Scene One: Rooftop Escape · Fog Over the Old City
The wind blew in from the sea, carrying the salty, briny scent and that metallic tang that comes just before rain, slapping against Jiang Mian’s face like invisible hands.
She crouched behind the low rooftop wall, pressing her left hand firmly against her shoulder. The wound there had torn open again during the relentless climbing and leaping. Warm blood seeped through her dark-gray tracksuit, soaking the fabric into an even darker, sticky patch that clung to her skin. Every heartbeat sent a stab of pain through her, but she didn’t move—she simply closed the wooden box tightly, letting her fingertips linger briefly on the rough grain, as if confirming the weight of the truth she had just taken on.
Inside the wooden box were not just documents, but half a century of grudges.
That black-and-white photo from 1967 appeared vividly in her mind—Shen Xinchong and Song Wenbo, two young men in white lab coats, standing side by side outside a lab, surrounded by the era’s rudimentary equipment. They were smiling openly, eyes bright with the pure passion of science. On the back of the photo: “1967.03.21, Commemoration of the first successful experiment of the ‘Eye-Opening Project.’”
That was how it all began.
Now, Shen Huaishan was determined to fulfill his father’s wish—securing the γ-7 sample at any cost.
Jiang Mian lifted her head.
The thick fog twisted and writhed above the old harbor district like a living creature. Visibility was under ten meters. Street lamps glowed faintly through the mist, their halos blurred like the outstretched hands of drowning men reaching toward the surface. Headlights cut sharp lines through the fog, briefly illuminating the outlines of buildings behind them before being swallowed again. Engine growls, static from walkie-talkies, chaotic footsteps—every sound melded together in the damp air, converging from three directions toward this rooftop.
The Shen family’s net was tightening.
[Golden live comments flickered across the screen like fireflies in the foggy night]
[Trashy Dude, Step Away]: “Current location: Old Harbor District, rooftop of former Textile Factory No.3, ~15 meters high. Left shoulder wound reopened, estimated blood loss >200cc.”
[Plush Cat]: “Heart rate 128 bpm, respiratory rate 26/min, temp 38.3°C—starting low-grade fever. Adrenaline levels remain high.”
[Suspense Lover]: “The three surrounding buildings are all 1980s brick-concrete worker dorms; rooftops cannot sustain long stays.”
[Observer-01]: “Third step of the factory fire escape welds are corroded; load limit ~80kg. Avoid stepping there.”
She hugged the wooden box. Light, yet heavy enough to make her arms ache. She gauged the distance: three old buildings ahead, all built in the 1980s, exterior walls covered with rusty drainpipes and withered climbing ivy. The gaps—two meters one, two meters three—were enough to reach the flat roof of the garment factory warehouse. From there, an external fire escape led to the back alley.
And the “cool cyber café” the voice mentioned? Three streets away.
Five hundred meters.
Normally, a six-minute walk.
Tonight, in thick fog and under pursuit, it could be the difference between life and death.
She drew a deep breath, letting the briny cold air fill her lungs, and then pushed off—
Slow-motion:
Right foot digs into the rooftop. Loose tiles crack and scatter underfoot, fragments twisting lazily in the air. Body leaning forward, momentum shifting, her dark-gray tracksuit trailing a ghostly streak through the fog. As she leapt, sharp pain tore through her left shoulder wound, but she gritted her teeth, forcing the pain deep into her mind.
Her body arced through the air like a night bird gliding over a foggy sea.
Below: six floors of empty space, a fatal fall. She didn’t look—eyes fixed on the edge of the opposite rooftop, where a rusted iron railing, the frame of an old solar water heater, jutted out.
Fingers reached.
Cold, rough rust met her fingertips.
She grabbed.
Crack.
The railing groaned under the strain, rust flakes cascading down. But Jiang Mian swung over with momentum, her feet landing precisely on the concrete edge of the other roof. She rolled on landing, absorbing the impact through her back and shoulder blades, the wooden box still clutched to her chest.
Left shoulder hit the ground.
Pain shot like electricity through her nerves, vision flickered black, stars danced before her eyes. A muffled groan escaped her throat, blood filling her mouth.
