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墨書 Inktalez
Chapter 8: A Life of Formatting and Encrypted Messages in a Bottle
"Your choice will determine your path."
The last words from Inceptor hit me like a cold, final verdict from a court, sealing off all my chances for appeal.
Clear all devices. Freeze all accounts. Cut off all networks. Isolate for 72 hours.
What the hell is this "qualification review"? This is clearly a targeted, precise "Social Cleansing Operation" against me! They want to sever every connection I have to this world, cut all my social ties, and turn me into a transparent, malleable "raw material" that can only survive on their whims!
I stared at the screen, feeling as if my blood was freezing. Anger erupted within me like a volcano, while fear drenched me like icy water, accompanied by a humiliating sense of being completely manipulated. I wanted nothing more than to smash this damn computer screen and scream at the sky on the street, telling the world that there’s a perverse organization conducting inhumane experiments!
But reason—damn it, that sometimes lifesaving reason—tightened around my neck like a cold iron chain. Call the police? What evidence do I have? An untraceable email? A "Inceptor" whose real name I don’t even know? The police would just think I’m some drugged-up lunatic.
Quit? What about Xiao Ya if I quit now? The notion of "Cognitive Redundancy" and "system instability" pricked at my nerves like a poisonous needle. She must be in trouble! She must be resisting! If I just let go, she would truly be left without help!
And besides… I, Li Mo, though living like a dog, am still a damn living dog! I can’t just disappear from this world without a trace! If I’m going to die, I’ll leave some blood on the wall!
A fierce determination born from desperation surged through me, mixed with worry for Xiao Ya’s safety and an intense survival instinct, injecting itself into my veins like a cheap stimulant.
I must execute the orders; at least I need to appear compliant. But I cannot let them control me completely. I need to leave something behind—a contingency plan, an insurance policy—an encrypted "message in a bottle" that could still convey the truth even after I completely "vanish"!
Time is running out. The orders demand immediate action.
Like a clockwork corpse, I began to move.
The first step: play the fool and feign obedience.
I dug out the dusty external hard drive and plugged it into the computer. With trembling hands, I clicked on the formatting options of this work computer that had accompanied me for many years, documenting all my failures and struggles. I selected "Deep Erase," ensuring that the data could not be easily recovered. The mouse pointer hovered over the "Confirm" button, like a weight pressing down on my heart. This felt even worse than signing an organ donation agreement; I was about to erase all traces of "Li Mo's" existence.
But I didn’t give myself a chance to hesitate. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and clicked.
The computer began to emit a low hum as it executed this self-destructive command. The progress bar on the screen resembled a greedy snake, slowly devouring my past.
Step two: a covert operation—struggling against time.
While my work computer was committing "suicide," I opened an old laptop that rarely connected to the internet and was dedicated to handling "dirty data." This was my last fortress.
Information organization:
Core: Tian Xiaoya Disappearance Case, contact for Sister Wang, characteristics of Xiao Ya, items taken (two computers).
Opponent: Lighthouse Society, entry password ZoksbT, contact person "Inceptor", brainwashing characteristics (Frequency/cognition/elite/formatting), known tasks (abandoned factory mark), extreme scrutiny (72-hour isolation).
Key: Tian Yucheng, "Singularity Project", "Legacy Core Code", "Alpha-7" (Frequency/password?), pre-death warning, only Xiao Ya can access the computer.
Evidence: photos of factory marks with close-ups of cross scratches (highlight this!).
Speculation: Xiao Ya under control/resisting, Lighthouse Society's purpose (tool/technical experiment?), cross scratches = distress signal/code/disruption?
Last words/distress signal: I am being forced to execute dangerous orders; if I go missing, please report to the police or seek professional help to uncover the truth!
I typed this information into a text document as quickly as possible, checking repeatedly for clarity and objectivity, stripping away any emotional interference.
The method of concealment: Steganography. I found an open-source tool called StegHide that I had downloaded before, praying that it wouldn't have any bugs. The carrier image... had to be extremely ordinary. I dug out a photo I had taken of the messy rooftops of the residential buildings outside my studio, under a gray sky with clothes hanging out to dry—utterly unremarkable, perfectly fitting the standard of something that "no one would even glance at if thrown in the trash."
I launched the tool, selected the image and the encrypted compressed document, and set the password... Just as I was entering a long password that only I knew, mixed with uppercase and lowercase letters, numbers, and special symbols, that damn steganography tool suddenly froze! An incomprehensible error message popped up on the screen!
Damn! My heart tightened, cold sweat instantly pouring down! Could this broken laptop be monitored too? Or was there a problem with the tool itself? I forcefully closed the program and restarted my computer, silently praying for protection from all deities. On my second attempt, the tool finally ran normally. I held my breath as I embedded the document into the image's pixels. After completing it, I compared it to the original image; the size had barely changed, and there was no visible difference.
