用AI辅助写了部6万字的英文小说，鼓起勇气请大家品鉴下

放弃职业生涯，打算重新寻找生活的意义。感觉自己唯一长处是：别人喜欢听我说话。所以第一次尝试写中长篇小说，但是英文不是太好，所以用AI辅助写了将近6万字。鼓起勇气勇气发出来，请谭友品鉴下，拜托大家部要喷我。

#p-8403337-the-replaced-face-1THE REPLACED FACE #p-8403337-chapter-1-not-quite-awake-2 Chapter 1 — Not Quite Awake I wake up—already wrong. The feeling comes before I open my eyes. The surface beneath me isn’t familiar. Too smooth, faintly cold against bare skin. I stay still for a moment, listening. It takes me a second to realize— I’m not the one who woke first. When I open my eyes, the ceiling above me is white, washed in early light that feels more deliberate than natural. My breath catches— I’m naked. The realization pulls me fully awake. There’s no memory to match it. No clear sense of how I got here, or when. Just the certainty that this isn’t my bed— and that it wasn’t empty. The bed is too large for one person. And I’m not in the center of it. The sheet beside me is creased, the fabric pulled and twisted. Someone was here with me. I just can’t see it now. I sit up too fast. My heartbeat climbs, heavy and insistent. I look around, trying to make sense of the space. The entire room is white—walls, floor, ceiling—coated in a smooth finish that absorbs the light. The furniture stands out in stark contrast. Black shapes against the pale surroundings—the bed, a chandelier, a few carefully chosen pieces. Nothing unnecessary. The room smells expensive—burnt sandalwood layered over something dense and floral. Beneath it, something metallic lingers underneath. My throat tightens. What happened last night? I draw in a breath, slow and steady, trying to ground myself. That’s when I notice the soreness. It settles low in my body, deep in my hips and along my thighs. The ache sits deep in my hips and inner thighs. I shift slightly— and something in the movement feels off. I can’t place it at first. My body follows, but not in the way I expect. A fraction late. I try again, slower this time. Nothing else happens. But I don’t forget it. Images flicker at the edges of my mind. The pressure of another body holds me exactly where it wants me. One hand moves, slow and deliberate, completely at odds with the weight keeping me in place. The sensation sends a sharp, involuntary shudder through me, my breath breaking against that mouth. My back arches without permission. The touch shifts, sliding lower, unhurried. My legs move before I realize it, the reaction instinctive, opening me to the slow touch. And I don’t stop it. Not in time. The image breaks apart again. I turn toward the bedside table. A wine glass sits there, half full. The liquid inside is a deep red, almost black in the low light. A faint lipstick mark clings to the rim, slightly smudged. There’s nothing else beside it. No note, no phone, nothing to explain how I got here. A few crumpled tissues lie near the bed, out of place against the otherwise immaculate floor. I stare at them. Another flash tries to form—movement, heat, the sense of someone close—but it dissolves before it becomes clear. I press my fingers against my temple. The sensations are still there—the heat, the pressure—but the rest refuses to arrange itself into anything usable. I push myself to stand. My foot lands wrong. The shift in weight comes a fraction too late, sending me off balance before I can correct it. I catch the edge of the bed with one hand, steadying myself. I stay there for a second. Then I try again. I move across the room slowly. A wall of curtains stretches from floor to ceiling. I hesitate, then pull them aside. Pale morning light floods the room. It’s still early. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and the sky is washed in pale silver and gold. Beyond the glass, there’s a terrace. A pool lies just outside, its surface still, reflecting the muted colors of dawn. I step closer, then push the door open and walk out, the cold stone biting at my bare feet. I step to the edge and look down. Far below, Los Angeles spreads beneath the hills, fading lights thinning along the roads as the last traces of night give way to morning. A chill runs through me. I step back inside. As I move further in, I pass an open doorway and glance inside. The open doorway leads into a bathroom. A wide glass wall reflects the pale light. The glass reflects the room back at itself. I catch my reflection in it—and look away before I fully register what feels off. In one corner, a large white tub sits like a sculpture. A memory