Yet she didn’t stop.
After rolling, she sprang up and kept running. Stumbling slightly, but speed remained.
Second gap—two meters three, wider.
No time to hesitate, she ran and leapt again. This landing twisted her posture slightly; her right foot slipped, ankle twisting lightly. She regained balance and pressed on.
Third rooftop.
She rolled into the broken window of the factory warehouse top floor, nearly spent, gasping. Her lungs felt ready to burst, each breath tasting of blood. Cold sweat mixed with it, dripping from her temples to her jaw.
Outside, the pursuers’ voices were temporarily distant—the Shen family’s people still scouring the first building.
Inside the warehouse: dark, empty, littered with discarded sewing machines and bundles of fabric. Dust floated in weak light from the broken window like tiny ghosts. The air reeked of mold, machine oil, and the sharp, sour tang of rodent droppings.
She leaned against a wall, waiting for her heartbeat to steady.
Ten seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Breathing gradually normalized.
Deep inside, a familiar tremor rippled through her consciousness.
Not a phone vibration, not any physical sensation, but a gentle nudge directly to her mind, as if someone lightly brushed her soul.
This time, the voice was softer than ever, tinged with near-exhaustion:
“Fire escape… third step is loose.”
“Step on it… avoid it.”
Jiang Mian’s heart tightened.
She recognized it—he was pushing himself too far.
“Your voice…” she whispered into the void, hoarse and unfamiliar even to herself, “sounds so tired.”
No reply.
Only faint interference, like static, sizzled briefly. Then the voice returned, weaker:
“It’s fine.”
“Jiang Mian.”
“Run.”
Two words, light as a sigh, yet striking her heart with the weight of iron.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into palms, the sharp pain grounding her, reminding her this was not the time to question.
She turned, heading toward the fire escape at the warehouse’s back.
The staircase was iron, rusted, affixed to the exterior wall. She pushed open the corroded door, cold wind rushing in. The stairs descended into fog and darkness, the bottom invisible.
Carefully, she began down.
One step.
Two steps.
Counting: first, second—
Third.
She paused, crouching. In the weak light from the broken window, she saw fine cracks in the weld of the step, spiderwebbing across the surface. Covered in a thin layer of rust; one misstep, and it would snap, the crash giving away her position.
[Golden live comments focus on the detail]
[Structural Engineer]: “Weld corrosion >70%, load capacity ~30%. With her weight plus momentum, it will break if stepped on.”
[Chemist Here]: “Ordinary carbon steel from 1988, in Binhai City’s high-salt environment, corrodes three times faster than inland.”
[Who’s Stronger Than Me]: “Fall height ~8 meters if broken, cement below—fatal or severe injury.”
[Observer-01]: “Safe. Proceed.”
She skipped that step, landing on the fourth, which groaned underfoot but held.
Continuing down.
After thirteen steps, she reached ground level.
She stopped behind the door, listening.
Outside: a narrow back alley littered with rotting bins and discarded furniture. Distant cars hummed faintly; the immediate area was eerily silent—no even stray cat cries.
Too quiet.
She gently pushed the door, the hinge shrieking “squeak!”—excruciatingly loud in the stillness. She slipped out, closing the door behind her.
The alley ended at the main road, streetlight halos blurred in the fog. She needed to cross this street, then slip through two smaller alleys to reach the cyber café.
But across the street—
Shadows moved.
Jiang Mian pressed back against the wall, holding her breath.
Three men in black jackets emerged from the 24-hour convenience store, carrying plastic bags, chatting casually. But their movements betrayed them—their steps measured at exactly 75 cm, shoulders tight from years of military training, eyes scanning the street like radar every three seconds.
Shen family’s outer guards.
Not ordinary thugs—they were professionally trained.
Jiang Mian calculated: crossing the street would take ten seconds. Seven out of ten times, she’d be spotted. Once detected, gunfire would instantly alert Shen family operatives across three blocks.
She couldn’t risk it.
But time was running out. The net tightened every second.
Then—the voice again, weak as a whisper:
“Convenience store… back door… behind the bins… maintenance passage…”
“Through underground pipes… bypass the street…”
“But… it’s narrow inside…”
The words abruptly cut off.
