The story begins with an interrogation.
“Name.”
“Liang Qiao.”
“Age.”
“26… 36.”
“You’re not even sure of your own age? What about your date of birth?”
“September 16, 3775.”
“That makes you 36, correct.”
“…”
“How did you get in here, and what were you doing in Restricted Zone 3?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please cooperate with us.”
“I’m… I’m a member of the Logistics Division of the Federal… Federal Citizen Security Agency. I was on a mission before the incident, but something went wrong… When I woke up, I was here.”
“You were on a mission for the Logistics Division? Are you joking with me?” The interrogator looked at her sternly and said, “Do you have any identification to prove you’re a member of the Agency?”
“My identification… it’s been lost. You can look up my ID number directly in the Agency system.”
“Fine, go ahead.”
“339872… 1265… 7963.”
Verification.
Beep—the screen flashed red.
The light-brain emitted two warning sounds she had never heard before, and the next second, a precisely located alert appeared before her eyes.
“What is this number?!”
Liang Qiao’s eyes held the same bewilderment, but she still answered dutifully, “My… employee number.”
…
The public security station descended into brief chaos.
The interrogator escalated the situation directly to the station’s superiors, who in turn reported it up the chain. After countless communications and the clamor of voices subsided, the first to arrive was Liang Qiao’s direct supervisor, Lin Yuxing.
Of course, that was no longer the case now—judging by the insignia on the other woman’s uniform, her current rank was at least two levels above what it had been.
The moment their eyes met, immense shock surfaced in Lin Yuxing’s gaze, as if she couldn’t believe the person before her was truly her former subordinate. She kept muttering something under her breath, and only when she finally drew close did Liang Qiao make out the string of curses she was repeating.
“No… I’m not dreaming, am I? Fuck, god-fucking-dammit, I can’t fucking believe this, I didn’t fucking—!”
Liang Qiao: “…”
“Director.” She called out slowly, letting the other woman reach out and touch her face. A few slightly rough fingers slid from her eyes down to her nose, and after some fiddling, Lin Yuxing still wouldn’t give up—she probed toward the back of Liang Qiao’s neck, trying to find a brain-computer interface there.
Unfortunately, all she found was the gland of an Alpha.
For an Alpha to touch another Alpha’s gland was a highly offensive act, but Liang Qiao was famously good-natured, and besides, the current situation didn’t permit her to object. So she could only endure it silently, and after a long moment, she managed to squeeze out another word: “…Director.”
Lin Yuxing withdrew her hand and stood there looking at her for a long while. When she spoke again, her voice was suddenly hoarse. “…It really is you, Liang Qiao.”
It really is you.
—Next, we announce an obituary.
Federal Citizen Security Agency, Logistics Division Three, internal confidential notification.
Liang Qiao, codename Tyrant, and Pei Qiansu, codename Phantom, members of the Seventh Operations Division, Logistics Division Three, Federal Citizen Security Agency, were on a special mission designated “Deep Dive-Δ47” on September 11, Interstellar Calendar 3801, when a sudden underwater collapse occurred in the coastal waters of Restricted Zone 3. After multiple cross-verifications, the possibility of their survival has been ruled out.
The nature of the mission involved undisclosed undersea risk data, and the details of the operation have been permanently sealed under federal classified information protocols. In accordance with Article 92 of the Agency’s regulations, it is confirmed that both individuals fulfilled their duties during the operation and meet the criteria for death-in-service designation.
Director Lin Yuxing of the Seventh Operations Division is hereby directed to assign a specialist to complete the death notification to the families and to simultaneously execute the confidentiality disclosure procedures—
It is with deep regret that we have lost them forever.
…
But now, this person who was lost forever had suddenly reappeared—on an ordinary, peaceful night, looking exactly as she did in memory… standing before her, alive.
Lin Yuxing couldn’t say whether she was happy or sad. Her fingers curled and uncurled, and in the end, all she said was: “…It’s good that you’re back.”
The public security station was cleared out by the people Lin Yuxing brought with her. Everyone who had seen Liang Qiao that night was taken into a separate conference room to sign confidentiality agreements, and the duty officers were temporarily replaced by Agency colleagues. During that time, they also handled a public disturbance involving an Alpha losing control.
An hour later, the doctor Lin Yuxing had urgently summoned gave Liang Qiao a basic examination in the station’s medical room, while preliminarily confirming her identity through fingerprints, voiceprint, and iris scans.
“…You have no memory at all? Not even a fragment?”
“No.”
Looking at the examination report, the doctor frowned deeply, and could only offer a tentative conclusion: “For now, nothing appears to be wrong… but if she doesn’t remember anything from the past ten years, we can’t rule out memory loss or psychological issues. The most likely cause is sequelae from the underwater collapse back then. It would be best to return to Lando for a more thorough examination first.”
