Chip-induced madness was not uncommon. A few people immediately reacted, dialing emergency services while cautiously approaching the man in an attempt to calm him down.
Among them were Zhou Jiao’s parents.
Her parents had always been the kind-hearted type. Even in their pre-written wills, they reminded her to be a good person. They assured her that they had no regrets in life, except for one concern—they worried she might stray down the wrong path.
So naturally, at this moment, they were the first to step forward and approach the man.
But they didn’t know—this man was a senior employee of one of the monopolistic corporations.
Senior employees underwent military training. Just like Zhou Jiao, who was merely a doctor but had still been trained in professional firearm use.
The training senior employees received was far more comprehensive than hers.
Including how to activate the self-destruct program embedded in their chips.
In an instant, the fog of illusion was lifted, and all the clues connected—her parents had not died in a suicide bombing. Instead, they had perished when a recently fired senior employee, driven insane, triggered his self-destruction sequence.
The man’s eyes flashed red. Zhou Jiao stood nearby, utterly powerless to stop what was about to happen. She could only watch as his body suddenly ruptured into pieces, releasing a grotesque, twisted explosion of fire—
BOOM!
—BOOM!
The entire subway car was obliterated in an earth-shattering explosion. The windows shattered instantly, time seemed to freeze, and thousands of shards of glass suspended in midair.
Thick smoke, blazing flames, torn flesh, the darkness of the tunnel, and a dozen pairs of wide, stunned eyes—all of it came together to form the cold, indifferent conclusion of this tragedy.
Before long, the scene of destruction faded into nothingness, reforming into an ongoing press conference.
The subway company’s spokesperson, dressed in a jet-black suit, stepped onto the podium, facing the ravenous media.
With a composed expression, he expressed deep sorrow over the accident and shifted all the blame onto a terrorist organization.
“We will fully cooperate with the federal government’s investigation and do our utmost to minimize the probability of such incidents in the future.”
The television broadcast ended there, but the press conference continued.
Most of the journalists present were from other monopolistic corporations, and they had no reservations about their questions.
“There are sources claiming that the perpetrator was not a suicide bomber but a senior employee of a corporation. What is your response to this?”
The spokesperson calmly replied, “Company employees are the elite of society, graduates from top international institutions, and hold themselves to the highest ethical standards. I trust that they would not commit a suicide attack—an act that harms others without benefiting themselves.”
“How do you plan to compensate the families of the victims?”
“They will receive humanitarian condolences.”
…
Amid the orderly questioning, a sharp and furious voice suddenly rang out:
“Why didn’t security detect the self-destruction program in his chip? When the CEO of Biotech visited Yucheng, we couldn’t even bring a bottle of water onto the subway… And now you claim he wasn’t a company employee? You only ever bend the rules for them!”
The spokesperson did not answer.
With an indifferent wave of his hand, the journalist was promptly ‘escorted’ out.
The questioning continued, but after witnessing what had just happened, the subsequent questions became noticeably more restrained.
Everyone knew, even with connections, there were certain red lines that could never be crossed.
…So that’s how it is, Zhou Jiao thought.
But what did it change, now that she knew the truth behind her parents’ deaths?
The man who detonated himself was already dead.
At its core, wasn’t it still just an accident?
A voice echoed in her mind: You know this wasn’t an accident.
The company knew that excessive chip usage could drive employees insane, yet they aggressively promoted it and required every employee to have a minimum number of chips implanted.
The company knew that employees experiencing mental breakdowns might activate their self-destruction programs, yet they still allowed them to use public transportation.
And what could the subway company say?
They operated under government contracts, but who handed them those contracts was something everyone understood without saying.
A dull pain throbbed in Zhou Jiao’s head.
Suddenly, she felt utterly foolish.
For over twenty years, she had failed to realize that the mechanical spider was inching toward her along its web of crimes, waiting for the right moment to devour her whole.
A profound sense of powerlessness washed over her—one that felt completely different from what she felt when facing Jiang Lian.
When humans confronted natural disasters like tsunamis, they felt helpless too—but their first instinct was to survive.
Jiang Lian was like a tsunami, an overwhelming force of terror that had suddenly upended her life.
But she never despaired because of Jiang Lian. She knew that tsunamis always came to an end.
But no one knew when the company’s rule would end.
For a moment, the feeling of sinking into the deep sea grew even stronger.