As if forcibly severed.
Jiang Mian’s heart sank.
“Hey?” she whispered to the air. “Are you still there?”
No response.
Only that faint, exhausted pulse in her consciousness—like a distant heartbeat, weak but persistent.
She bit her lip, no longer hesitating, turned, and dashed back into the warehouse. Climbing out another window, she faced the back, a narrow dead-end alley. She stepped onto stacked wooden crates, hoisted herself over the wall, and rolled to absorb the landing.
The wound on her left shoulder tore again; she groaned, but didn’t stop.
She reached the back of the convenience store.
The alley was lined with a dozen green bins, reeking of rotting food. Following the voice’s guidance, she found the third bin, marked with a faint spray-painted arrow.
She pushed it aside.
Behind it, a half-human-height iron gate awaited, its rusted lock giving way easily.
She slipped in.
Inside: an abandoned maintenance tunnel for heating pipes, built in the 1990s. Narrow enough to crawl, under sixty centimeters in height. Dark, stifling; the pipes retained residual heat, scalding to touch. The air was thick with rust, dust, and an indescribable, aged moldy stench.
Clutching the wooden box—now the heaviest burden of all—she edged forward with elbows and knees, inch by inch, moving like an injured animal, slow and painstaking.
Sweat soaked her clothes, mingling with blood, clinging to her skin. Every shift tore at her left shoulder wound. Her body temperature rose; she knew she was starting to burn a fever, infection threatening.
But none of that mattered.
Only one question echoed relentlessly in her mind, drilling in like an icy spike:
What happened to him just now?
That weakness, that abrupt cutoff…
Did he pay a price to help her?
The thought churned in her stomach, a strange, sharp emotion. Not fear—she was used to danger. Not gratitude—that was too light. But something sharper, heavier.
Like an ice-cold needle slowly piercing the softest part of her heart.
And then melting there, leaving a persistent, lingering ache.
[Golden live comments traced the dark maintenance tunnel like glowing jellyfish in the deep sea
[Energy Bar]: “Warning! Observer-01’s audio transmission was interrupted for 3.2 seconds! Energy fluctuation curve shows an abnormal drop!”
[Not a fan of work]: “Host’s anxiety index just shot from 45 to 89! She’s scared—not for herself, but for him!”
[I’m a chemist]: “This maintenance passage was built in 1992 for the old port district’s centralized heating system. After the system was decommissioned in 2005, it was abandoned. No markings exist on any maps.”
[Busy me]: “Host’s body temperature has risen to 38.5°C, wound infection probability over 60%. White blood cell count is increasing.”
[Observer-01]: “Path is correct. Proceed. Turn right in 27 meters.”
She kept crawling.
The passage had several sharp turns that required her to squeeze sideways. The corners of the wooden box kept hitting the pipe walls, making dull thuds that sounded alarmingly loud in the absolute silence.
Five minutes later, a faint light appeared ahead.
It was another exit.
She sped up, using her hands and feet to crawl forward, pushing open another rusted iron gate and slipping outside.
The street beyond was quiet and secluded. Streetlights were out; only the neon glow of a distant KTV sign painted the fog in an ambiguous purplish-red. The air suddenly felt fresher compared to the stifling heat of the pipes.
She leaned against the wall, drawing deep breaths of cold air into her burning lungs.
Then she oriented herself.
The “Cool Net Cafe” was across the street.
The sign was garish: oversized neon blue letters, the word “Cool” styled like a lightning bolt, flickering cheap and bright through the fog. The building was only three stories, its silver reflective panels peeling, revealing black waterproofing underneath. The second-floor windows had thick blackout curtains, blue light from computer screens faintly visible.
It was nothing like the feeling that voice usually gave her…
He was normally composed, calm, like the starry sky—deep, distant, silently observing, and casting a guiding light when necessary.
Not this noisy, cheap neon.
But she trusted him.
Unconditionally.
She tidied her clothes—though it barely mattered, covered in blood and dust—and pressed her baseball cap lower to hide most of her face. Then she crossed the small street.
Pushing the door, the sensor emitted a mechanical female voice: “Welcome!”
