I'm doing engineering in the instance.

There was light and smell in the management room, and something was standing inside.

The light was from an incandescent bulb, a warm yellow, shining down from a single bulb in the center of the ceiling, coloring the entire room in a completely different hue from the outside—outside it was gray, a gray of concrete, moisture, and night mixed together, while here it was yellow, old, the kind of yellow that had accumulated in an enclosed space for many years.

The smell was a mixture of engine oil, concrete powder, and old wood. Xie Chengzhou had smelled this smell in the material warehouse of the construction site before; it was unique to the storage rooms on construction sites, a complex smell formed by the accumulation of volatile substances from various materials due to the lack of windows and ventilation over a long period. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was thick, like it enveloped you.

That thing was standing on the other side of the room.

He was about thirty centimeters taller than a normal person, not because of longer legs, but because his entire body proportions were elongated, as if a normal person had been pulled upwards from above. His arms hung down to below his knees, and his fingers were twice the length of a normal person's, with fingertips touching the ground. His skin wasn't skin; it was gray, a uniform gray, like weathered concrete, with tiny cracks on the surface. The direction of these cracks was exactly the same as the concrete cracks Xie Chengzhou had seen in the corridor—not random, but caused by stress.

His head was bowed, so his face was not visible.

Old Zhao took half a step back.

It wasn't a long stride, but rather an instinctive, heel-first, weight-shifted half-step—a physical reaction before the brain when someone sees something that shouldn't be there. His thermos was in his hand, the lid unscrewed, only halfway open.

Li Gong did not retreat, but he raised his left hand to chest height. It was not a defensive posture, but the kind of movement where the hand would find a position on its own when one is unsure of what to do.

Xie Chengzhou stood at the door and shone his flashlight on the thing.

The beam of light fell on it, but it did not move.

Then it raised its head.

The way he raised his head was wrong. It wasn't a bend in the neck; his entire head was rotating on his shoulders—like a bolt turning in a nut, slowly and evenly, until it was directly facing Xie Chengzhou and stopped. At the moment it stopped, there was a very faint sound, a "crack," not the sound of bones, but the sound of concrete cracking, the sound of tiny cracks expanding under stress.

Xie Chengzhou memorized that "click" sound.

It had no eyes, or rather, there were two depressions on its face, shaped like eye sockets, but empty inside—gray voids without eyeballs or luster. Yet Xie Chengzhou could feel it looking at him. Not a gaze, but something else, like pressure, like the silent weight you feel when you're near a load-bearing wall.

"The third party said 'another way,'" Xie Chengzhou said, lowering his voice, "that they're 'waiting.'"

He didn't say "Don't move," nor did he say "Get ready." He simply said those words to align the information, to tell Lao Zhao and Engineer Li what little he knew.

It started walking towards them.

The steps were slow and even, with a slight vibration coming from the ground with each step. It wasn't the rhythm of the seepage flow, but the vibration of real weight hitting the ground, the slight stress of concrete bearing the weight of something it shouldn't have.

Xie Chengzhou did not back down.

He quickly went over the third party's words in his mind—"There's something waiting inside," not "There's something inside, don't go in." The difference between the two sentences was huge. The former was a warning, the latter a hint. The third party had been in the room; he went in, he came out, he knew what was inside, and he chose to tell Xie Chengzhou instead of stopping him.

This means that it is permissible to go in.

But there are conditions.

It walked to a distance of about 1.5 meters from Xie Chengzhou and stopped.

Then it stretched out its hand, its right hand, its fingers so long that the fingertips were suspended in the air, toward the flashlight in Xie Chengzhou's hand.

Xie Chengzhou did not move.

Its finger touched the side of the flashlight.

The moment they made contact, Xie Chengzhou felt the temperature—not cold, but the kind of heat that comes from touching an object much cooler than yourself, a heat that's felt in comparison, the kind of heat where your body temperature seems much higher than the other's. His hand didn't tremble, but he could feel a slight tightening in his knuckles, a muscle response that occurred on its own without any command.

It is sensing the flashlight.

It sensed for about three seconds, then withdrew its hand.

It turned to Old Zhao.

Old Zhao moved the thermos forward slightly—not proactively, but with a "check if you want" attitude. It was the reaction of someone who had worked on construction sites for thirty years when faced with an unfamiliar inspector: uncooperative, but not confrontational, leaving the thermos there for the inspector to see.

Its fingers touched the body of the thermos.

Old Zhao felt that the thermos had gotten cold.

It wasn't a drop in temperature, but rather the feeling of heat being drawn away, as if a portion of the temperature inside the cup had vanished in a second. You could feel the change in your palm, from warm to not so warm. Old Zhao frowned slightly, but he didn't take the cup back.

It paused for about two seconds, then withdrew its hand.