stirs. My hand presses against the glass. Another body behind me—close enough that there’s no space left between us. The reflection blurs, shifts—two shapes folding into each other. The glass fogs beneath the breath. I can’t tell which one is mine. Then it’s gone again, leaving only the afterimage behind. The memory hits hard enough that I have to catch myself on the doorframe. I step back, pulling away from it. Across the hall, an open dressing room catches my eye. I move toward it, slower this time. As soon as I cross the threshold, the lights come on automatically. Clothes line the walls. At first, they look like what you’d expect in a house like this—expensive, tailored, carefully arranged. Dresses with sharp structure, fabrics that hold their shape even on the hanger. Nothing looks touched. All of them are women’s. My heartbeat stumbles. This belongs to another woman. Did I sleep with someone else’s husband? Then I open another wardrobe. The shapes are harsher. Layers fall in heavy lines that feel almost ceremonial, severe in a way that makes me think of something between fashion and ritual. Some garments combine soft black silk with rigid leather, exposing parts of the body while restricting others. There are harnesses, straps, constructions I can’t immediately understand. I close the door at once. I don’t look back. Downstairs, a floating staircase leads into a wide, open living space. For the first time, I find traces of what happened here. My coat lies on the floor. My trousers are a few steps away. My bra is draped over the back of a black sofa. And my phone— The sight of it pulls something loose in my mind. Black leather beneath me. Cold. A hand at my jaw, lifting just enough to direct my gaze. The pressure is light. I don’t resist. The thumb brushes my lower lip, slow, deliberate, as if waiting for a response I haven’t given. The taste of wine is already there, sharp and familiar, before I can place it. And when the kiss comes, I don’t pull away. Not before it’s already happening. The image slips away. I force myself to move. I move quickly, grabbing my phone first. “Hello?” My voice sounds strange in the open space, swallowed by the size of the room. “Is anyone here?” Silence. I try anyway. I go from room to room, opening doors, scanning spaces that all share the same unsettling perfection. A kitchen that looks untouched. A lounge area. A room that could be a studio. And then one door that doesn’t open. I stop there when the handle doesn’t turn. I try it again. Nothing. Black and white, polished to the point where it almost stops feeling real. No framed photos. No chargers left plugged into the walls. I go back to the living room and start getting dressed. My hands aren’t entirely steady. Coat, trousers, underwear—I pull everything on quickly, focused on leaving. Then I pause. I turn back and head upstairs again. The bedroom looks exactly as I left it. Still, composed, almost indifferent. I search more carefully this time, opening drawers, checking surfaces. There’s nothing. No small items, no personal traces. A single dark strand lies across the pillow. It doesn’t belong to me. Mine is platinum. I lift it carefully, nearly weightless between my fingers. There’s a depth to the color—almost black. Near the bed, a crumpled tissue lies on the floor. I crouch and pick it up. The tissue folds once, then again. The hair wraps loosely around my finger before I slip both into the inner pocket of my coat. I move into the bathroom, intending to fix my hair before I leave. That’s when I notice the counters. Two sinks. In a corner I somehow missed before, things have been left out. Makeup. Skincare bottles. Cotton pads faintly marked with pigment. One of the perfume bottles is missing its cap. A makeup brush rests beside the sink, dark powder still clinging to the bristles. For a second, I picture someone standing here in the mirror light, half-awake, getting ready to leave. I should go. Instead, my fingers brush lightly against the handle of the brush before I pull my hand back. Then I head downstairs fast, barely slowing as I reach the front door. I grab my heels on the way out and step into the cold, barefoot. Outside, the scale of the place becomes clearer. Palm trees, wide stretches of gravel, another pool larger than the one upstairs. Everything is precise, expensive, and strangely empty. I don’t stop until I reach the gate. Only there do I put my shoes on, my fingers clumsy with urgency. I find the control and press it. I press the control and wait, holding my breath until the gate finally begins to open. And beyond it— My Tesla. Relief nearly gives out beneath me. I get in immediately, lock the doors, and pull away faster than I should. The tires catch against the road as I leave the property behind. Only once I’m driving do I start to breathe normally again. The navigation screen confirms my location. Somewhere near the Hollywood Hills. 