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墨書 Inktalez
The moment the mirror swallowed me, a sharp ache surged through my back molars, reminiscent of the pain felt during a tooth extraction.
My body temperature of thirty-seven degrees collided with the minus twenty-degree glass. As the Pupil automatically switched to infrared mode, the monitoring chip embedded in Lao Zhao's stitches suddenly played a remixed version of "Ode to Joy."
The tiles in the restroom stalls crumbled into pixelated fragments. In the third tile's scratch marks, I found traces of Mint aftershave that Li Ming often used. I stared at the damaged corner of the mirror's lower right side—perfectly overlapping with the bite marks left by my father on the Brainwave Analyzer.
The dull thud of my knee striking the mirror frame startled the sink. The faucet dripped not droplets of water but memory film glowing with a blue light.
As my fingertips pierced through the mirror's surface, the unique Rusty Smell of Line 13 suddenly mingled with Jasmine Fragrance—the scent I had tucked behind Li Ming's ear on our first date. The echo of my heel striking the Ground carried an additional frequency.
The electronic clock on the platform displayed 21:17:43, seven minutes off from reality—exactly three days ago, when Li Ming had gone missing. In the flickering green light of the charging station screen, a man in a red Hoodie mechanically tapped a thermos on the bench.
“Excuse me...”
The moment I pressed down on his shoulder, my Palm Print was absorbed beneath the skin into a Holographic Projection. Pages from the 1986 edition of "Hundred Thousand Whys" flowed within a Blood Vessel as the man's stiff lips twitched out Morse code rhythms.
The train arriving stirred up a wind scented with rotting roses. The advertisement screen no longer displayed hair transplant ads; instead, a girl in a school uniform repeatedly wrote out the same analytical geometry problem in an exam room, dark red stains seeping from the edges of her draft paper.
On the seventeenth loop, she suddenly turned and smiled at the camera, and in the glass Pupil, I saw a shadow behind me.
The man in the Red Hoodie I had seen three hours earlier was now breathing against my neck. His hoodie zipper snagged on my hair tips, and the metallic friction mingled with echoes of a baby Crying.
As I pulled away with force, I tore through his skin, revealing a pulsating circuit diagram of Line 13 beneath an artificial leather layer.
“They're alive!”
The LED Fluorescent Tube on the station sign suddenly erupted with snowflake noise. An elderly woman in a qipao repeated her coin insertion motion as the subway doors opened and closed; when her coin fell into the Pupil, it splashed back echoes reminiscent of stock trading broadcasts from 1989.
My earrings began to heat up.
The backup power of the Implantable Recorder activated automatically, and the interface of the analyzer showed that all passengers' biological signals pointed to the same time node—three years ago on New Year's Eve, the moment when the Deep Eye Council first broadcasted the Consciousness Upload Experiment.
The scream of the Brake System was three times sharper than reality. As the Autonomous Train barreled through, carrying with it a gust that smelled of brain matter, the handrail suddenly secreted a memory gel.
I leaped up, stepping on an advertisement screen featuring Li Ming's Chibi Avatar, and in that instant, as I was lifted by the airflow, I caught sight of the Dashboard—the Neural Pulse Monitoring Screen displayed my Brainwave Spectrum.
The dull thud of my lower back hitting the Fire Hydrant activated the Emergency Lighting. In the reflection of the Emergency Hammer and Glass Cabinet, my Right Arm's veins glowed with a Fluorescent Track Map, showing the stations of Line 13 corresponding to acupoints on my wrist.
As my fingertips pressed against the Transfer Station corresponding to Liekexue, a sound like a tsunami echoed from deep within the tunnel, signaling the reorganization of flesh and bone.
The Carriage Advertisement Screen collectively went Blackout. Thirteen Last Missing Persons' Retinal Projections formed a circular screen; their severed Electronic Vocal Cords played my Real-Time Heart Rate.
The last Car Window reflected Li Ming's silhouette; the Deep Eye Tag on his neck had spread into patterns resembling Electronic Shackles.
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