Her heartbeat skipped.
But the door was already open.
Scene Two: Cool Net Cafe — The Safehouse Confrontation
Inside was another world.
The deafening electronic music—some kind of high-energy EDM—hit her chest like a hammer. Rows of computers formed a maze, their screens flashing wildly, reflecting dozens of young, focused faces. The air was thick with a mixture of instant noodles, smoke, sweat, cheap perfume, and sweet electronic vape juice—almost tangible.
Most patrons were in their teens or twenties, headphones huge, eyes glued to screens, fingers dancing over mechanical keyboards with crisp clicks. Occasional cheers or curses were quickly swallowed by the music.
On the surface, it was just a low-end, ordinary internet cafe.
At the entrance, clutching the wooden box, Jiang Mian scanned quickly.
The counter was on the left, an L-shaped desk stacked with drinks and snacks. Behind it, a young man with silver-gray hair in a black studded leather jacket looked up—he had been playing a game on a high-end esports controller.
Seeing her, he froze for a moment.
Then he set the controller down—Jiang Mian noticed it was professional-grade, over two thousand yuan—and stepped out from behind the counter.
He looked about twenty-five or twenty-six, tall and lean, left ear lined with silver piercings, right arm covered in intricate tattoos down to the fingers. His steps were steady; his gaze sharp, far from an ordinary internet cafe worker.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, voice low but strangely clear over the music—he knew how to project.
“Someone sent me here,” Jiang Mian replied.
“Name?”
“No name was given.”
He studied her for a few seconds, eyes lingering on the blood on her shoulder and the wooden box, finally settling on her face. His gaze had scrutiny, assessment, and an almost imperceptible recognition.
Then he nodded: “Follow me.”
No further questions.
He led her through the staff passage behind the counter—a door painted the same color as the wall, invisible if not looking carefully. Jiang Mian followed.
The passage was narrow, barely allowing one person through. The walls were cheap white paint, yellowed and peeling. Overhead were exposed wires and ducts humming softly.
At the end, a plain wooden door, unmarked.
He opened it.
Inside was a small twenty-square-meter room, completely different from the chaotic cafe outside.
Soundproofing was perfect—once the door closed, the music vanished, leaving only the low hum of computer fans. The air smelled faintly of coffee and the ozone of electronics.
The room was simple but professional: three high-end computers with professional-grade monitors, blinking lights on complex wiring and switches. A folding bed was neatly made in a corner. A worn beige sofa sat in the center.
On it were two people—Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian.
Both looked up and stood.
Jiang Mian felt an instant urge to step back.
Not fear—but… something else, indescribable.
These two men—one steady as a mountain, one dangerous like a dark river—wove a web in her world. And now she was wounded, holding a wooden box that could change everything, standing in their safehouse.
“Jiang Mian,” Fu Chenyu spoke first, his voice concerned but controlled. “Your wound…”
He stepped over, gently taking the wooden box from her—lightly, but firmly, impossible to refuse—and placed it on the table. Then he helped her onto the sofa.
His hands were steady, warmth transferring through his sleeves.
Zhou Jian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching, silent. His gaze lingered on the blood on her shoulder, then her pale face, and finally on the wooden box.
“How did you end up here?” Jiang Mian’s voice was hoarse.
Fu Chenyu knelt in front of her, opening a professional field first-aid kit, stocked enough for minor surgery.
“You lost signal after leaving the safehouse. Zhou Jian checked nearby cameras; the Shen family surrounded Guan Hai Pavilion, and then you escaped the rooftops,” he said, focusing on the wound. Alcohol stung; Jiang Mian bit her lip but didn’t make a sound, body trembling.
“Tracking your phone signal, we saw you moving this way. I knew this cafe had a signal-jamming setup, suitable to hide temporarily, so we came here. We just got five minutes ago,” Zhou Jian added calmly.
Her heart thumped heavily.
Not him…
Relief washed over her slightly—the voice hadn’t drained more energy to contact anyone. His presence, his ability, remained her secret.
But the next thought hit: how was he now?
That weak voice… that sudden interruption…
Did helping her cost him something?