Xie Chengzhou glanced at Lao Zhao in those two seconds.

Old Zhao's brows were still furrowed, his gaze fixed on the dam keeper's fingers. It wasn't nervousness, but the kind of expression you have when you encounter an inspector you don't know at a construction site, and he's checking your tools, and you don't know what he's looking for—waiting, watching. His hand didn't move; he held the cup in his hand, in the exact same posture as before, as if waiting for the dam keeper to finish speaking, or finish the inspection, or finish what he wanted to do, before deciding on the next step.

It's not fear. It's waiting.

Xie Chengzhou had seen this kind of waiting method on construction sites. It's the kind of waiting method where you relinquish control of the matter, but your body is still preparing. It's the kind of waiting method used by someone who has worked in uncertain environments for many years.

A thermos isn't a repair tool. It knows that.

It turned to Engineer Li.

Li's right hand was holding a measuring tape, while his left hand hung down. Instead of touching the tape, its fingers reached directly into Li's left hand, towards the two fingers that had not yet fully regained sensation—the ring and little fingers.

Engineer Li did not dodge.

Its fingers are too long.

This was the first thought that popped into Xie Chengzhou's mind at that moment. It wasn't an analysis or a judgment, but simply a statement—its fingers were too long. When it reached for Li Gong's ring and little fingers, those two fingers were almost immediately and completely covered, as if concrete was poured onto steel bars, encasing them and only revealing a tiny bit of the color of Li Gong's fingernails, the rest being all gray.

Li Gong's shoulders twitched.

It wasn't a big movement, just the kind of tremor you get when you're electrocuted—a slight, unintentional muscle contraction, but Xie Chengzhou, standing nearby, saw it. Engineer Li's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His Adam's apple bobbed, as if something was stuck there, something he couldn't say or swallow.

The cracks on the dam guard's skin began to change near the point of contact.

It wasn't expansion, it was flow—something was moving within the crack, like the subtle heat of cement slurry solidifying in a fissure, seeping outwards from the inside. It wasn't light, but it resembled light; it was the kind of feeling that made you think something was alive inside the crack. Xie Chengzhou stared at the point of contact. His flashlight didn't move, but he could feel his heart pounding in his chest—not just faster, but each beat was heavy, as if something was reminding him: This isn't right, this shouldn't be happening, this shouldn't exist in this world.

His rationality told him that this was a manifestation of "building changes the rules," that the dam keeper approved of the repair work and the repair of the damaged construction workers, which was reasonable and explainable.

His body doesn't accept this explanation.

Old Zhao was beside him, holding a thermos in his hand with the lid fully unscrewed. He didn't know when Old Zhao had unscrewed it; just a moment ago it was only half-open, but now it was completely open. The lid was in Old Zhao's hand, and the body of the thermos was in his other hand, both hands holding it separately, as if they were ready to throw the thermos at any moment.

Then Li Gong regained feeling in his fingers.

It wasn't a gradual recovery; it was sudden, like a long-broken electrical wire suddenly being switched on. The current traveled from his fingertips upwards, through his palm, wrist, and forearm, causing a strong tingling sensation, ten times stronger than before. It wasn't pain; it was the feeling of being suddenly electrified after a long period of numbness. It was the return of sensation, the feeling of his nerves starting to work again—but it was too intense. It was so intense that Li Gong's eyes narrowed. It was the reaction to a bright light shining on him, the reaction to sensory overload.

The dam keeper pulled his hand back.

Mr. Li's two fingers are red.

It wasn't the red of injury, but the red of blood flowing again, the kind of engorgement that comes from being suppressed for a long time. It was a vibrant color, a normal color, but under the warm yellow light of this room, after everything that had just happened, that red looked too vivid, too real, as if it didn't belong here.

Engineer Li bent his ring finger slightly.

It's bent to the bottom.

He bent down completely, without stopping or hesitation. He stopped there, his fingers bent, not immediately straightening, just standing there, as if confirming that it was real, as if waiting for it to become unreal, but it didn't change; it was real.

Then he stretched out, bent down, stretched out again, and it was perfectly normal.

"Okay," he said.

His voice was a little dry. He didn't say "thank you," nor "how could that be?" He only said "It's all better," because he didn't know what else to say—thank a concrete thing for fixing his finger? What language could he use to describe what had just happened? He said nothing, just uttered those two words, and then shut his mouth.

The dam keeper turned his head.

The "click" sound came again, but this time it wasn't directed at the three of them; it was directed at the materials shelf on the left side of the room, as if guiding them, as if telling them where to go. The flow in the crack near the point of contact disappeared, and the skin turned back into a uniform gray, without light or heat, as if nothing had ever happened.

It walked back to the other side of the room, squatted down, lowered its head, and stopped moving.