“Then we’ll head back to Lando,” Lin Yuxing decided quickly, then said to Liang Qiao, who was sitting in the corner: “You’ll need to write a debriefing report once you’re back—the more detailed, the better.”
Cases of someone being confirmed dead and then returning alive weren’t unheard of in the Bureau, but someone like Liang Qiao who had vanished without a trace for ten years and then suddenly reappeared was a first. For the Federal Security Bureau, known for its rigor, precision, and safety standards, this was nothing short of a major operational failure.
Aside from Liang Qiao’s own debriefing report, Lin Yuxing would have to supplement with no small amount of additional materials and situation explanations. But she didn’t care—what were these documents compared to Liang Qiao coming back alive? If compiling a file could bring back a friend, she’d willingly face those unenlightened pseudo-humans from the Inspection Bureau every single day.
Unfortunately, Liang Qiao didn’t grasp the rollercoaster of emotions she was going through. More than anything, she hadn’t expected that after inexplicably spanning ten years between life and death, the first thing she’d have to do upon returning was write a debriefing report. For the first time, a genuine look of bewilderment appeared on her usually expressionless face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end, she silently closed it.
…
Restricted Zone 3 was one of the undersea resource zones, roughly a two-hour voyage from Lando, which was located in the Federal Central District. The ship-borne shuttle they were on was a world apart from the latest F-11 model from ten years ago. Liang Qiao stood at the entrance to the cockpit and glanced at the neatly arranged control panel—40% of the data and information displayed was completely unfamiliar to her.
Ten years. For the rapidly advancing federal technology, that was indeed a considerable gap.
“It’s the latest reconnaissance shuttle. One of the lead developers was your former classmate.”
After hearing the words “debriefing report,” the doctor had explicitly advised Lin Yuxing that it was best not to have Liang Qiao recall the accident from back then for now—keeping her emotionally stable was the top priority. Although Lin Yuxing was extremely curious about what had actually happened back then, considering Liang Qiao’s physical and mental well-being, she didn’t ask. Instead, she followed the doctor’s orders and appropriately brought up people and events from further in the past.
Liang Qiao knew who she was referring to and asked softly in return: “Wei Ting?”
“Yeah, he’s at F.I.P.E. now—should be a lead engineer by this point. The last time I saw him was last year, when he came to the Bureau to coordinate a project.”
F.I.P.E.—the Federal Institute of Ship-borne Propulsion Engineering. Many alumni who graduated in the same cohort as Liang Qiao had entered that department, including her boyfriend, Chu Hui.
Ten years.
At the thought of that span of time, her normally steady heartbeat suddenly sank considerably, and an unseen layer of thin sweat formed on her fingertips.
She unconsciously rubbed her fingers together, wanting to ask but not daring to.
Fortunately, Lin Yuxing didn’t continue on that topic. Instead, she fell silent along with Liang Qiao, then reached out a hand and guided her toward the lounge at the end of the corridor.
Everyone who had come with her this time were colleagues from the Federal Security Bureau, but none from her original department, so Liang Qiao didn’t recognize a single one of them. Facing their curious or wary gazes, she simply sat quietly in the corner by herself, lost in thought.
“You’ll get to see Xi Yan and the others once you’re back,” Lin Yuxing said, able to empathize with her bewilderment from her perspective. “Your situation hasn’t come up before, but the Bureau will handle it. Don’t worry.”
Liang Qiao asked: “How are Xi Yan and the others doing?”
There had been five people on that mission together. Besides her and Pei Qiansu, there were three others—Xi Yan, Yu Fangche, and Zhai Mo. They were all alumni of the Langoria Federal Academy and had fought together countless times.
“Xi Yan and Zhai Mo are still in Team Three. They’re probably out on a mission right now, so it might take a while for them to be notified. Fangche…” Lin Yuxing hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing her words before continuing: “He was also seriously injured during that mission, but because he was on the periphery when it happened, he received rescue quickly…”
“…He always blamed himself for you and Qiansu’s deaths, believing it was his failure to thoroughly survey the underwater environment that caused it. Even after his injuries healed, his condition didn’t recover for a long time. In ’02, the Bureau sent him to a sanatorium for psychological treatment, and he wasn’t discharged until the end of ’05. Shortly after that, he submitted his resignation to the Bureau.”
“Where is he now?”
“Unknown. After completing the exit procedures, he left Lando and cut off contact with everyone.”
Liang Qiao said nothing. Her chest felt tight and suffocating, and her head throbbed with a dull ache. She could only turn to look out the porthole at the pitch-black sky, fragments of people and events flashing through her mind.
A decade’s span was nearly nothing to her; she could even clearly recall the figure of Pei Qiansu lunging toward her when the accident happened, and Fangche’s hoarse cry over the comms—and further back, what they’d eaten for lunch, where she’d left off on her report, the game they’d played together, and the unread messages sitting in her inbox.
