Long Nation, Deep Underground Command Center.
The air carried a dry, metallic tang.
Buried far beneath the surface, the senses had long lost any perception of day or night. Only the cold white glow of LED lights remained—barely sustaining the illusion of civilization.
Massive alloy doors sealed off the noise of the world above.
But they also pressed down like a coffin lid, suffocating.
The independent air filtration system hissed rhythmically, like a hidden beast breathing in the dark.
Around the long table, the decision-makers sat in a circle.
Expensive suits. Crisp military uniforms.
And collars stained yellow with sweat.
Fatigue clung to every face—undisguised, undeniable.
Forty-eight hours into the "global rectification," those who once wielded power had realized—
Their achievements, their honors—
meant nothing before that voice.
"Let's talk."
The middle-aged man at the head of the table wiped his face, exhaustion leaking through his fingers.
"If force can't interfere… then at the very least, we need to understand—when it selects those to be punished… is there any—"
His words stopped.
Without warning—
The lights went out.
Not like a power failure.
It was as if light itself had been extracted from reality.
Absolute darkness flooded the room.
Thick. Viscous.
Like tar filling lungs and throat.
No screams.
No chaos.
Only consciousness sinking—
like lead into a bottomless abyss.
Zhizhi opened his eyes.
The hand braced against the sink—
was not his.
It was a woman's hand.
Slender fingers, roughened by overwork.
He knew this hand.
In the mirror—
Tian Shuangxin's face stared back, soaked in cold water, strands of hair clinging messily to her forehead.
But the soul inside—
was Zhizhi.
He was bent over the sink, both hands gripping its edge.
The faucet was still running.
Water crashed loudly into porcelain, echoing in the cramped bathroom.
Again and again—
she splashed water onto her face.
Hard enough that the impact echoed—sharp, hollow.
She lifted her head.
Water slid down her temples.
Her eyes were bloodshot.
Dry.
Hollow.
Zhizhi could feel it.
A resonance.
An emotion stretched to breaking point—
grief.
The owner of this body was like a string pulled too tight.
Ready to snap.
Ding.
The phone vibrated violently against the cold quartz countertop.
She didn't even wipe her hands.
Wet fingers smeared across the screen.
[Transfer Successful: 150,000.00]
Then—
A voice message from the doctor:
"The payment's in. Surgery is first thing tomorrow morning. Be prepared."
She tried to smile.
Even just a little.
But her face—
wouldn't move.
Instead—
she gripped the phone tightly.
Her knuckles turned pale.
Zhizhi felt the thought rising from deep within her—
Not relief.
Not salvation.
But sinking.
Deeper.
Like someone drowning—
grabbing a floating piece of wood covered in thorns.
It kept her afloat—
But tore her hands open.
Painful.
And impossible to let go.
The scene flickered—
like an old film reel skipping frames.
Outside a high-end residential complex—
Streetlights cast a cold yellow glow.
She stood hidden in the shadows of manicured greenery.
Watching—
that brightly lit villa.
That place.
Where he had been taken.
Where he had been caged.
She looked down.
At the mud on her shoes.
Then at the perfectly trimmed lawn—
every blade of grass uniform.
She didn't step forward.
Something bitter rose in her chest.
Zhizhi didn't understand the word for it.
But he felt it.
Inferiority.
That lawn—
felt thicker than a wall.
Blocking everything warm.
"That's my Zhizhi…"
She whispered in her heart.
Zhizhi heard it.
Something exploded inside his chest—
warm.
Familiar.
He hadn't been abandoned.
A tiny flame flickered in the wasteland of his heart.
But the next moment—
it was swallowed whole.
—Zhizhi is no longer mine.
He has become money.
He has become a tumor removed from my mother's spine.
He has become a number in a medical bill.
She crouched down.
Curled into herself beneath the streetlight.
Face buried in her hands.
Tears fell silently—
onto the asphalt glowing faintly yellow.
Hospital corridor.
Cold white light.
Skin looked lifeless beneath it.
Zhizhi—inside Tian Shuangxin—sat on a plastic chair.
Hands nervously rubbing cheap fabric.
