The Drowing Summer

The storm had lasted for three days.

Xia Xiaoman stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the safe house, her fingers unconsciously tracing the raindrops on the glass. Outside, the lighthouse in the bay flickered through the downpour, flashing every seventeen seconds—a rhythm that inexplicably reminded her of Li Moting's breathing.

A shattering sound came from behind.

She turned to see Li Moting standing beside the overturned coffee table, a shattered whiskey glass at his feet. His condition was alarming: his shirt collar hung open, revealing beads of sweat along his collarbones; his usually sharp gray-blue eyes were unfocused, pupils contracting irregularly; and most unsettling of all—his right hand, knuckles white from clenching, nails digging into old scars on his palm.

"MN-07 withdrawal symptoms," he rasped, his voice distant. "Typically lasts three hours and forty-two minutes."

Xia Xiaoman didn't move. She knew the consequences of approaching a test subject in withdrawal—her father's research notes had detailed how subjects became indiscriminately aggressive during this phase.

A bolt of lightning split the night sky. In that instant, she saw something glistening on Li Moting's face.

Not sweat.

"Get out." He turned abruptly, his shoulder blades sharp beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. "Appendix D, Clause 3 of the contract: isolation required during withdrawal."

Instead of retreating, Xia Xiaoman took a step forward. Her slippers crunched over broken glass, the sound triggering something—Li Moting suddenly dropped to his knees, clutching his head, a low growl tearing from his throat.

Memories flooded back. Xia Xiaoman recalled the monkeys chained in her father's lab, their contorted postures during withdrawal. But her father's notes, marked in red, had specified: *Human subjects are different. They need...*

She began to hum.

*La Vie en Rose.* A French chanson she shouldn't have known, yet the melody flowed effortlessly from her lips. Soft as it was, Li Moting's trembling visibly lessened.

"Keep going," he muttered into his arms.

Xia Xiaoman knelt before him. As rain battered the windows, her voice grew steadier. When she reached the line *"Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas"* (When he takes me in his arms and speaks softly), Li Moting suddenly looked up.

His eyes burned in the dark.

"You know my mother was French." Not a question. His fingers brushed her throat, feeling the vibration of her voice. "She used to sing this... before she left."

Xia Xiaoman didn't stop singing. She watched as Li Moting's pupils gradually normalized, his breathing steadying. But when she tried to stand, his hand clamped around her wrist.

"Emotional dissociation disorder," he said abruptly. "Clinical presentation: inability to feel love, hatred, grief—basic emotions—while retaining full cognitive and logical function." His thumb pressed against her pulse. "Case number MN-07-01. First successful survivor."

Xia Xiaoman held her breath. This was the first time Li Moting had voluntarily mentioned Project MN-07.

"They removed my amygdala." His laugh was uglier than a sob. "In exchange, I gained near-perfect business acumen." His fingers traced the bloodstain on her collarbone. "Until you."

The rain softened. Xia Xiaoman realized how close they were—her knee against his thigh, their faces barely ten centimeters apart. At this distance, she could see the golden-brown flecks in his irises, like amber melting in sunlight.

"I don't understand," she admitted.

Li Moting leaned forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder. The gesture made him look unbearably vulnerable, as if he'd shed all armor.

"Your heartbeat," he murmured. "When Zhao Shiheng held a knife to your throat, my pulse synchronized with yours." His hand slid up her spine. "Medically impossible."

A realization struck her. Cradling his face, she waited for the next flash of lightning before speaking: "That day in the clinic, you said my memories were your medical records..."

"Because you're the only one who makes me *feel*," he interrupted, voice rough. "Like phantom limb pain—the organ's gone, but the pain remains." His thumb traced her lips. "You're my phantom pain, Xia Xiaoman."

The metaphor sent a sharp ache through her chest. Xia Xiaoman remembered the scribbled note on the last page of her father's research: **"Only when carrier and receptor achieve emotional resonance can memory transplantation be deemed successful."**

She kissed him.

The taste was blood and whiskey, yet inexplicably tender. When they parted, Li Moting looked like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

"Now tell me," she whispered against his forehead, "what is the real purpose of Project MN-07?"

His gaze cleared. Reaching into his suit pocket, he produced the child's drawing and pointed to the date in the corner: *July 16, 2003—the day before my mother died.* Flipping it over revealed faded ink: **"Memory Transplant Experiment Phase VII: Emotional Carrier Compatibility Test."**

Xia Xiaoman's blood ran cold. The scar "Ⅶ" on her wrist, the cages labeled 1 through 6 in her father's lab...

"We've been deceived," Li Moting said, voice hollow. "All our memories are transplants, including—"