers boarded. The train stopped at station after station, and the car became increasingly crowded. All the seats were taken, leaving the remaining people to stand.

The scents of countless living beings and the taste of their desires filled Zhuo’s nostrils. The claustrophobia of humanity pressed in.

The cool, scaled tip of his tail subtly coiled around Yuan Anqing’s wrist.

Zhuo couldn’t perceive any desire from Yuan Anqing, which was why he could hold him and sleep so soundly. And sometimes, Zhuo couldn’t help but wonder—what exactly was this lifeless Savior thinking at this very moment?