Xie Chengzhou went through the process in his mind.

It checked three people, examining their belongings and their condition. Flashlight – a tool, passed. Thermos – not a tool, paused, then allowed. Engineer Li's hand – an injured hand, which was repaired.

It acknowledges the repair process. It also performs repairs itself.

He wrote the following in his memo: "Dam Guardian · Management Room · Inspection Behavior · Touching Tools · Repairing Engineer Li's Left Hand · Inference: Approving the repair behavior, possibly an executor of 'building to change the rules' · Different from the seepage flow · Does not attack proactively · Conditionally allows passage · To be verified."

Then he shone his flashlight around the room.

The material rack is on the left side, against the wall. It has three layers, is made of iron, and is rusty but structurally intact.

He walked over and began to count.

The template is made of wood, consisting of twelve pieces, each approximately 60 x 40 cm in size and 2 cm thick. There are remnants of old mortar on the edges, indicating that it has been used, but the wood is intact and not rotten.

Water-swellable strips, available in two rolls, each approximately 20 meters long, made of rubber, with a rectangular cross-section measuring 20 mm wide and 15 mm high. These water-swellable strips expand to three to five times their original volume when exposed to water, filling cracks and creating a water seal.

Expansion bolts, one box, M8 size, used to fix formwork to the concrete surface.

Manual grouting machine, one unit, small size, manual pressurization, maximum pressure approximately 0.5 MPa, equipped with hose and grouting nozzle, suitable for crack grouting.

Two bags of quick-drying mortar, each weighing 25 kilograms, the same type Xie Chengzhou used in the maintenance room, but in larger quantities.

There was something else Xie Chengzhou hadn't anticipated: a roll of waterproof membrane, one meter wide and about fifteen meters long, self-adhesive, used for waterproofing concrete surfaces.

"That's enough," said Engineer Li beside him. "This is enough to repair the main crack."

His voice was more steady than before, and he tapped the edge of the materials shelf twice with his left ring and little fingers, as if to confirm that his senses had really returned and that it wasn't a hallucination.

Xie Chengzhou gave the material rack one last look, then found a relatively clean area on the ground, squatted down, and used his finger to draw a diagram on the dust—not a precise engineering drawing, but a quick sketch, marking the location, direction, and fixing points at both ends of the main crack.

"The main crack," he said, "is about 18 millimeters wide at its widest point, and its depth is estimated to exceed the concrete cover, possibly reaching the reinforcement layer. It runs at a 45-degree angle and is about 1.2 meters long." He marked several points on the sketch with his finger. "The waterstop strip is inserted first, pressed into the crack, and expands upon contact with water, forming a preliminary seal. The formwork is fixed on both sides with expansion bolts, spaced no more than 30 centimeters apart. Then grouting is applied, starting from the bottom of the crack and working upwards, allowing the mortar to fill the crack with the help of gravity."

Li, squatting beside him, looked at the sketch and added a detail with his right index finger: "Clean the cracks. First, remove the loose concrete and impurities from the cracks, otherwise the mortar's adhesion will decrease." He paused, "I have a chisel, I can use that."

"How long will it take to clean the seams?" Xie Chengzhou asked.

"The length of this crack," Engineer Li thought for a moment, "is about twenty minutes."

"Install the waterstop strip," Xie Chengzhou continued, "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

"Set up the formwork and tighten the bolts," Xie Chengzhou said. "Thirty minutes, if the concrete surface is in good condition and doesn't require any base treatment."

"No need," said Engineer Li. "I checked, the concrete surface is still strong, it's not a weathered layer."

"Grouting," Xie Chengzhou said. "From mixing to initial setting, the mortar takes twenty minutes for the quick-drying type. We need to complete the injection before the initial setting, leaving fifteen minutes for the operation."

"Remove the formwork," said Engineer Li. "At least wait until the mortar reaches a certain strength. For quick-drying mortar, it can be removed after about forty minutes at room temperature."

谢承洲在草图旁边写了几个数字：20+10+30+15=75分钟，加上拆模的40分钟，总计115分钟。

He glanced at his wrist.

Water level: 5.74 meters. Distance from warning line: 2.26 meters.

Then the number jumped one space.

It wasn't a steady jump; it was sudden, like someone had opened a sluice gate upstream—5.74 became 5.76, two centimeters, rising two centimeters in the single second he watched.

He recalculated the rate of increase.

The previous rate of increase was about 0.5 millimeters per minute. At this rate, it would take approximately 280 minutes to reach the warning level. But if the rate of increase becomes 2 millimeters per minute—

"The rate of increase has accelerated," he said.

"I see it," said Engineer Li, who was also looking at his wrist.