The realization churned a strange feeling in her stomach—not fear, she was used to danger. Not gratitude—it was too light. It was something sharper, heavier…
Like an ice-cold needle sinking into the softest part of her heart.
Then melting there, leaving a persistent cold ache.
Fu Chenyu worked efficiently: cleaning, disinfecting, dressing, and wrapping. He applied a waterproof dressing, secured it with an elastic bandage.
“The wound isn’t deep but needs stitches. For now, this will do. Once safe, we’ll go to a hospital,” he said.
Jiang Mian nodded: “Thank you.”
He fetched a bottled water from a small fridge in the corner. She drank deeply, feeling the cold soothe her burning body.
Zhou Jian finally approached, sitting casually on a chair, legs stretched, right hand never leaving his waist—concealing something.
“Three Shen family squads are conducting a net search in nearby streets,” Zhou Jian said, eyes sharp. “But when we arrived, the squad at the corner suddenly received orders to head east, toward the docks.”
He paused, gaze like a scalpel: “Seems someone… deliberately diverted them.”
Jiang Mian’s fingers tapped lightly on her knee—once, twice.
She knew who.
Always had.
Silence fell, broken only by the low hum of the computers and filtered music.
“What’s in the wooden box?” Fu Chenyu asked, eyes on the dark brown box.
Jiang Mian paused, then said, voice steady but edged with weight: “Something my grandfather left me.”
She opened it.
[Gold comments begin to focus on the contents]
[Archivist]: “Box made of Burmese rosewood, over forty years old. Brass latch typical of the 1970s.”
[Handwriting analyzer]: “Two distinct scripts: one neat and scientific, one free and artistic.”
[Observer-01]: “Content verification… 97% match. Some pages show chemical residue.”
She laid everything out on the table.
At the top, the black-and-white 1967 photograph.
Fu Chenyu held it, staring for a long moment. Fingers traced the edges. His eyes reflected complex emotions. “Professor Song Wenbo… and Shen Xinzong. So they really were colleagues.”
She flipped through the papers: experimental records, charts, meeting minutes, hand-drawn anatomical diagrams. Yellowed pages, faded ink, but legible, spanning 1967–2004.
A worn leather notebook followed.
Opening the first page revealed her mother Song Yun’s handwriting:
“Dad said the key is with Xia Mian.”
“The Shen family is coming.”
“Protect her.”
Messy but forceful strokes, tense with urgency. Later pages were torn, jagged edges remaining.
Jiang Mian stared at it for a long time.
She looked up at Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian.
“My grandfather…” she said, voice calm but every word icy, “was killed by the Shen family… because of the γ-7 sample. But my mother realized it and hid the truth.”
Fu Chenyu stared silently, eyes deep.
Zhou Jian spoke, low but clear: “So the Shen family isn’t chasing you to kill you. They want you alive. You are the key to activating the sample.”
Her hand instinctively touched her neck.
The silver chain, the snowflake pendant—not a pendant, a key—worn for fourteen years. Her mother had placed it there, saying: “Xia Mian, this is Mom’s most important thing. Never take it off, always keep it.”
She never had.
Bathing, sleeping, swimming… for fourteen years, it had been a second skin, pressed against her heart.
She had never realized… this was the key to open Pandora’s box.
It was also the key to unlock her own fate.
[The system trembles deep in her consciousness]
Not a prompt, not a golden message—something else… a flicker of a nearly exhausted pulse.
Like a candle on the verge of being extinguished, one final flutter.
Then, the voice came.
Weaker than ever before, like an echo from the deep sea, about to fade away:
“…Jiang Mian.”
“Listen to me.”
“The Shen family… is gathering at Warehouse No. 9 in the dock area.”
“I simulated the γ-7 activation signal… to lure them there.”
“But my energy… is almost gone.”
“The observation link… could break any moment.”
“Take this chance… evacuate Binhai City with Fu Chenyu.”
The voice nearly vanished here.
Like a dying candle in the wind, one last wisp of blue smoke.
Jiang Mian’s heart clenched violently.
She closed her eyes—naturally, as if exhausted—but in that instant, all her consciousness sank inward, into the space deep within her mind that only she could perceive.