Zhou Jiao found it hard to breathe.
Dazed, she thought: “Why do I have to face all of this? Jiang Lian, the company… Can I really handle it all?”
She couldn’t.
Even now, she wasn’t sure if she could survive Jiang Lian.
The sinking continued.
The immense pressure squeezed her bones, making them creak and groan.
—Maybe this is it.
Give up resistance. Abandon everything.
To hell with the company, the chips, the monsters—just sink with the water, deeper and deeper, until the crushing weight of the deep sea compressed her into a mist of blood.
At that moment, she would finally be free.
But just then, a damp, heavy force suddenly wrapped around her waist. Something clamped tightly around her, yanking her forcefully from the endless descent.
In an instant, daylight crashed down, and her vision gradually cleared—dim fluorescent lights, walls covered in small, peeling advertisements, and murky light seeping through dusty blinds, casting faint shadows onto her eyelids.
Zhou Jiao remembered now. This was the cheap motel she had rented with a gun earlier that morning.
At the same time, the pressure around her waist tightened further, laced with unmistakable displeasure.
Zhou Jiao turned her head, and the corner of her eye twitched slightly. Even the gloom of her dream seemed to dissipate a little.
…Wasn’t this a motel room, not her property? The kind of place you sleep in for one night before checking out?
Yet aside from the small visible portion of the room, the entire space was crammed with writhing, grotesque purple-black tendrils. They clung to the corners, the door cracks, beneath the bed—everywhere. The entire room was filled with pulsing, fleshy membranes, stretching and contracting like the lair of some nightmare-born creature.
What made her scalp prickle the most was that, despite the lack of eyes, she could feel an intense gaze fixed on her.
As if countless invisible eyes were staring straight at her, poised to engulf her at any moment, eager to steal the very breath she exhaled.
Zhou Jiao: “…”
She genuinely considered going back to sleep.
Jiang Lian didn’t like her looking at those tendrils.
He reached out with two fingers, pinched her chin, and turned her head away. His voice was cold:
“You smelled disgusting just now.”
As he spoke, he pressed his knuckle between her teeth, forcing her mouth open slightly, then leaned in to take a sniff—almost as if confirming whether the stench had faded. His expression remained chilly with lingering displeasure.
“If this happens again, I will—”
He had intended to say, “I will kill you.”
But every time he tried to kill her, she would always evade him through some bizarre means.
…For a moment, he found himself at a loss.
Zhou Jiao paid no attention to the twisted, eerie look on his face. Since she sensed no real intent to kill, she couldn’t be bothered to figure out why he looked so irritated.
She only cared about one thing: “Were you the one who woke me up?”
“Yes.”
Jiang Lian’s voice was indifferent. Remembering the rotten, death-like stench that had emanated from her as she slept, his displeasure deepened.
“If you always smell this awful when you sleep, then you’d best not—”
Before he could finish speaking, something warm and soft pressed against his lips.
Zhou Jiao tilted her head up, her tongue sweeping across his lips and teeth as she kissed him lightly.
Jiang Lian lowered his gaze. His expression remained unchanged.
Her kiss seemed insignificant to him.
Yet, his Adam’s apple bobbed heavily, swallowing every last drop of saliva she had fed him. The tendrils coiling around her waist tightened further, nearly bruising her skin with deep purple marks.
Zhou Jiao patted his tendrils, signaling him to loosen up. Pressing against his lips, she coaxed him in a sticky, saccharine voice:
“Thank you for waking me up. I’m sorry—I didn’t know that when I have nightmares… I start to smell bad. I’ll try not to have nightmares again.”
Perhaps the remnants of her nightmare still lingered, because the scent on her body remained unpleasant.
Yet, he neither pushed her away nor withdrew the tendrils constricting her.
Instead, when she attempted to break free, he tightened his grip—his oppressive aura laced with something almost murderous, warning her not to think about leaving.
He despised this feeling.
It was as if something was tightening around his throat, making him unbearably irritable—filling him with the urge to kill.
Several times, the surface of his tendrils nearly secreted neurotoxins, his instinct screaming at him to eliminate the source of his agitation.
Yet, just before the toxins could fully form, his tendrils snapped back into the rift behind him—so fast, it was as if he feared… truly harming her.
This feeling was unfamiliar to him.
Uncomfortable.
And even, in some inexplicable way…
Terrifying.