Xie Chengzhou recalculated in his mind. If the rate of rise remained at 2 millimeters per minute, there were still 113 minutes to reach the warning line. With a 115-minute construction plan and a 113-minute time window, the margin of error was only 2 minutes.

This margin of error is insufficient.

He drew a new line next to the sketch, crossing out the "molding removal" step.

"We won't remove the formwork," he said. "The formwork will remain in place as a permanent component, and the forty minutes saved will be used for curing after grouting, allowing the mortar to reach sufficient strength before removal."

Engineer Li looked at the crossed-out line and said, "This way, the formwork will become a permanent component."

"That's enough," Xie Chengzhou said.

Li didn't say anything more. He put away the measuring tape, stood up, wiped his right hand on his work clothes, and then said, "I'll clean the seams, you calculate the load."

Xie Chengzhou nodded.

"There's one more thing," Old Zhao said from beside the materials rack. He had been listening without interrupting, but he was watching the dam keeper—who was still squatting in the corner, not moving. "Will it follow us when we go out to work?"

Xie Chengzhou glanced at the dam guard.

Its head remained lowered, not facing them, and it showed no sign of moving.

"No," Xie Chengzhou said, "it works here."

He wasn't sure if his judgment was correct, but he had one reason to support it: the dam keeper had waited a long time in the management room until they came in, inspected, and then let them through. Its behavior pattern was "wait-inspect-let," not "follow." It was a guardian of this space, not a tracker.

Old Zhao screwed the lid of the thermos on, tightened it, and then said, "Okay."

They packed the necessary materials into portions.

One roll of waterstop strip, six templates (enough, not all of them are needed), one box of expansion bolts, one manual grouting machine, one bag of quick-drying mortar, and half a roll of waterproof membrane.

Engineer Li carried the grouting machine, Xie Chengzhou carried the mortar, and Lao Zhao carried the templates—six templates stacked together, bound with the outer packaging of the waterstop strip, carried on his shoulder, with a thermos cup in his other hand. He was unsteady on his feet, but he didn't ask anyone for help.

Xie Chengzhou looked back before leaving.

The dam keeper was still squatting in the corner.

But it turned its head.

It was the same angle, the same way it rotated, and with a "click," it turned to face the doorway, to face Xie Chengzhou, and then stopped.

Two hollow depressions, without eyeballs, but Xie Chengzhou felt the pressure, the silent weight, as if a load-bearing wall was exerting some kind of silent scrutiny on him.

It is waiting for them to come back.

Or rather, it's waiting to see if they can complete the repairs.

Xie Chengzhou added a final line to his memo: "The dam keeper turns back again as he leaves. Inference: It is observing the progress of the repairs, or waiting for some outcome after the repairs are completed. Its reaction if the repairs fail is unknown."

Then he stepped out the door.

The night wind outside rushed in, carrying moisture and the unique fishy smell of the dam surface. It blew into his face, which was warmed by the incandescent light in the management room, and immediately dissipated the heat. The coolness of the concrete enveloped him again.

He took one last look at the numbers on his wrist.

Water level: 5.79 meters. Distance from warning line: 2.21 meters.

The rate of increase is accelerating.

"Let's go," he said, "to the location of the main fissure."

Old Zhao had already walked towards the dam, carrying six formwork panels on his shoulder. His steps were steady, and his center of gravity was low, just like the way he walked on the dam. He was a man who knew how to walk up a slope no matter what he was carrying.

Li followed behind him, carrying the grouting machine on his back. The ring and little fingers of his left hand were fastened tightly to the straps of the grouting machine, as if he were finally able to exert force and confirming that he could indeed exert force.

Xie Chengzhou carried the mortar and walked at the back.

He mentally went through the construction steps one last time: cleaning the joints for 20 minutes, waterstop strips for 10 minutes, setting up the formwork for 30 minutes, grouting for 15 minutes, curing and waiting, and then leaving.

Total time: 75 minutes.

Remaining time: Approximately 110 minutes, if the rate of increase no longer accelerates.

Error: 35 minutes.

enough.

But it's just enough.

He planted his foot firmly, feeling the concrete of the dam surface. The exposed aggregate was rough, cold, and stable, and it didn't move under his shoe.

The numbness in my right ankle is still there, but it's weaker than before. It's the kind of feeling that fades into the background once you get used to it. It's still there, but it's no longer in the foreground.

He felt his way upstream.

0.1 Hz, still there, that large entity hasn't left yet.

The water level continues to rise, waiting for the water pressure to reach a certain critical value.

Xie Chengzhou mentally aligned the timeline: they needed seventy-five minutes to complete the repairs, after which the seepage creatures would retreat—if the rule-altering construction was indeed true. He didn't know the critical water pressure of the large entity, but he knew one thing:

They need to complete the repair before it reaches the critical value.

He quickened his pace.