She didn't pray.
Didn't beg.
She just stared—
at the "Post-Surgery Instructions" on the wall.
Her lips moved.
Repeating something no one could hear.
Zhizhi understood.
This was punishment.
Self-inflicted.
She prayed for her mother to live—
while condemning herself
for what she had done.
The door opened.
A sharp smell of disinfectant spilled out.
The doctor removed his mask.
"Tumor has been removed."
Zhizhi tried to stand—
But her knees collapsed.
"But…"
The doctor looked away.
"Due to prolonged oxygen deprivation during surgery…"
"…the patient has entered a persistent vegetative state."
Silence.
Total.
The light in Zhizhi's eyes—
went out.
She didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
She sat back down.
Slowly.
Her spine bent.
Like a puppet with its strings cut.
Through the ICU glass—
Zhizhi saw the old woman.
Covered in tubes.
Machines breathing for her.
He remembered.
Those hands.
Rough.
Warm.
Smelling faintly of soap.
She used to scratch behind his ears.
He used to grind his teeth in contentment.
She fed him seeds.
Carefully peeled.
Placed into his tiny paws.
She spoke to him—
like he mattered.
To him—
she wasn't just human.
She was family.
But now—
She lay there.
Cold.
Silent.
Gone.
Even in a human body—
he searched instinctively for warmth.
But found only—
emptiness.
Time blurred.
Home. Hospital. Supermarket.
She stopped looking at animals.
Stopped looking at the sky.
She lived—
like a machine.
Just to pay for the machine keeping her mother alive.
Late night.
She opened the door to her small apartment.
Dust everywhere.
In the corner—
a worn-out fabric ball.
She crouched.
Touched it.
As if it still held warmth.
"…Mm…"
The first sob broke loose—
like something torn from her lungs.
She covered her mouth.
But her body shook violently.
Inside—
Zhizhi's soul trembled too.
"This is karma…"
She whispered.
—I sold my only warmth…
—and got back a body that can never respond.
"No… I'm still here…"
Zhizhi tried to speak.
Tried to reach her.
But the human body—
would not respond.
BOOM—
The dream shattered.
Reality melted.
Walls collapsed into fragments of light.
Weightlessness.
Then—
Darkness.
Zhizhi opened his eyes again.
His hands—
were no longer hers.
They were his.
Rough.
Male.
Cold.
Sato's hands.
A wave of nausea surged.
Tian Shuangxin woke up.
Something was wrong.
Her height—
gone.
Her vision—
low.
Wide.
Muted colors.
But smell—
sharp.
Too sharp.
She looked down.
White fur.
Small trembling paws.
She was grooming instinctively.
Her breath hitched—
Then she saw it.
On her abdomen—
A heart-shaped marking.
She had become—
Zhizhi.
Memories exploded.
Glass enclosure.
Cold lights.
Mrs. Zhu watching from outside.
Not with love.
But evaluation.
Like a replacement.
A younger woman entered.
"So… another one?"
Her tone was casual.
Cruel.
"We can copy perfectly," she said.
"And this one looks similar enough."
Hands.
Gloves.
Blood.
Fear.
Transport.
Darkness.
Cold cargo.
Noise like thunder.
No air.
No time.
Only terror.
Then—
The lab.
The door opened.
"Sensei."
Sato.
Everything connected.
She sold him—
into hell.
Five rats.
Then four.
Then three.
Then—
two.
A weak white rat clung to Zhizhi.
Shared food.
Trusted him.
Then—
hands came.
Zhizhi moved.
Not her.
Him.
He stood in front.
Protected.
She broke.
Not from fear.
But from realization.
This creature she sold—
still chose to protect others.
Pain.
Gas.
Endless experiments.
No escape.
"…Beast God… please…"
Zhizhi's soul cried into the void.
Silence.
Then—
A faint sigh.
A red thread appeared in his palm.
Thin.
Unbreakable.
He understood.
Follow it—
and he would find her.
"Thank you…"
He ran.
At the edge of the dream—
Tian Shuangxin saw it too.
A faint red thread.
She grabbed it.
The dream—
collapsed.