There, she responded:
“What will happen to you?”
Silence.
A long silence.
So long that Jiang Mian thought the link had broken, that he had disappeared.
Then the voice came again, faint, almost unreal:
“…Dimensional silence.”
“Like… sleeping.”
“But you can’t… stay here.”
“The Shen family will soon… realize the signal is false.”
“They will… come back.”
“Go.”
Her fingertips dug deep into her palms.
Her nails pierced her skin, sharp pain reminding her to stay awake, to know that now was not the time for weakness.
But the tears—that damned, uncontrollable tears—still came, unbidden, spilling over, pounding onto the backs of her hands.
Scalding.
“I won’t let you sleep,” she said in her mind, each word clear, carved into bone like a knife. “I want you alive.”
“Watch me win.”
“Watch me… reach you.”
Silence fell again.
This time even longer.
Jiang Mian waited, deep in her mind, waiting as if for a final judgment.
Then, she heard a faint, almost imperceptible sigh.
In it was an emotion she had never heard before—not fatigue, not weakness—but… a tender, almost indulgent helplessness.
Then he said:
“…Okay.”
“But you must… promise me.”
“Leave… right now.”
Jiang Mian opened her eyes.
Tears still clung to her lashes, but her gaze was clear. She wiped them away—quickly, as if erasing a weakness that should never exist.
Fu Chenyu looked at her: “Jiang Mian?”
He saw her tears, saw her momentary distraction—but asked nothing, quietly waiting.
Zhou Jian also watched, eyes curious, but carrying something more complicated, unreadable.
“I’m not leaving,” Jiang Mian said, voice calm, each word heavy.
Zhou Jian frowned—this was the first time she had seen him frown: “Most of the Shen family has been lured to the dock. Now is the best time to retreat. Fu Chenyu arranged a car; twenty minutes until arrival.”
“I know.” Jiang Mian stood, stiff but steady. “That’s why I’m going to the dock.”
Fu Chenyu also stood, placing himself in front of her—not to stop her, but stating facts: “That area is now the Shen family’s encirclement center. At least thirty people, maybe more. Well-equipped—not comparable to the thugs in the bar.”
“I know.”
“Why?” Zhou Jian asked quietly, but the question struck like a dagger to the core.
Jiang Mian looked at them both.
At Fu Chenyu’s steady eyes, at Zhou Jian’s sharp gaze. Two men, two stances, yet both standing before her, waiting for an explanation.
She was silent for a long time.
So long that Zhou Jian thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she said:
“Someone is helping us.”
Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian exchanged a glance.
“Who?” Fu Chenyu asked.
“I don’t know his name,” Jiang Mian said softly but clearly. “But during the bank incident, if someone hadn’t told me about the ventilation ducts, I’d never have escaped. At the bar, if someone hadn’t known the hidden door in the alley, I wouldn’t have gotten out. Just now… the guard at the corner suddenly turned east—that was someone too.”
She paused, letting each word sink:
“It’s always the same person.”
“At our most desperate moments, in the least likely places, giving us a way out.”
“Now he’s at the docks, holding off the entire Shen family alone.”
“He’s using himself as bait, buying us time to escape.”
“We can’t leave him there.”
[Golden comments flood the screen]
[Logic Master]: “Perfect explanation! Explains ‘someone helping’ without revealing Observer-01’s supernatural existence!”
[Emotion Resonance Detector]: “‘Can’t leave him there’—tone shows she’s suppressing emotion!”
[Tactical Analyst B]: “So the dock is a decoy? Someone’s buying us time? Requires extreme intelligence and resources…”
[Moral Dilemma Observer]: “If true, this person is in grave danger. The Shen family will retaliate at all costs once they realize the deception.”
[Observer-01]: “Energy remaining: 11%. Link stability declining.”
Silence fell.
Fu Chenyu looked at her, complicated emotion in his eyes—worry, disapproval, but also something deeper… understanding.
“You want to save this person,” he said.
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s a trap?”
Jiang Mian looked at him, word by word: “If it were a trap, he wouldn’t have saved us so many times first. During the bank, my death would have benefited him most—Shen family gets the crystal, everything ends. But he saved me.”
