Before Yan Qing realized it, Chen had already been living in Yan Qing’s apartment for a full week.

  During that time, Yan Qing had to admit—reluctantly—that Chen was, in fact, a remarkably compatible roommate for his personality.

  He wasn’t noisy like most young people, didn’t blast music at three in the morning, never brought strange guests home, and—most importantly—didn’t constantly interrupt Yan Qing’s research for no reason. Most of the time, Chen either sat quietly on the sofa watching human television with intense focus, or stood by the window staring out at the city as if memorizing it.

  All in all, living with this alien was surprisingly comfortable.

  Except for the fact that, every now and then, Chen would do something inexplicable entirely on his own.

  Something that inevitably resulted in a headache for Yan Qing.

  Like now.

  “Ugh… my stomach hurts so bad…”

  That’s right—lying face-down on the bed, groaning intermittently like someone on the brink of death, was Yan Qing’s alien roommate: Chen.Xing.Chen.

  The apartment’s owner had just finished a research report. His shoulders were stiff from sitting too long, and he was halfway through mentally congratulating himself on finally meeting a deadline when he pushed open the bedroom door—

  —and immediately saw a large, unfamiliar shape sprawled across his neatly made bed.

  “What on earth did you eat this time?” Yan Qing rolled his eyes inelegantly and crouched beside the bed, pushing aside one of Chen’s wings that had flopped onto the pillow. “Get off my sheets before you contaminate them.”

  “I’m dying~~~~”

  Chen abandoned his usual inscrutable, commanding image and turned his head just enough to shoot Yan Qing a pitiful look before burying his face back into the pillow. His voice was weak, elongated, and dramatic.

  “Why do you have toxic substances in your house? Are you trying to poison me~~~”

  “How would I have poison in my apartment?!” Yan Qing snapped immediately. “This is a residential building, not a villain’s lair.”

  He paused, narrowing his eyes.

  “…Did you eat the painkillers from my medical kit again? I told you, those are not candy.”

  A few days earlier, Yan Qing had walked out of the bathroom to find Chen sitting cross-legged on the sofa, eyes glued to an absurdly melodramatic soap opera, casually tossing aspirin into his mouth one after another.

  Like popcorn.

  Yan Qing had nearly died on the spot.

  Cold sweat had poured down his back as he lunged for the bottle.

  So aliens really were different—even their eating habits defied common sense.

  It didn’t take long for him to realize that Chen’s constitution wasn’t nearly as invincible as he’d assumed. Several times already, Chen had managed to give himself food poisoning by eating the wrong things.

  And Teleopeans seemed to be particularly allergic to green vegetables.

  Once, driven by curiosity, Chen had tried Yan Qing’s vegetable salad.

  The result had been catastrophic.

  Yan Qing still vividly remembered Chen sprinting to the bathroom at inhuman speed, knocking over a chair on the way, wings flared in panic as he retched like his life depended on it.

  After that incident, Yan Qing no longer dared let him eat any vegetables at all.

  Seriously—if anything happened to this commander on Earth, would those terrifying Teleopeans let him off the hook?

  “What did you eat?!” Yan Qing demanded again, voice rising.

  Chen groaned louder, rolled onto his stomach, and stubbornly buried his face in the pillow.

  At last, Yan Qing’s patience snapped.

  “You’re trying to poison me and you’re still yelling at me. I’m in a strange place with no one I know, and you bully me like this…”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  As he spoke, Chen actually lifted his head just enough for Yan Qing to see his expression.

  His eyes were watery.

  Watery.

  His face screamed victimhood so convincingly that Yan Qing froze for half a second.

  …Did he eat something that damaged his brain?

  How was this the same being who had once radiated pure danger, who could make trained soldiers tense just by standing still? Right now, he looked more like an oversized child sulking because he wasn’t allowed dessert.

  Yan Qing felt a headache coming on.

  Even aliens couldn’t be judged by appearances, apparently.

  He rubbed his face, took a deep breath, and tried again—this time, much more gently.

  “Chen,” he said, lowering his voice. “What did you eat today?”

  Why do I feel like a kindergarten teacher coaxing a toddler? he cursed internally.

  “Sushi.”

  Chen finally turned his head and answered.

  “…”

  Yan Qing nearly choked.

  “…Are you an idiot?!” He shot to his feet, pointing accusingly at the bed. “You got food poisoning from vegetables and you still eat sushi?! Do you know what seaweed is made of?!”

  He froze mid-rant.

  Wait.

  “Where did you even get the sushi?” Yan Qing was certain he hadn’t ordered any takeout.

  “…I called and—ow!”

  Chen barely finished his sentence before Yan Qing smacked him on the arm.

  “That was for being stupid,” Yan Qing said coldly, turning on his heel and storming out of the bedroom. “Don’t touch anything else in my kitchen.”

