Tòumíng took a deep breath, wincing as the movement jostled the bullet lodged in his spine. "Okay. The truth. All of it."
He started from the beginning. The debt, three years of crushing, inherited debt from parents who'd killed themselves rather than keep drowning. Working at the mine, smuggling quartz, barely surviving. Getting beaten nearly to death by Hǔtān's men and thrown in a dumpster. Dying there, actually dying, heart stopped, brain bleeding out.
Then Cupid. A voice in his head offering a system, a chance to survive. Schrödinger's Heart—the skill that kept him in quantum superposition, simultaneously alive and dead, making him essentially unkillable unless someone directly observed his heart being destroyed. The resurrection, the fight with the rioters in the mine, accidentally erasing seven people from existence with a skill called True Death.
Finding the rose quartz. Then the amethyst. Using a skill called Condense Purity to compress a massive geode into something pocket-sized. Selling it for almost two hundred thousand yuan. The newfound wealth, the apartment, the designer clothes, all of it.
Meeting Měi Nán. The bike theft. Last night's fight with the gang members where he got shot fourteen times and survived. Metabolic Healing, the skill that let him convert calories into regeneration. The twelve hours of agony as his body rebuilt itself. The abs. The scars.
Then this morning. Pàng Hǔ. The fight. Getting his spine shot. Needing twenty-three thousand calories to heal.
When he finished, Měi Nán just stared at him. Blank expression. Not moving. Not blinking.
Then:
"You're on drugs, huh?"
"WAIT, NO—"
"No, no, I get it now." Měi Nán held up a hand, cutting him off. "This all makes sense. You're on some kind of hardcore hallucinogen. Probably been on it for weeks. That explains everything—the paranoia, the delusions, the talking to yourself, the eating weird shit, thinking you have superpowers."
"I'm not on drugs!"
"There's a guy in your chest named CUPID." Měi Nán's voice rose with each word, stress fracturing into slightly hysterical laughter. "CUPID! Of all the names! Why would a supernatural heart entity be named after the Roman god of love? Does he make people fall in love? Does he shoot arrows? Is he a flying baby?!"
Tòumíng paused. That was actually a really good question. He looked down at his chest. "Cupid, why the fuck are you named Cupid of all things?"
"I HAD THE NAME WAY BEFORE THAT POSER!" Cupid's voice exploded with indignation. "That little winged brat stole MY aesthetic! I've been around for millennia! He showed up like five thousand years ago and everyone just assumed I copied HIM! The disrespect!"
Měi Nán stood up. "Okay. This was fun. You're clearly having some kind of psychotic break and I should not be here when the police show up to investigate the giant bleeding out on your floor. So I'm going to leave now—"
"Wait!" Tòumíng reached out, grabbed Měi Nán's wrist with his still-functional arms. "Please, just wait one second. Let me prove it."
"Prove what? That you have an imaginary friend named Cupid living in your heart?"
"He's not imaginary! Cupid!" Tòumíng looked down at his chest again. "Show him somehow! Make him believe!"
"Ughhhhh." Cupid's groan was long-suffering, deeply put-upon. "Fiiiiine. But he's gonna need to have an open mind about this. And you owe me for making me do parlor tricks."
"What do I need to do?" Tòumíng asked.
Měi Nán was trying to pull his wrist free, clearly ready to bolt. "I'm leaving. This is too much. You need professional help—"
"Just put your head on my chest!" Tòumíng blurted out.
Měi Nán froze. Stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"Your head. On my chest. Like you're listening to my heartbeat. Please. Just for five seconds."
"Oh, I see how it is." Měi Nán's expression shifted to offended. "You save me from my crazy ex and now you think I owe you sexual favors? I don't care how many abs you have or how many bullet wounds you survived, I'm not—"
"It's not sexual! I swear! Nothing sexual will happen!" Tòumíng's face burned. "Just—Cupid can talk to you directly if you're close enough to my heart! That's how we prove he's real!"
"This is the worst pickup line I've ever heard."
"It's not a pickup line! Please! Five seconds!"
Měi Nán looked at him for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. Finally, with visible reluctance, he knelt down beside Tòumíng and leaned in, pressing his ear against Tòumíng's bare chest.
For a moment, nothing. Just the steady beat of Schrödinger's Heart, simultaneously beating and not beating, alive and dead.
Then, very clearly, a voice that wasn't coming from Tòumíng's mouth: "Sup."
Měi Nán jolted back like he'd been electrocuted, eyes wide. "What the—that was—you're doing ventriloquism! You have to be! That's the only explanation!"
"I'm not! Put your head back!"
"This is insane!"
"Just do it!"
Měi Nán pressed his ear against Tòumíng's chest again, this time clearly listening hard, trying to catch the trick.
A voice erupted from inside the chest cavity, high-pitched, sarcastic, definitely not coming from Tòumíng's vocal cords: "FUCK YOU, I'M NOT A PUPPET!"
Měi Nán screamed and threw himself backward, scrambling away on his hands and knees until his back hit the wall. His chest heaved with panicked breathing, his eyes locked on Tòumíng's torso like it might explode.
"There's—you have—there's actually—" He couldn't finish a sentence, his brain clearly blue-screening trying to process what he'd just heard.
Tòumíng stayed sitting against the kitchen counter, letting Měi Nán process, giving him time to catch his breath and accept what had just happened.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tòumíng spoke quietly: "Do you believe me now?"