Zhou Jian spoke, calm but piercing: “You trust him.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Jiang Mian paused, then said:
“Because in this world full of schemes and lies, he is the only one… I know for certain won’t ever harm me.”
The words were soft.
But in the silent room, they weighed like a hammer.
Fu Chenyu’s hand clenched, then relaxed. He turned to the corner where a normal-looking bookshelf stood—old magazines and novels on it.
He pressed a spot on the side.
Click.
A faint mechanical sound.
The bookshelf slid sideways, revealing… not a wall, but another door. A metal door, painted the same color as the wall, edges sealed with weatherstripping.
Fu Chenyu entered a code—blocking the keypad with his body—and then scanned his fingerprint.
The door opened.
A staircase led down, stainless steel with a railing. Cold white LED lights switched on automatically.
“This is the cafe owner’s private shelter,” Fu Chenyu explained. “He’s a friend of mine. This passage connects to the main sewer line, bypassing all ground surveillance. Following the main tunnel east for 1.5 km will bring you near the dock.”
Zhou Jian had already stood, checking his equipment. He pulled a black long bag from under the sofa, unzipped it—inside were disassembled sniper rifle components, pistols, magazines, tactical vests.
He began assembling with practiced ease, like breathing.
“Are you sure?” he asked Jiang Mian, hands moving without pause.
“I am.”
“Then let’s go.” Zhou Jian was the first down the stairs, sniper pack on his back, pistol at his waist.
Jiang Mian was about to follow when Fu Chenyu gently held her wrist.
Not tightly, just a grounding touch.
His palm was broad, callused fingertips warm through her skin.
“Jiang Mian,” he whispered, low enough for only her to hear. “Is this person… worth you taking such a risk?”
She met his gaze.
His eyes, deep brown like aged amber, held worry, disapproval, but also… a helpless indulgence.
She looked at him long, then softly said:
“He is the only person in this world I know will never hurt me.”
Fu Chenyu released her hand.
He lowered his eyes, for a moment as if to say something—but finally just nodded:
“Then let’s go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Jiang Mian nodded and headed toward the staircase.
The staircase spiraled downward, about twenty steps. She stepped on it, the stainless steel humming lightly beneath her weight. Damp air rose from below, carrying that unmistakable sewer smell—not putrid, but a mix of aged water vapor and microbes.
She moved downward.
Fu Chenyu followed behind.
Once all three entered the underground passage, Fu Chenyu pressed against the wall. The metal door slowly closed and locked behind them.
The bookshelf slid back into place.
The room was empty. Only the wooden box on the table remained open, its yellowed documents spread out like freshly examined history.
And just as the door clicked shut—
A piercing wail of sirens rose from outside.
Not one vehicle, but many. From all directions, converging, stopping finally near the internet café.
Screeching brakes, doors slamming, hurried footsteps, calls on walkie-talkies…
The Shen family’s main force was retreating from the dock area.
They had realized the signal was fake.
Time was running out.
The underground passage was wider than expected.
The main tunnel was about 2.5 meters high and 3 meters wide, with cement walls on both sides and an arched ceiling. A half-meter-deep gutter ran along the center, carrying murky wastewater at a slow pace. On either side, half-meter-wide cement walkways allowed maintenance personnel to pass.
The air was damp and cold, at least five degrees cooler than the surface. Zhou Jian turned on a tactical flashlight—not an ordinary one, but a military-grade beam, capable of illuminating fifty meters.
The light cut through the darkness, revealing the path ahead.
The tunnel stretched on endlessly, the sound of distant flowing water and a faint mechanical hum—likely from a pumping station—reaching their ears.
“This way,” Zhou Jian said, his voice echoing slightly.
He led the way, flashlight sweeping left and right, scanning the environment. Fu Chenyu stayed in the middle, Jiang Mian at the rear—a standard protective formation.
Their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, mingling with the water’s sound, forming a strange rhythm.
After about three minutes, Jiang Mian suddenly stopped.
“Wait.”
Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian both turned.
Jiang Mian leaned against the cold wall and closed her eyes.
