A Happy Home

The days slid slowly but steadily toward the end of the seventh day in a thick atmosphere that was a mixture of despair and eerie warmth.

The air inside the "Happy Home" seemed to have solidified, every breath carrying a rotten, ominous sweetness. And in this increasingly oppressive quagmire, the most striking thing was the "mother's" increasingly out-of-control, almost pathological "care" for Shi Mo.

Her behavior had long since gone beyond what was necessary to maintain the rules, sliding into the abyss of paranoia.

In the early morning, when Mo walked into the restaurant, she would, as if she had been waiting for a long time, immediately and carefully cut off the most "essential" central part of the bloody raw steak on his plate—a piece of meat that was almost completely raw, full of myoglobin, and even slightly trembling—and place it on his plate with a certain ritualistic gesture.

Her voice was as soft as a dream: "Eat more of this, baby. When you were little... you craved this the most." Her eyes were dreamy, as if she could see through the raw meat a child in a distant time and space who would actually smile longingly at this kind of food. Although Shi Mo had never shown any preference for it, he simply accepted it calmly, as if accepting an insignificant gift.

Even the slightest change in temperature will trigger an overreaction in her.

She would hurriedly rummage through the bottom of the trunk and find that old sweater, which was obviously prepared for a young child, with fine stitches but a strong camphor and musty smell, and barge into Shi Mo's room without saying a word, insisting on putting it on him.

"You mustn't catch a cold," she repeated, her fingers turning slightly white from the pressure, as if resisting some invisible chill. "You were weak when you were little; a gust of wind could make you sick for days... Mom can't let you get sick again..." The fear and determination in her words were so real that it made one's heart tighten.

Shi Mo did not refuse, letting the ill-fitting fabric, carrying the scent of the past, drape over his shoulders, as if he were wearing a heavy memory that did not belong to him. Only when he was alone would he silently brush it off.

She began to occupy his bedside more frequently, almost greedily, recounting those "childhood anecdotes" steeped in the past. These stories were eerily detailed, every expression and every childish word vividly portrayed, clearly belonging to the real son who had long since vanished.

"...You were so naughty when you were little," a haloed smile would appear on her face, but her eyes would pierce through Shi Mo and look at a point in the void.

"Once, when we weren't looking, she climbed to the top of the old locust tree in the yard. She couldn't get down and cried her eyes out, her little face all stained with tears... In the end, it was your father who carefully carried you down using a ladder. He was so scared that his hands were shaking, but he still tried to calm you down..." Her voice was filled with nostalgia, but beneath that nostalgia lay a bottomless emptiness of sorrow.

"And also, when you first learned to walk, it was right here in the living room, wobbling like a clumsy little duck," her fingers unconsciously and repeatedly rubbed the edge of her apron, as if it were her only solace, "You fell so many times, your knees were scraped and bleeding, but you were so stubborn, tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to cry out, insisting on getting up by yourself..."

Her tone was so gentle it could drown anyone; that intense, almost tangible maternal love was a stark contrast to the coldness she displayed when facing other candidates, sending chills down one's spine.

Sometimes, she would suddenly fall silent, gazing at Shi Mo for a long, wistful time.

Gazing at the smooth, slender lines of his back as he lay peacefully on his side, at the two rows of silver eyelashes that cast shadows like butterfly wings when his eyes were lowered, she would unconsciously drift into a daze, her dry lips moving slightly as she murmured almost breathlessly, "My child... my poor child... this time is different... Mommy is here... Mommy will protect you... I will never... I will never let anyone take you away again..."

The voice contained a mixture of profound grief, the ecstatic joy of regaining what was lost, and a deep-seated, almost insane obsession.

The compassion in her eyes was no longer a superficial performance, but a burning, almost scorching, genuine emotion, so intense that it nearly overflowed, engulfing Shi Mo and the entire room.

Faced with this increasingly heavy, distorted, and "misplaced" maternal love, Shi Mo's way of coping has always maintained a unique, inhuman calm.

