Lin Xie sat beside CEO Shen Rui in his office, her posture straight, her container of lunch untouched for now. Across from her, Shen Rui had rolled up his sleeves and was halfway through his food. The silence between them was normal—natural, even. He didn't ask why she always arrived at lunch. She didn't explain. She simply appeared when the clock struck noon, precise and soundless as a shadow.
Today, he had ordered the same dishes she liked.
He didn't mention it.
She didn't thank him.
Their routine was perfectly optimized.
Her phone lit up beside her water bottle. She glanced at the screen. The name flashing was Director Qi.
She answered.
"Lin Xie! My favorite villainess!" Director Qi's cheerful voice rang out like a firecracker. "I've been waiting for your soul-sucking presence all morning!"
"I have not committed any soul-sucking."
"Hah! Yet. Listen, I know I said we'd start later in the week, but plans changed. Filming starts tomorrow—bright and early. I want you on set by six. Full makeup, costume check, scene walkthrough, all of it."
"Understood."
Director Qi's voice softened just a little. "Seriously though, you were terrifying in the audition. In a good way. Like, I saw you blink once and thought my life was in danger. It was magnificent. The rest of the cast is shaking. Keep doing that."
Lin Xie blinked. "I will maintain consistency."
"Perfect. I love your energy. Okay! See you tomorrow, star villain." The call ended with a musical chime.
Lin Xie set her phone back down.
Shen Rui had paused mid-bite. "Filming starts tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"You're taking on a full project now?"
"It is a strategic partnership. Your investment firm is listed as the executive co-producer."
"That's not what I meant." His eyes narrowed. "You'll be busy."
"Yes."
"And still showing up at my office every day?"
"I have not removed the time block for your lunch hour."
A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Not annoyance. Not amusement. Something deeper. Quieter. But she couldn't name it.
She resumed eating, mechanical and silent.
After a moment, he said, "Don't kiss anyone on set."
She didn't look up. "That is not in the script."
"Good."
She lifted a piece of grilled fish and placed it on his plate.
He didn't look away as he ate it. And she didn't stop watching him.
As always.
----
After lunch, Lin Xie returned to Senzhou Imperial University.
The halls buzzed with conversation—shoes tapping, lockers slamming, bursts of laughter and gossip echoing off the tiled walls. Lin Xie moved through the noise like static in a signal—present, but untouched. She navigated the corridors without hesitation, arriving at her next class three minutes early. She took her usual seat at the far right, second row from the front. Centered. Symmetrical. Optimal viewing angle for both the screen and the professor's gestures.
The lecture began on quantum computing theory.
She listened in silence, head slightly tilted, expression blank, eyes sharp. A student raised a question about quantum entanglement and its limitations. Another asked about data collapse in quantum states.
Lin Xie raised her hand—not to share an opinion, but to correct a formula the professor had casually written on the board with a misplaced variable.
The classroom quieted.
"Yes, Miss Lin?" the professor asked cautiously.
"The coefficient in your Q-state equation is incorrect. You assigned the base vector to ψ instead of φ, which would destabilize your entire entangled pair scenario."
The professor blinked. "…You're absolutely right. Thank you."
She nodded once and went back to her notes. The class continued, but eyes drifted toward her more often. Lin Xie, unfazed, was scribbling a list of theoretical contradictions in her notebook—pointing out flaws in the logic of a textbook diagram, cross-referencing inconsistencies between the professor's spoken assumptions and what had been proven in newer journal publications.
Next topic: quantum machine learning.
Her pen moved faster. She had read about it. Memorized the structure. But now, questions formed.
What would a machine learn if it were fed emotions?
Could emotional inconsistency be measured like data drift?
Would anomalies in human behavior follow the same probabilities as unstable particles?
She wrote these questions in the margins of her notebook.
"…She's not even human," a girl whispered to someone who was nodding slowly.
"She's like a pretty calculator possessed by a genius ghost,"
Lin Xie didn't react.
Her eyes were fixed forward, but her mind spun—calculating variables, listing unknowns, cross-examining social dynamics around her like a machine fed blurry code. Someone coughed to her left. Another whispered about "that girl from the gala." She filtered the noise out.
Another thought struck her mid-sentence.
What if the robot she built had the capacity to adapt to Shen Rui's emotions faster than she could?
Would it understand his mood swings before she recognized them?
