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墨書 Inktalez
Fingers dug deep into the palm, the sharp pain jolting my chaotic mind into instant clarity.
In the passenger seat, Li Ming's laptop flickered irregularly, its sleep mode breathing light resembling a dying heart, pulsing on and off as if trying to convey something.
As I lifted the laptop lid, a familiar scent of mint gum wafted from the cooling vents—his favorite flavor, bitter yet sweet, much like our relationship.
Stuck in the keyboard's crevice was the rhinestone "L" I had insisted he stick on last Valentine's Day. He had complained that it was too girly, yet he indulged me. Looking at his helpless expression made my lips curl upward involuntarily.
The moment the encrypted D drive partition opened, my heart skipped a beat—over four hundred surveillance feeds exploded onto the 21-inch screen, like opening a Pandora's box.
The overhead lights in the subway tunnel cast a silver line across the glass that suddenly broke, and I widened my eyes as I watched a train car's number bizarrely tear from "12" to "13," a chill creeping up my spine.
All the surveillance feeds froze at 12:13 AM on October 13, 2023; this numerical combination pierced through my nerves.
"Only a lunatic would write 'Klein Bottle' into the code," I muttered under my breath, biting down on a mouth ulcer and tasting the salty iron of blood spreading in my mouth.
The red dot of a laser pointer danced across the layered Beijing and New York Subway Map like an unsettled firefly.
In an instant, the overhead lights went out, and raindrops outside seemed enchanted, transforming into sharp pixel points that projected a distorted Möbius strip onto the windshield—a never-ending cycle—where Beijing's Line 5 bizarrely intertwined with New York's L Line on a toroidal surface.
The touchpad began to ooze a gel-like substance, cold and viscous, while hexadecimal codes pulsed beneath its bluish surface like silver-gray blood vessels, as if this laptop were turning into some kind of living creature.
The IP address of an anonymous server morphed every thirteen seconds before finally settling thirty-seven meters below Beixinqiao intersection—what lay buried there?
On the seventh page of the blueprints given by Lao Zhao, a hasty latitude and longitude coordinate was scrawled in a corner, dark red rust resembling dried bloodstains.
I trembled as I raised my phone to capture the real-time render; within the frame, door number 13 was covered in dense palm prints, each line embedded with eerie number sevens.
Just as I was about to zoom in for a closer look, static suddenly consumed the surveillance feed; amidst the snow-like noise, a familiar back of a head flashed by—those unruly curls that had brushed against my collarbone just yesterday now sent chills down my spine.
As the tracking program's pop-up alarmed me, my coffee cup exploded, ceramic shards echoing sharply in the silent carriage.
The underlying algorithm of quantum tunneling was ravenously consuming CPU power; Li Ming's facial recognition log popped up on screen, revealing he had logged into over three hundred virtual nodes—each leaving traces of him yet seemingly belonging to another "him."
The timestamp of the last modification pierced through my retina: 03:13 AM—forever frozen in time on his exquisite watch at the moment of the explosion.
Suddenly, ripples spread across my phone screen; in real-time monitoring from the anonymous server, platform 13’s screen doors were covered in mildew left by that torrential rain in 1998, grayish-blue stains outlining a twisted face.
Amidst station announcements blended with my father's cold electronic voice: "Cortical injection preparation complete; subject Lin Xue please take your position." That voice sliced through my memories like a sharp scalpel.
I frantically pounded the backspace key as dark red blood seeped between lines of code—a foreboding omen growing ever more pronounced.
Deep within the cracked touchpad, a blue vortex from Brooklyn Subway Station twisted Li Ming's white coat into shreds; that half-broken lollipop stick between his fingers stabbed at my eyes—it was what I had handed him during our last meeting.
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