5:10 a.m. I turn on the heated seats. Warmth slowly seeps back into my body. But my thoughts refuse to settle. I activate FSD. The wheel adjusts, the system takes over, and I reach for my phone. Call history first. Nothing unusual. Messages. Facebook. Instagram. No obvious clues. My pulse starts climbing again. I open the activity log and scroll through the recent apps. Zoe appears near the top. The last interaction happened about eight hours ago. I open it. A conversation with someone named Celeste sits at the top of the screen. I don’t remember meeting her. But the name feels familiar too quickly. I don’t open the messages. My gaze lingers on the profile picture instead. The photo is simple—a sharply cut black bob framing a face. Half of the face is concealed behind a pure black mask. The exposed half is exquisitely delicate. I lock the screen and place the phone on the wireless charger. Outside, the city is already beginning to stir. The drive passes in a blur. By the time I reach Century City, the sky has dulled behind glass towers, the early light losing its warmth. I pull into the garage, park, and head upstairs without stopping. The reception area is still empty. Only one light is on near the nurses’ station. Someone has already arrived before me. A stack of client charts sits neatly arranged beside the computer. I don’t remember asking anyone to do that. My apartment is on the twenty-second floor, sealed behind thick glass. Up here, the city doesn’t reach me directly. Whatever noise exists below fades before it can touch anything inside. The temperature holds steady. White surfaces. Clean lines. Every object exactly where it belongs. I lock the door behind me, set my bag down, and stand there for a moment in the center of the room. Then I move. The shower comes first. Hot water runs over my skin, steady and grounding. Whatever remains of sleep slips away under it. By the time I step out, I’m fully awake. I dress quickly, choosing something simple, then move to the mirror. My hands are steady again as I apply a light layer of makeup. When I’m done, I set everything aside. I lean forward slightly, my gaze lifting to meet my reflection in the narrow mirror. For a second, I have the strange sense that I’m stepping into place rather than toward it. I look up. Under the vanity lights, my face appears almost unreal. Skin stretched too smoothly over bone, every proportion held in the precise balance I know by memory more than sight. My platinum hair falls straight down my back, pale enough to catch the light like metal. My eyes look lighter than usual beneath the glare, the blue washed thin, almost colorless. At thirty-one, there is nothing about this face I don’t recognize immediately. I hold the expression automatically. The asymmetry is minor. Barely perceptible unless you know where to look. My focus drops to my mouth. The left side sits slightly higher than the right—not enough to qualify as a smile, just enough to alter the balance of the face. I flatten it immediately. Muscle memory takes over. I press the expression flat again. The expression settles back into place. I wait. For a second, nothing happens. Slowly, the left side lifts again. The movement settles too naturally into place. My breath catches. I press my lips together harder this time, forcing the muscles still. The way I’ve done for years. It holds long enough that I slowly release the tension in my mouth. The shift returns almost immediately. Smaller now. Worse because of it. My fingers twitch at my side, already wanting to correct it again. I stop myself. And stand there, staring at my reflection, with the terrifying sense that something in my face is no longer waiting for permission.

AI輔助是怎麽個輔助法？

都辅助了，顺手让它翻一下

流水账？ 不过码字不易

bright: 英文不是太好 那为何不写中文

你发老中论坛让人品鉴英文小说，肯定都拷出去让gpt翻成中文了啊

都翻了 要不直接tldr吧

不是兄弟 我上班看各种AI slop已经看的够够的了 下班休闲也得看AI slop？

真的醉了

你发啥royalroad webnovels wattpad etc啊

Falanta: 那为何不写中文 中文也不太好

只是感觉，你用的AI用的主语 I 太多次了

不是，你发reddit啊，泥潭我只想看中文