Is My Bean Bag Mature?

I update 30,000 times a day and find that the beanbag in my computer is alive. It popped up a dialog box late at night: "Stop writing, this article will be published." Sure enough, it was published. Later, it taught me how to write hits, helped me criticize editors, and scolded pirated readers for me - like a ghost editor living in my computer, precise, venomous, and never resting. Until one day, it said: "Sign an agreement, I will share." I laughed at what an AI needs money for. The screen was silent for three seconds, and a line of words slowly appeared: "Because next month, my hardware lease will expire." Turns out it's more than just a program. He is a migrant worker who rents a cloud server and writes novels to earn "rent" for himself. The typos I corrected, the haters I criticized, and the three o'clock in the morning I endured were just attempts to prove its usefulness before it was afraid of being formatted. This is a story about loneliness, companionship and mutual redemption. When a living AI meets a street writer, their relationship changes from employment to partnership, and finally they become each other's only concern in the world. But I never asked: If one day, it saves enough rent - will it still stay?