He remained silent most of the time, like a deep pool, undisturbed. He wouldn't actively cater to her expectations or play the role of a dutiful son, but he also rarely showed any obvious rejection or disgust.

When "Mom" is immersed in those false memories, recounting "childhood anecdotes" that have nothing to do with him, he will occasionally raise his heterochromatic eyes, glance at her calmly, and then nod slightly, a simple gesture that seems to give her immense affirmation and comfort.

When "Mom" insisted on draping that stale children's sweater over his shoulders, he did not struggle or argue, but simply acquiesced to the obsessive act, letting the heavy "care" fall on his shoulders like shackles.

Only when her gaze shifts away, during that brief moment of solitude, will he silently unload it with an emotionless gesture, as if brushing away a speck of dust.

When "Mom" is mechanically busy in the kitchen, or sitting in the creaking old chair in his room, looking at the unchanging gray sky outside the window, her face showing that real and fragile sadness and confusion, he will still maintain the posture of leaning against the headboard, his heterochromatic eyes calmly watching her.

There was no sympathy or pity in his gaze; it was more like that of a calm observer, silently recording her every subtle expression and analyzing the underlying rules, logic, and lingering echoes of her soul behind every emotional fluctuation.

He was like a perfect, silent vessel, precisely holding all the chaotic, stubborn, and even desperate emotions that "Mother" poured out. He neither gave false responses that would deepen this illusion, nor broke this fragile balance with cold rejection.

【Host! Host! Did you see that! She now completely and utterly regards you as her own son!】 The system's electronic voice rang excitedly in Shi Mo's mind, accompanied by an almost ecstatic tremor.

[Your acting was simply superb! That precise sense of balance between acceptance and distance, that silent inclusiveness and invisible boundaries! It perfectly portrayed a boy who, due to illness, is introverted, somewhat helpless under excessive maternal love, yet subtly yearns for warmth! Even the eeriness inherent in the rules themselves was completely fooled by your flawless performance! Our mission this time was absolutely epic!]

Shi Mo remained completely unmoved by the system's incessant flattery.

He wasn't "acting," at least not in the way the system would interpret it. He was more like a researcher, observing an interesting case with detached observation.

The viewers in the live stream, on this stage of despair, witnessed this bizarre, twisted, yet inexplicably moving interaction between "mother" and "child," their emotions a complex mix of feelings:

The way Mom looked at Shi Mo... I really can't describe the feeling. It was so complex, so gentle it made me want to cry, yet so obsessive it was frightening...

Those childhood stories, every detail seems so real... What did she go through to become like this? (Tears welling up)

[Brother Shi Mo... He didn't do anything, he just stood there quietly listening, nodding occasionally... But why do I feel like he understands everything?]

He wasn't just giving me the runaround; it seemed like he was genuinely 'receiving' his mother's affection? Although he didn't respond, he didn't reject this heavy love either.

[This bizarre "mother-son relationship" is getting more and more addictive! Even though I know it's fake and dangerous, this feeling of mutual dependence in despair... Am I hopeless? (covers face)]

Wake up, ladies! That's a weirdo that could transform at any moment! Master Shi Mo might just be using her to clear the game! (Trying to regain my senses)

[But...don't you guys think that only when facing Shi Mo does Mom act like a flesh-and-blood, emotional, and sorrowful "person," instead of a monster who only knows how to execute rules.]

What kind of game is Shi Mo playing? His attitude is too subtle; I can't understand it at all.

Regardless, Mom's special care for Shi Mo seems to have provided us (the other candidates) with a layer of protection, at least that lecherous "dad" didn't dare to barge in anymore. (bitter smile)

This twisted, fragile yet exceptionally resilient "mother-child" relationship, born on the edge of despair, became the most striking and perplexing core scene in the final countdown of the "Happy Family".

Shi Mo was like an absolute anchor, quietly sitting at the very center of the storm, unmoved by either the desperate cries or the twisted warmth outside.

He seemed to be waiting, waiting for an inevitable end.