Would it protect him better?
The pen stopped in her hand.
For one long second, she stared at the words she'd just written.
Then she wrote again—faster, lines crisp and tiny: Design emotional tracking protocol—compare with gesture recognition database—recalibrate algorithm to eliminate mimicry bias.
The rest of the class faded into white noise.
By the time the bell rang, she had four new algorithm drafts, a theoretical essay on emotion-based AI regulation, and a list of questions she wanted to test against CEO Shen Rui's biometric behavior.
She packed her things neatly, stood, and left the classroom in a straight line of motion.
Behind her, a student whispered, "She's not real."
"She is," someone else whispered back. "Just not one of us."
Lin Xie didn't hear.
Or maybe she did.
But either way—she didn't stop walking.
----
After her afternoon class, Lin Xie walked the halls of the university with her usual precision—calm, emotionless, eyes sharp as sensors scanning for anomalies. While others were chatting, scrolling through their phones, or napping against sunlit walls, she navigated the corridors like a machine following a set of pre-calculated coordinates.
Destination: Administration Tower, Level 6.
The office of Dr. Huang, the head of Senzhou Imperial University.
The double glass doors hissed slightly as she pushed them open. Inside, the scent of old books mixed with polished wood. A receptionist behind the curved marble desk glanced up.
"Can I help you?"
"Lin Xie. I have an appointment with Dr. Huang," she said in her usual neutral tone.
The receptionist blinked. "Ah. Yes. Go on in, Miss Lin. He's expecting you."
She walked past, her footsteps soft but unhesitating. When she entered, Dr. Huang, a scholarly man in his late fifties with silver-rimmed glasses and a fondness for calligraphy, looked up from a stack of documents. He blinked twice behind his lenses.
"Lin Xie," he said slowly, standing. "You don't often request appointments."
"I have come to submit a formal request for academic absence," she said, setting a neatly prepared document file onto his desk.
Dr. Huang opened it. His brow furrowed slightly. "Leave of absence for… a film production?"
"Yes."
"You're… joining a cast?" he asked, clearly trying to match the concept of Lin Xie—emotionless, surgical, top of the AI and mechanical engineering track—with acting in a movie. His brain short-circuited for a second.
"Yes."
There was silence. Then:
"You're acting? In a film? With… cameras. Dialogue. Human emotions?" He blinked at her, then checked the file again as if expecting it to contain prank doodles.
"I was selected following an audition," she said simply. "I will play the antagonist."
"…The villain?"
"Yes."
Dr. Huang leaned back, absolutely baffled. "Are you… sure you understand what acting entails?"
"I analyzed 427 performances across 38 film genres and replicated tonal modulations and emotional syntax with 96.3% accuracy."
He stared at her.
"…I don't know whether to approve this or install antivirus software."
"I do not carry malware," she replied flatly.
That made him cough—possibly to cover a laugh. "And you'll be away for… how long?"
"Thirty-one calendar days. I have already projected my syllabus load and created contingency learning schedules. I will continue theoretical coursework remotely, and return for in-person practicals post-shoot."
"Lin Xie… most students ask to leave because of family emergencies. Or illness. You are leaving to star in a movie."
"Yes."
He ran a hand down his face. "And what made you decide this was worth your time?"
There was a pause.
Then she said, "Curiosity."
He blinked. "Come again?"
Lin Xie tilted her head slightly, like a machine responding to a soft ping. "I want to explore human behavior through performance. The structure of villainy in narrative arcs is illogically attractive to audiences. I wish to understand it."
Dr. Huang slowly took off his glasses and wiped them. "You're doing it… as research?"
"That is one reason."
"And the other?"
Silence.
Then: "Because I was offered the role."
He stared at her. "You really are a strange child."
"I am aware."
Dr. Huang looked at the request form again. It was flawless. Pre-signed by all department heads, with timestamps accurate to the second. There was even a schedule matrix with backups in case of power failure or illness. He signed it slowly, still stunned.
"Alright," he said. "Permission granted. Try not to start a scandal. Or a loveteam"
"I will avoid both," she replied.
She took the signed document, bowed slightly, and turned to leave.
Before the door shut behind her, Dr. Huang muttered to himself, "An emotionless machine playing a villain in a movie. What could possibly go wrong?"
He shook his head and reached for his tea, still wondering whether he'd just approved something brilliant—or disastrous.