  Why am I wasting my time on him? the scientist fumed as he marched away.

  Behind him, Chen rubbed the spot where he’d been hit.

  The pained expression vanished instantly.

  The beautifully shaped corners of his mouth curved upward into a small, satisfied smile.

  Looks like those stupid human TV shows weren’t a total waste after all…

  At least now, Yan Qing wasn’t as afraid of him as before.

  The Teleopean was quite satisfied with the results of deliberately ruining his own image.

  “Ugh—”

  A wave of nausea surged through his abdomen, and Chen instinctively covered his mouth, wings twitching as he fought the urge to actually vomit.

  …That part, unfortunately, wasn’t acting.

  It seemed best to stay far away from anything green in the future.

  Several days slipped by, the city’s relentless rhythm carrying them forward as life settled into a new, uneasy normal.

  Under the New York sky, neon lights glittered through the night, and crowds surged along the busy streets.

  Yan Qing had just stepped out of the bathroom, a robe draped loosely over him, water still clinging to the bare skin exposed at his collar and shoulders.

  …What’s that sound?

  The moment he left the bathroom, he could clearly hear music drifting in waves from the balcony—impossible to describe, impossible to place as any familiar instrument.

  The piece was long and powerful, sometimes high and piercing, sometimes low and tender, entwining with the night wind—deep and distant like the stars in the dark, irresistibly captivating.

  He’d heard it in the bathroom too, but through the sound of running water it hadn’t been distinct.

  Yan Qing wasn’t someone who understood music, yet for some reason the timbre seemed to carry a kind of magic, drawing him into the living room that opened onto the balcony.

  And then—what he saw was something he would never forget for the rest of his life.

  The golden-haired Teleopean sat on the balcony railing, his robe of interwoven gold and black billowing full with the night wind. The city’s neon light rendered his handsome, unearthly face crystal-clear, faintly luminous.

  The long braid he always wore had come loose naturally; waves of hair like molten gold spilled into the slightly cool air, curving into countless delicate arcs.

  His long, straight legs were crossed at ease, and resting across his thigh was a strangely shaped instrument. Its dark soundboard held a slight curve, strung with seven laser-made strings that resonated with the movement of his fingers.

  A bow, like that of a cello, was held in another set of long, elegant fingers. It swept softly across the laser strings, and at once the lingering music poured out from it.

  The airy timbre was so ancient it felt as if time itself had lost meaning—like a sound carried from another spacetime.

  Yan Qing stood as if nailed to the spot, staring straight ahead, only coming back to himself when the music finally vanished.

  “S-sorry—did I disturb you?”

  Realizing those inhuman golden eyes were gazing at him through the night, Yan Qing felt his heartbeat quicken for no reason at all.

  Tense. Extremely tense.

  Chen shook his head. His somewhat delicate, almost feminine face carried a smile familiar to humans. “No. I think I disturbed you.”

  “No, no. The piece you played just now was really beautiful—I got absorbed without meaning to.” Yan Qing waved his hands quickly. “Seriously. It was so good. I’ve never heard music like that before.”

  “Oh—you like the timbre of the Kiharro?” Chen glanced down at the instrument in his hands. “I thought our species difference might mean our musical tastes wouldn’t overlap.”

  “It’s not the same as the music I’m used to, but it still sounds really good,” Yan Qing answered honestly. “Does the piece have a name?”

  “It does, but it can’t be translated precisely into your language,” the Teleopean explained gently. “It’s a very old poem—already circulating when our civilization first rose.”

  A poem?

  So there were lyrics?

  “Could you sing it for me?”

  Suddenly, the dark-haired scientist blurted it out without thinking. But the moment the words left his mouth, he realized the request might be rude, and his expression froze in awkwardness.

  Golden eyes studied the embarrassed Yan Qing deeply. Then Chen’s lips curved upward again—so beautifully that Yan Qing found himself staring.

  Chen’s hands began to play the earlier melody again, and the Teleopean’s voice gradually joined in.

  Beyond the firmament—layer upon layer of space.

  Shining, burning—the eternal star.

  Light of the ages, glory without end.

  Immortal will. Immortal existence.

  May my prayer—be known to you.

  May the voice of praise—linger without cease.

  A thousand present things, ten thousand reflections.

  Above the firmament, a trillion cycles.

  That eternal star—the light of glory…

  Chen sang in Teleopean.

  Yet for some reason, Yan Qing could understand the meaning carried by that unfamiliar language completely.

  A song not of this world held histories and faiths not of humankind, and Yan Qing sank utterly into Chen’s strange yet captivating presence, unable to look away from his flawless profile.

  He didn’t even have the strength to turn his gaze aside.

  The melody was played again and again, and the two of them sat on the balcony.

  City lights illuminated their silhouettes—strangely, impossibly beautiful.