The beetle crawled slowly on the glass. It was as large as a palm and there were small, dense bumps attached to the eight slender feet. These bumps clung smoothly to the glass surface. The centre contained a large needle tip with a small white point that was its suction cup. A long, brown tentacle dragged behind it like a tail, leaving a trail of dark brown liquid on the glass. It seemed to want to come in.

Poet reached out and slid his finger between the gap in the two windows. “It’s okay. It is tight and it can’t come in.”

“One generation isn’t as good as another generation,” Boss Shaw exclaimed. “The longer it gets, the uglier. It is just like that worm thing before.”

“It is the gene fusion.” Poet watched the glass. “The higher the fusion, the stranger the appearance and the stronger the infection ability. I know a scientist who said that human research over the past century still hasn’t explained the principle of infection.”

Boss Shaw answered, “Oh.”

He uttered a senseless tone but his body was shrinking into a corner of the room, as far away from the window as possible. “Can you draw the curtains?”

“I would like to see the city.” Poet drew the curtains halfway. The room was shrouded in darkness and his outline showed a strange sadness in the gloomy. “This… I don’t know how long the city will last.”

An Zhe looked out. In the morning, under the dim sky, the grey city stretched out. Half of it was hidden by the faint white fog. The sun was rising and the fog was disappearing. A few giant mechanical structures were exposed to his vision. They were high and pierced the sky. Humans always had many strange devices. These devices could ensure the safety of the base but sometimes they couldn’t, just like right now.

At this time, Poet turned to An Zhe. “You don’t seem to be afraid at all.”

An Zhe pursed his lips and didn’t know how to answer. Poet put down the curtain and smiled at him. “You are really strange.”

“Really?”

“You’re too quiet, as if what happens next doesn’t matter.” Poet stated, “There are very few people in our time with your personality.”

An Zhe smiled. “Maybe.”

There had to be a difference between a mushroom and humans. He tried to make himself seem more human by asking Poet, “So what do we do now?”

Poet thought about it for three minutes before answering, “Pray.”

“Pray that the ultrasonic dispersers aren’t completely damaged or pray that the insects are just a mindless group without brains, surviving through instinct.”

“Then pray that our glass is strong enough not to be easily crushed.”