Uploading. This was the most dangerous step. I needed an absolutely anonymous and censorship-resistant platform, preferably one located at the ends of the earth. I set up several layers of proxies and found a rumored temporary file storage site run by Russians that required no verification; it was said to be particularly resilient—FBI couldn't do anything about it.
I clicked upload. Watching that progress bar crawl like a snail made my heart leap into my throat. Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, accompanied by some muffled coughs! I nearly slammed my laptop shut in panic! I quickly severed the proxy connection and strained to listen for a long time; fortunately, the footsteps soon faded away. Just a false alarm? Or...? I dared not think too much and reconnected to the proxy, watching the progress bar inch forward at a tortoise's pace; each second felt like a year. Finally, upload successful! A short link was generated. I quickly copied it down and memorized it at lightning speed before clearing all browsing traces.
The last step was to send a timed "last letter." The recipient... I quickly ran through everyone I knew in my mind. Sister Wang? No way; if she found out, she'd just collapse and might impulsively report it, alerting everyone. Old K? That guy only cares about money; he's unreliable and might even use this information to extort me further. Other friends? Either too honest and easily deceived or too loose-lipped to keep a secret...
Only one candidate remained—Monkey. My college roommate. This guy returned to his small town after graduation to become a laid-back civil servant; we hadn't been in touch for ages, but his character was solid and he could keep his mouth shut. Most importantly, he was an incorrigible tech nerd who had some sensitivity to online twists and turns, plus... he was farthest from this murky water that could drown me.
I used a brand-new anonymous email account to draft an extremely vague message:
Subject: Rat Rat, it's me, Silly Roe; remember the rooftop by Daming Lake?
Body: Monkey, it's me. I've been busy lately and have no idea how you're doing back home. A few days ago, while rummaging through an old hard drive, I found a photo of the rooftop outside our old rental place—the one next to where they often hung cured meat—and felt quite nostalgic. I'm sending it for you to take a look at.[Here, I inserted a link leading to an extremely obscure personal photography blog that had long stopped updating; the real image link was embedded using Steganography within an unrelated landscape photo's EXIF data. Extracting it required specific tools and passwords; the hint for extracting the password was based on an inside joke from when we stayed up all night playing games—my utterly useless pet’s name abbreviation—ZLJ; only he would understand this reference.] By the way, if you haven't heard from me in a month (I set a specific date), it probably means my phone fell into a toilet or I've followed aliens into space exploration—don't worry about me too much. If you're bored then, just check if that rooftop in the photo is still as shabby as before. Take care of yourself.
I scheduled the email for delivery at precisely three o'clock in the morning one month later. A month would be enough to determine my fate. If I survived and managed to contact him, he would never know this email existed. If I really... passed away, this encrypted message in a bottle would be my last faint signal left for this world. Monkey, I'm counting on you.
After completing all of this, I felt every last ounce of strength drained from my body but gained an odd sense of calm mentally—a resolute calmness of "I'll go all out with you bastards; even in death, I'll take someone down with me."
The formatting of my work computer finally finished. The screen turned pitch black; upon rebooting, it entered a brand new empty initial interface—just like my life at this moment.
I unplugged the external hard drive and began to deal with my phone. I performed a factory reset and deep erased everything. Contacts, photos, chat histories… all the familiar traces were disappearing, making me feel as if I was attending my own digital funeral.
I didn’t cancel my bank cards or payment accounts; that would be foolish. Instead, I simply unlinked everything that could be unlinked and converted my meager savings into a small amount of Monero through an incredibly complex process, depositing it into an offline Cold Wallet. Then, I stuffed all the physical cards and SIM cards into a waterproof sealed bag and hid it in an utterly unexpected corner of my studio, a place I had almost forgotten myself.
The final step was to cut off the internet. A physical disconnection.
I walked over to the cheap router in the corner, its blinking green light once a faint heartbeat connecting me to the civilized world. Now, I was about to extinguish it with my own hands.
I reached out, my finger pausing momentarily on the power button. Before me, the window of that abandoned factory seemed to reappear, along with that pale, blurry figure.
Seventy-two hours. Cut off from the world. Silent, dark, and without aid. Like living in a pressure chamber deep in the ocean.
What awaited me? That so-called "Information Purity Scan Assessment"? Would it be a mental torment or a physical threat? Would the Inceptor still contact me? Would the true face of the Lighthouse Society reveal itself in the darkness?
Xiao Ya, wait for me! You must hold on!
I closed my eyes, pressed down hard with my fingertip, and decisively hit the power button on the router.
Click.
The indicator light went out.
In the studio, I was plunged into suffocating darkness and silence. My 72-hour "formatting" of life had officially begun.
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