Quick Transmigration: Let Me Tell You, I'm a Social Anxiety Person

A dejected man walked over from a distance. He had been working overtime for two weeks straight, each day later than the last. His vitality was sustained by coffee, but it also seemed to be slowly absorbed by the bitter liquid.

He heard a lot of encouraging words and encouragement. People said, "This era is so much better than before. I really don't know how those people survived the end of the world."

He flipped through the records that had been recorded in history at his workstation, feeling somewhat emotional. But when his boss pointed at his screen and said, "You think you can be considered a graduate of a prestigious university? Redo this pile of garbage," he felt that the present was no different from the end of the world.

The world is already a giant garbage dump; we might as well all just destroy each other.

He really didn't want to work overtime anymore. At this rate, he didn't know if he would even have a chance to pay off his mortgage. He lit a cigarette with great melancholy, but then it suddenly started to rain, wetting the cigarette butt that had just lit up.

He held the limp cigarette and looked around for a while, trying to figure out if the sudden rain was a natural reaction to the changing weather or if some superhuman was making a big show of passing overhead.

It wasn't until the raindrops grew larger that he belatedly came to his senses, muttering, "The weather forecasts are getting less and less accurate these days." He dragged his feet toward the trash can.

He tossed his cigarette butt over, and something moved around the corner. Startled, he patted his chest and backed away until the dark figure slowly stood up. Only then did he realize that the unidentified object on the grass was not a giant garbage bag, but a person.

The person was wearing a mask, and it was unclear what character they were cosplaying, but they looked quite young; they were probably a troubled teenager who had run away from some building.

He remembered how reckless he used to be, so he stopped and asked with concern, "Why are you out alone so late? It's raining, you should go home."

The boy didn't answer, looking cold and aloof, as if he had the words "keep away" written all over his body.

He sighed, knowing he was going to be seen as a nosy adult. He took a few steps, then turned back and handed her some tissues from his bag. "Wipe yourself off. You're soaked. Even if you're running away from home, you should dress warmly. It's winter, and being sick is awful."

The man in the suit ran away with his briefcase on his head. The boy looked down at the pack of tissues, touched his clothes, and found that his pockets were already full, so he threw the tissues into the trash can.

He looked up again. The window on the tenth floor was lit with a warm light, and the surrounding area was pitch black. It looked like a cluster of fireworks in the winter night.

After a moment, a young woman dressed in pajamas walked over, turning back to say something to the person behind her, and then reaching out to pull the curtains on the balcony closed.

Before her view was blocked, she smiled.

The boy had seen that smile twice before.

One time was a dozen minutes ago, when she smiled comfortingly at the boy who chased after her downstairs; the other time was in the evening, in that photo where her smile, though somewhat helpless, looked incredibly happy.

This happiness had nothing to do with him; he was merely a distant observer, not even understanding why he had suddenly come here.

Just like he didn't understand when he fell asleep, or why he suddenly woke up, he had no past, no memories, and not even a heartbeat.

The only information he knew was the name "Zhou Yuxing," which seemed to be his name. However, the people around him told him that "Zhou Yuxing" had died in human society, so the name might not belong to him, but to someone who lived in the past and was completely unlike him.

He took the photo out of his jacket pocket, and the first thing that caught his eye was a line of bright, lively handwriting: "A Happy Family".

He lowered his eyes, looked at the photo, pulled out another device that looked like a voice recorder, pressed the power button, and a voice rang out in the rain.

Good morning, Zhou.

"Last time you told me that you couldn't find suitable English listening materials because their speaking speed was too fast. Is it possible to set the playback speed to 0.5x?"

"Actually, I didn't explain it very well. I'm not a professional, so please be careful when choosing. Next is the trial lesson. You can listen to this part and then decide whether you want to ask me for a lesson."

The rain gradually intensified, but she spoke calmly, as if reciting a story. Even with the slight stuttering caused by the old battery, her voice remained clear and crisp.

"Life is like a sea, only the strong will of people, to reach the other shore..."

After listening to a passage, he heard her ask herself, "Is the reason you're sending me money this way because my poverty is so obvious that it's outrageous?"

After a few seconds of silence, her breathing could be heard from the recorder. She seemed to laugh, and then spoke slowly: "Actually, I know that you've always been helping me. You put my school uniform and textbooks in my desk drawer, you taught those people who were causing me trouble a lesson, and the snacks... I only ever told you that I like strawberry milk and potato chips."

"If I thanked you in person, you would probably blush and deny it repeatedly and run away. Thank you, Zhou Yuxing, you have really helped me a lot. You are really... really, really good."

After the recording finished playing, only the sound of rain remained around me.

He stood there for a while, and the moment the sound rang out, he began to feel pain.

In medical terms, this reaction is similar to "phantom limb pain," where the cerebral cortex retains a "memory" of a certain part of the body and receives virtual signals from the missing limb.

My head was throbbing, and my body was aching. The most painful spot was above my ribs, but that area was actually empty. If I lifted my clothes, I could only see a ten-centimeter-long scar.

In this chaotic state of wanting to escape, he looked at the photo again and compared it repeatedly.

Is it this person? Is the voice that made him not want to stop playing even though he was in pain, and the voice that prompted him to come to the bottom of this building, the same person?

The information about the former, like the name "Zhou Yuxing," was also completely sealed away when he was eighteen: "You once had a lover named Wen Ying, who died as a zombie at the age of eighteen. You can also understand it as her leaving this world and completely abandoning you."

The latter... flipped the photo in his hand, and behind the leaf pattern were three names: Ye Weihan, Ye Li, and Ye Weiyi.

He felt lost, staring at the ink stains, but time no longer allowed him to remain motionless in a daze.

He put the recorder back in his pocket, but hesitated for a moment when he put the photo away. It seemed that the photo shouldn't be here; it belonged to someone else.

He shouldn't have interfered with other people's happiness.