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墨書 Inktalez
Jiang Yiheng, thirty-five years old, was a senior reviewer at the Urban Planning Bureau. He was always disciplined and organized, with a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder and an exceptional memory. He had previously been responsible for monitoring irregularities in building permits. One day, while reviewing historical floor audit data, he discovered something alarming:
The floor plans for the Municipal Building contained levels labeled "21," "23," "0B," and "L9," which should not have existed. He attempted to verify this information but found that all the planning personnel responsible for those blueprints were marked as "system resigned," and even the records had vanished. His supervisor merely brushed it off, saying, "Those are provisional levels that haven't been activated; please do not investigate further."
—
He applied for internal investigation permissions, citing "the potential risks of concealed spaces on energy consumption management" as his reason. He took the maintenance elevator to access the legendary "21st floor."
To his surprise, the elevator had no doors.
The so-called "door" on that floor was merely a symbolic decoration made of two steel plates pressed together, resembling metallic lips. As he arrived, those two "lips" slowly parted, releasing a gust of warm, humid air.
He stepped into the 21st floor.
—
The first thing he saw was Zhang You.
The man sat at desk 21-F-07, hunched over a bloodstained sheet of paper. With each page he turned, his body twitched as if his intestines were being twisted. His eyes were cloudy, and his fingers yellowed, yet he continued to type rhythmically on the keyboard, from which wisps of white smoke emerged with every keystroke.
Jiang Yiheng recognized him immediately.
Zhang You, a former contractor from the Data Department, had gone missing two years ago due to a mental breakdown; the official statement claimed he had "abandoned his post." He should have disappeared long ago.
Zhang You looked up at Jiang for a moment; his expression was devoid of emotion, like an unfinished printout of a face. His mouth moved as red text appeared on his tongue: "Please enter Visitor Code."
Jiang Yiheng took a step back. He noticed that there was a small printer opening on Zhang You's chest, slowly ejecting a label from between his ribs that read:
"Visitor: Unregistered. Recommended for encoding processing. Classification: Gray Level. Recommended disassembly."
Jiang began to run wildly, weaving through the gaps in the white fabric until he reached an open area. This was the junction between the office zone and the biological storage area. He saw an entire wall transformed into a human-shaped filing cabinet, with bodies stuffed into folders, each marked with a code and processing Record. Scattered on the ground were human "supplements"—severed ears (for storing voiceprints), tongues (for signature verification), and uteruses (high-risk reproductive sources).
In the corner, he discovered a mainframe connected to the internal system above the 21st floor. He started to read the system data, and the screen displayed the following information:
"Welcome to the Municipal Neural Network"
"Current living processing units: 12,482"
"Layered Design:"
──
L9: Infant Exclusion Data Backup Layer (periodic deletion of invalid registrations for newborns)
0B: Non-registered Deceased Metabolism Layer (processing unregistered corpses and anonymous deaths)
21: Potentially Disabled Individual Simulation and Pairing Removal Layer (the floor where Zhang You is located)
23: Behavioral Deviant Reformatting Layer (used for outputting alternative civil servant personality templates)
"Main system estimate: By next year, 203 individuals will automatically meet the criteria for transfer to the 21st floor."
"Please choose:
A. Remain silent
B. Raise an objection
C. Become a sample"
Jiang collapsed onto the ground.
He suddenly understood that behind the stability, order, and data-driven nature of this entire city lay a smoothly operating "human deconstruction industry." It absorbed anomalies, crushed excess, and labeled the voiceless as data. Every individual deemed unsuitable for continued existence was neatly coded into a "supply chain."
Including him.
He had once said in a meeting, "The premise of maximizing city efficiency is to unify data specifications and eliminate sources of error."
Now, he saw his name appearing on the list on the right side of the system. Code: E-FIX-13.
Status: "Under Observation."
As he turned to leave, a white cloth fell, revealing someone blocking the path ahead—Zhang You.
He said nothing, merely extending his hand. The palm split open, and a card resembling leather slid out from his skin. It bore the inscription:
"Jiang Yiheng, welcome back to Document Body. Your first page has been drafted."
Have you ever signed something without reading it carefully? Have you ever filled out a form at a website or a counter, unaware of what it concluded with?
That is the beginning of your file being created.
Jiang Yiheng watched as the Passcard emerged from Zhang You's palm; it felt like warm skin, printed with data fields he had never seen before:
Semantic Density: Excessively High
Suspicion Module: Highly Active
Prophecy Compatibility: 92%
Disassembly Recommendation: Maintain consciousness during format transfer to ensure simulation capability.
He was led into a completely white room. The walls were neither brick nor steel but were instead composed of densely packed remnants of Optic Nerve tissue—like inverted cocoons, pieced together from the retinas of the deceased to form a wall of light-sensitive memories.
In the center stood a chair. Not just any chair, but a cockpit structured from Spines, supported by hundreds of broken vertebrae. The seat cushion was made from compressed Vocal Cords, its texture reminiscent of living tongue tissue, slightly springy to the touch.
"Sit down," a voice commanded, emanating from an unknown source, as if the room itself were breathing.
As he sat down, the entire room began to tremble. He felt a needle-like structure inserted into the back of his head; his memories were not being extracted but rather renamed, like files being reorganized in a digital archive.
His eyes were wide open, yet the sights before him began to overlap: thousands of versions of cities—floods, civil unrest, mechanical riots, ground collapses, bodies falling from rooftops, out-of-control aerial trains crashing into plazas. He was not "predicting" these events; he was being forced to experience them over and over again.
Each future concluded with a series of silent documents:
"Case 492 executed with preemptive clearance. Satisfaction level: 78%. Citizen memory synchronization complete."
"Case 811, incident concealed as an earthquake. Memorial soon to be completed."
"Case 1703, failure subject successfully detached, residual effects controlled at 20%."
Jiang Yiheng was deep in thought. He was still alive. He still had perception. He still had logic.
But every time he tried to speak, his mouth would automatically open and close, producing only:
"According to projections, the population must decrease by another 3% next year. Thank you for your cooperation."
—
He was installed into a wall of the Municipal Hub. This wall was located directly behind the City Council hall, adorned with the city emblem and inscribed with the words: "The city exists for you and is cleansed for you."
He became the first core of a Precognitive Neural Tower. His brain was continuously copied, branched out, and mixed with other Corpse Brain samples to simulate potential future disasters: Policy Failure, Public Discontent Out of Control, Collective Resistance, Economic Downturn—each possibility had been experienced by him in consciousness once before: dying once, feeling pain once, breaking apart once.
Then adjustments and preemptive removals were carried out from the 21st floor.
—
From that day forward, the Municipal Building gained an additional layer: the 22nd floor. It was a soundproof level, prohibiting any noise, any words, any memories. Every person who entered would hear a faint voice whispering within the walls:
"I am not a bad person... I am just trying to make the city cleaner... I just... signed a form..."
Zhang You remained seated in 21-F-07.
Every day, he opened new forms, staring at the data entries. He no longer read the names. He had forgotten the language. His nails had all fallen off, used as staples beneath the forms pinned to the wall. In his mouth, he held a rough draft of the city's budget proposal for the next three years, biting down on it, waiting for someone to come and make a suggestion.
But none of this mattered.
The city continued to function. People kept filling out forms, submitting them, waiting for approval, continuing to breathe. You did too. Do you remember the contents of the questionnaire you filled out today? What did you agree to? Who did you eliminate?
Perhaps you have already been logged in. Perhaps you just haven't been called yet.
Click—
The file has been opened.
We are ready.
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