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墨書 Inktalez
The fluorescent tube above the tunnel shattered into the shape of capillaries, and Lao Zhao's mechanical eye was leaking a purple oil that represented a quantum entangled state.
"Pass through the shadow of the sixth load-bearing pillar; there’s a portal locked by brainwave frequencies," he instructed.
The surface of the portal was covered in pulsating nerve fibers. As I raised the brainwave analyzer left by my father, a vivid image surged in my retina—an echo from 1998 when Lao Zhao personally welded the reinforcement bars.
The rusty door frame was overgrown with tumor-like data interfaces. The moment Lao Zhao severed the data line from the back of his neck and plugged it in, the entire platform suddenly inverted into a cerebral blood vessel perspective.
The streets of the memory black market were a centipede made up of countless broken screens. The shop signs flowed with the brainwave curves of humans on their deathbeds, while vendors wearing gas masks peddled childhood traumas encapsulated in glass tubes.
The air was thick with the burnt smell of charred hippocampi, and my temples began to tremble—the sound of lab mice gnawing on neural synapses in my father's laboratory was awakening from the depths of liquid quantum memory.
An intelligence broker curled up inside a vending machine, his fingers resembling twelve optical fibers transcribing DNA.
"Want to buy that programmer's memories?" An octopus inside a glass dome suddenly spat out a voice package tinged with Li Ming's scent. "The price is your childhood dreams, or..."
In an instant, the octopus's tentacles pierced my wristwatch, extracting the last three minutes of surveillance footage from my father's final moments.
The mirror in the changing room suddenly displayed the interface of Subway Surfers. The top score held by "Mobius" fractured into Klein bottle coordinates. As I crushed the quantum key hidden in my molars, game data collapsed into a holographic projection of Li Ming trapped on the tenth floor of a mirrored subway station—his pupils flickering with blue light from the mass-energy equation.
Twenty meters away, an arcade began playing a reverse version of the Wedding March. When I deciphered the Morse code left from my 137th parkour run, all the neon lights on the street extinguished simultaneously.
Lao Zhao's mechanical arm suddenly lodged into my shoulder blade. "They’re coming."
Pursuers emerged from the blocks of neon advertisements. The first attacker’s throat spewed real-time data streams from the Shenzhen Composite Index, while the second had a neural synchronization controller embedded in his spine.
As I swung a piece of arcade debris to smash the nearest portal, I heard Lao Zhao's hydraulic joints emit a sound reminiscent of a dying raven’s friction.
The sky above the black market fractured into countless slices of cerebral gray matter. Gunfire refracted through glass containers of memory capsules, and as I leaped towards the ventilation duct atop a shelf, an explosion erupted from a cultivation pod—Clone No. 419 of Lin Xue was silently repeating an incantation my father had spoken on my seventh birthday.
The sewer exit spewed forth quantum foam laced with blood. Lao Zhao's mechanical eye melted into liquid amidst the explosion; he tore open his chest cavity to reveal a glowing blue quantum hard drive. "Go to Nanjing Station in parallel time and space; find what was worn in 1998..."
Suddenly, the electronic vocal cords of the pursuers evolved into subsonic weapons.
As the last portal collapsed behind me into a cross-section of the optic nerve, the Brainwave Analyzer in my hand suddenly began its countdown—Li Ming's distress signal from the Mirror World was being transmitted back through my synapses.
Cracks in the billboard oozed golden honey.
In that moment when consciousness was torn in two, I saw all the parallel versions of Lao Zhao reaching out from different years of subway design blueprints, each holding a crystal cluster rose petal between their fingers—the key that my father had hidden in the depths of my Liquid Quantum Memory for twenty-three years.
Black Market Street suddenly folded into a Möbius strip.
As the Quantum Tunnel burned fragments of the design for Station 13 onto my Retina, Li Ming's projection emerged from a shattered screen, half of his face visible—his voice sounded like a rusty elevator cable scraping against steel tracks:
"Get out fast..."
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