The long years suddenly compressed into a single instant, yet no matter how she tried, she couldn’t grasp the texture of those memories.
“Get some rest—I’ll call you when we arrive.” Lin Yuxing, at a loss for how to offer comfort, said dryly and rose to her feet, bracing a hand on her knee. But Liang Qiao stopped her, asking, “Could you give me some… equipment?”
Due to protocol, public officials who had died in the line of duty or were under special circumstances couldn’t log into internal systems with their own credentials—otherwise, exactly what had happened at the public security station would occur. Trusting Liang Qiao, Lin Yuxing let her use her own light-brain and granted her access permissions.
“I’ll have to be present. Is that alright?”
Even though her identity had been confirmed, what she’d experienced over those ten years remained unknown. Out of adherence to confidentiality agreements and safety considerations, Lin Yuxing still had to be there to supervise her usage.
“Understood.” Liang Qiao nodded, her fingertips moving deftly as she navigated through the pages, retrieving what she wanted to see.
It was the detailed report on that accident and the subsequent documentation.
As the closest eyewitness, Yu Fangche’s account had been the primary basis for the detailed report, which classified the incident as an underwater collapse. And that was indeed what had happened. Shortly after Liang Qiao and Pei Qiansu entered the designated survey point, they’d felt a slight tremor. At first, Pei Qiansu thought it was just normal deterioration from the unstable underwater environment and planned to find a stable triangular zone nearby to take cover, waiting for the tremor to pass before continuing the mission.
Such situations were common underwater, and with no alerts coming through the comms, Liang Qiao had agreed with her decision. But it was those few seconds of hesitation that cost them their window to escape.
As the tremor’s range rapidly expanded, they realized something was wrong and immediately halted, preparing to turn back. But just then, the structure above them collapsed, a massive shadow bearing down directly on her. Within seconds, she lost consciousness entirely in the chaos. When she opened her eyes again, all she saw was a pitch-black wilderness, with several public security officers walking toward her.
The last communication record shown in the initial mission-interruption report was only Yu Fangche’s cry for help. Xi and Zhai had been in another sector at the time and immediately came to assist upon hearing the distress call. During the rescue, Xi Yan attempted to enter the survey point but triggered a secondary collapse before even reaching the entrance.
The accident report ended there, followed by a series of subsequent documents, which Liang Qiao read through one by one—the risk-zone lockdown notice, the internal missing-person determination report, the technical evidence file, the director-general’s special directive on the death-in-service determination… and finally, the family confidentiality agreement.
There was only one family member who would need to sign that agreement on her side.
The agreement was highly formal: nature of the operation, confidentiality obligations… She worked through the clauses one by one, quickly reaching the end.
…Due to irrecoverable environmental conditions, this incident yielded no remains and no confirmable personal effects.
Witness signature—Chu Hui.
Both characters were handwritten, but they bore little resemblance to the wild, sprawling strokes she remembered. They looked stiff and unfamiliar, as if written by a child just learning to write. She stared at them for a few seconds, then slowly raised a hand and swiped the page away.
Lin Yuxing took all of this in, but just as she expected Liang Qiao to ask about Chu Hui, she said nothing.
As they neared their destination, heavy rain began to fall outside, streaks of water being blown across the porthole. Before long, a knock came at the door—Lin Yuxing, reminding her it was time to go.
Liang Qiao opened the door and heard her say, “The director has arrived.”
She nodded to indicate she understood, but took a step out, then paused and stepped back. Lowering her head for half a second, she looked at Lin Yuxing and asked, “Can I see other people now?”
Lin Yuxing was taken aback for a moment, then said, “Of course. Who do you want to see?”
Liang Qiao said, “I’d like to see… Chu Hui.”
She said it softly, then turned and made her way toward the cabin exit. One of Lin Yuxing’s subordinates stepped forward appropriately and murmured behind her, “Minister, Dr. Xu has results. The DNA and pheromone matches all check out—she is Liang Qiao.”
Lin Yuxing watched her retreating figure, feeling a strange ache in her chest. She raised a hand to touch her forehead, then restrainedly lowered it, saying quietly, “Understood.”
…
The current director of the Lian’an Bureau was Gu Qinglan, one of the sitting members of the Federal Council—a female Alpha nearing sixty. She had taken over from the previous director three years after the Δ-47 incident and had never had direct contact with Liang Qiao.
The moment she stepped out of the airship, what landed on her face before the rain were several scrutinizing gazes. Liang Qiao stood at a higher vantage point and took in the arrivals—the Director, the Deputy Director, and several high-ranking officials of the Lian’an Bureau. Among the crowd were a few half-familiar faces, all looking at her with varied expressions.
“Liang Qiao,” Gu Qinglan finally called out her name as she approached, extending a hand and saying, “You’ve worked hard. Welcome home.”