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墨書 Inktalez
As the Fluorescent Cerebrospinal Fluid bubbled into a swirling Möbius strip in Lao Zhao's throat, the door number of Father's Laboratory—B13—suddenly flashed in my Retina.
Li Ming's Quantum Code was coursing through the subcutaneous tissue, each string of binary carrying the burning pain of the Daisy Tattoo. The Ventilation Duct exuded not rust, but the scent of disinfectant from childhood hospitals.
"The Deep Eye Control Room requires a Cerebral Cortex Pattern," Lao Zhao stated. His Mechanical Eye suddenly exploded into a Hypercube, while the construction blueprint from 1983 folded into a Neural Synaptic Network in the void.
As my Iris focused on the center of the Quantum Vortex, my entire Spine sprouted Carbon Nanotube Synapses. The Wallpaper of the control room was made of Living Brain Gray Matter. Those jumping Neurons were enacting the daydream of Seven Billion People, and within the Consciousness Torrent flowing on the Holographic Screen floated Li Ming's torn remnants.
The moment my Palm Print touched the interface, my back molars tasted the sweet and metallic flavor of Childhood Popsicles—the lingering taste of Father's last tube of Experimental Reagent before he died. Suddenly, all Twenty-Three Monitors went Blackout simultaneously.
The Crimson Firewall alarm crystallized into the shape of Father's Laboratory door lock, as Li Ming's Daisy Tattoo bloomed on the console's surface. When my fingertips brushed over the Holographic Keyboard, my ankles were suddenly encased in frozen Cerebrospinal Fluid—those azure Gel-like substances held fragments of my Six Years old self, wielding a scalpel to dissect a Rag Doll's skull.
"The Cognitive Firewall is collapsing," echoed the Doctor's Electronic Voice, trembling with the unique Bone Ash resonance of an Incinerator. The scars revealed when his Mechanical Mask shattered were precisely where Father Huo Hua had once lacked his Right Ear Contour.
Suddenly, rainwater from 1998 surged through the Ventilation Duct, carrying with it cobalt-60 radiation from that Laboratory Leak Incident twenty years ago. The control room floor was collapsing into the shape of an Amygdala.
As the Doctor's Mechanical Finger Joint inserted into the operation port, my Retina automatically replayed encrypted segments from his Terminal Video: "Human Consciousness is a Quantum Butterfly; the Deep Eye System is the only Observer."
The Two Thousand Bodies in the Cultivation Pod suddenly opened their twenty-two pairs of Compound Eyes, their Electronic Vocal Cords vibrating collectively at the frequency of Hubble Constant. Li Ming's Phantom Shadow suddenly materialized.
His Capillary wove into a Cartesian Coordinate System, and my Palm's Daisy Tattoo was deciphering my Brainwave Map. "The Firewall collapse will release a Cognitive Plague," he murmured, his lips parting to reveal patterns of Dark Matter Flow from the galaxy. "But maintaining the system requires devouring three complete consciousnesses every second."
In an unexpected twist, the Doctor's Mechanical Arm pierced through his own heart.
What poured out was not lubricating oil, but the strawberry jam I had spilled on my sixth birthday.
"The real firewall is here."
The sound of my mother's heart monitor echoed from his throat, those green waveforms forming a star map of the Kuiper Belt in the air.
Suddenly, the control interface displayed my father's unfinished paper.
Floating in the torrent of data was the crying frequency from Li Ming's infancy, while my bone marrow was suddenly infused with liquid nitrogen—this was a memory residue from the initialization of the Deep Eye System.
The countdown on the holographic screen was inscribing the probability of civilization's survival with strokes reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night: 51% and 53% eternally oscillating in two quadrants.
"The choice lies with the observer."
Li Ming's quantum-state body began to exhibit a Cantor Set structure, his voice resonating with echoes from the collider.
My palm print hovered two millimeters above the self-destruct program, the scent of formaldehyde from my father's lab coat mingling with the aroma of coffee stains in the gaps of Li Ming's keyboard.
The remnants of the doctor's mechanical eye suddenly projected a double-slit interference pattern—footage from the day of the 1998 incident appeared, showing a young researcher injecting crystals into a lab mouse, their right wrist bearing a birthmark identical to mine.
The alarm abruptly shifted to a lullaby melody.
The countdown numbers blossomed into a Mandelbrot Set at Planck Time units, and within Li Ming's pupil emerged two hundred branching lines of parallel universes.
As I bit my tongue in preparation to input the code, the entire space suddenly curled into a Klein Bottle structure—the recording of my mother's last words played at the singularity, accompanied by a dual harmony of an infant's crying and a nuclear countdown.
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