She needed to focus—the voice was growing weaker, barely perceptible without complete attention.
Deep in her mind, in the space that belonged only to her.
Darkness.
Then, a faint glimmer.
Like a star about to go out.
The voice sounded, this time urgent, with a weak, raspy breath:
“…Jiang Mian.”
“You… underground?”
She responded in her mind: “Yes. Heading to the dock to find you.”
“No…” The voice faltered, the signal breaking, “Shen family… discovered the signal is fake. They’re… retreating.”
“I know.”
“Then… you’re still coming?”
“I told you—I want you alive.”
Silence.
A long silence.
Then even weaker, softer than a feather falling:
“…My energy… only enough to maintain the link… ten minutes.”
“If within ten minutes… you don’t reach Warehouse No. 9…”
“I will try… to open a dimensional rift.”
Jiang Mian’s heart skipped a beat.
“A dimensional rift?”
“A brief… projection.” The voice was weak, but every word clear. “It will let me… appear in your world… as an energy form.”
“And the cost?”
“…Afterwards… the link will be permanently severed.”
The voice paused, gathering its final strength:
“You will never… hear me again.”
“Nor… see my messages again.”
“I will disappear from your world… completely.”
“As if… I never existed.”
Jiang Mian bit her lip.
Hard. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
“Then I won’t let it end,” she said in her mind, each word forced out through clenched teeth.
“How…?”
“Tell me your name,” Jiang Mian said. “Your real name.”
A long silence.
So long that Jiang Mian thought the link had broken, that he had vanished, and she would never hear that voice again.
Fear—cold, sharp fear—gripped her like never before.
She realized suddenly: over the past month, that voice, those golden messages, the light that always appeared at her most desperate moments… had become the only anchor in this unfamiliar world.
If he disappeared…
If that golden light went out…
What would become of her?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t dare think.
Just when she thought she wouldn’t get an answer—
The voice returned.
Soft.
Calm.
Stating a fact:
“…Pei Yuyan.”
“Twenty-eight years old.”
“Chief of High-Dimensional Observation Technology, code name: Observer-01.”
“Now… you know who I am.”
Tears welled in Jiang Mian’s eyes.
But she held them back fiercely.
“Pei Yuyan,” she repeated in her mind, over and over, as if carving it into her soul. “Listen carefully.”
“Within ten minutes, I will reach you.”
“And then…”
She paused, her inner voice sharp and clear, like a vow:
“I will personally… thank you.”
The voice paused.
Then she heard a faint, almost imperceptible laugh.
Weak, but gentle.
“…Okay.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
[System alert sounds in the depths of consciousness]
[Observation link remaining: 9 minutes 47 seconds]
[Dimensional rift activation countdown started]
[Warning: Link severance will result in permanent disconnection]
[Suggestion: Evacuate immediately]
Jiang Mian opened her eyes.
Tears still clung to her lashes, but she didn’t wipe them. She looked at Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian.
“Ten minutes,” she said, voice calm enough to surprise herself. “We must reach Dock Area, Warehouse No. 9 within ten minutes.”
Zhou Jian glanced at the glow of his watch hands: “At normal pace, it would take fifteen minutes. Plus, there are collapses in this section; we’ll need detours.”
“Then run.” Jiang Mian said.
She was first into the darkness.
No more walking—running.
Footsteps pounded the tunnel like war drums. Water splashed at her ankles with each step. Her left shoulder wound tore with movement, but she didn’t stop.
Fu Chenyu and Zhou Jian followed closely.
Three sets of footsteps echoed in the confined space like a small army charging.
The first obstacle appeared—a collapse. Ceiling cement blocked most of the path, leaving a narrow gap to squeeze through.
Zhou Jian went first, then Jiang Mian. Her shoulder grazed the rough cement; she groaned but pressed on.
Fu Chenyu passed last, the largest and slowest, but kept pace.
They ran on.
Water splashing grew louder.
In the distance, sirens approached—the Shen family was searching above ground, their sounds muffled but clear through sewer grates.
Time was counting down.
Every second felt like walking on a knife’s edge.
And in Jiang Mian’s mind, there was only one thought:
Pei Yuyan.
Wait for me.