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墨書 Inktalez
Chapter 9: The Vacuum Cage and the Whispers at Three A.M.
The moment the router's indicator light went out, I felt as if I had been thrown into a vacuum chamber in outer space.
Darkness, silence. A suffocating thickness enveloped me.
Gone were the faint hums of the computer fan, the labored breaths of the aging refrigerator, and even the sounds of traffic from the street outside, which belonged to the world of the living. It was as if a heavy lead plate had isolated me from everything. The world compressed down to just my frantic heartbeat and heavy breathing.
The initial panic was physiological. Like a drowning person desperately trying to grasp something. I spun around in the darkness like a headless fly, repeatedly checking the door lock, pressing my ear against the cold wall, trying to catch a hint of signal from the outside world. But there was nothing. Only the buzzing in my eardrums caused by overwhelming tension. I wasn’t isolated; I had been erased from this world.
Seventy-two hours. Three days and nights. Cut off from society. My phone had turned into a brick with zero signal, and time lost its precise anchor. I stared at my wristwatch, which had long since run out of battery, and for the first time understood deeply that modern civilization and the feeling of "being alive" are largely built on those invisible waves and signals. Once forcibly unplugged, a person is just a piece of breathing meat.
Calm down! Li Mo, for heaven's sake, calm down! I pinched my thigh hard; the sharp pain brought me slightly back to reality. Panic is the best weapon for an enemy. I still had food and water; I wouldn’t die. I still had my mind; I could think. I had a backup plan—the encrypted message in a bottle was the last rope tied to my fate’s cliff.
I groped my way up to the corner where my army cot was set up, forcing myself to lie flat on my back, staring blankly at the nonexistent light source on the ceiling. My mind, however, was boiling over with thoughts swirling chaotically.
Xiao Ya. The pale, blurry face in the abandoned factory window. Was it her? What happened to her? Cognitive Redundancy… What had they done to her? Electric shocks? Drugs? Or something more insidious like psychological manipulation?
Lighthouse Society. Those twisted lunatics! What exactly is Legacy Core Code? What warranted such a grand scheme? Screening “tools”? A gray technology testing ground? Old K’s warning echoed in my mind like an incessant alarm.
And then there was me. What about after seventy-two hours? “Information Purity Scan Assessment”? How would they scan? What standards would they use? If deemed “unqualified”… At that thought, I couldn’t help but shiver.
Time became a distorted, subjective experience in absolute darkness and silence. The boundaries between day and night blurred; only the faint changes in light through the curtain seams allowed me to vaguely sense the passage of time.
The side effects of sensory deprivation began to manifest.
I started to hear things that weren’t there. There seemed to be faint footsteps in the hallway, floorboards creaking underfoot. From next door came low murmurs that sounded like an argument or perhaps someone muttering something. More frighteningly, at one point, I distinctly heard three soft rhythmic knocks—tap, tap, tap—on the door. I jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on and pressed my ear against the door for what felt like ages; outside was dead silent. Was it an illusion? Or… had someone really been there?
In the darkness, everything in the studio came alive. The piles of documents in the corner loomed like crouching monsters; shadows of chairs elongated and distorted, resembling silent watchers. I dared not close my eyes for long; it felt as if something far more terrifying lurked behind my eyelids.
It’s a delusion. I know what’s happening, but I can’t control it. My nerves feel like a rubber band stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
The only thing anchoring me to reality is that damned “check-in” at three in the morning.
This is my only connection—fragile as a spider's thread—between me and the unknown world that manipulates me. I dare not fall into a deep sleep; relying on a vague biological clock and my estimation of the darkness's length, I force myself to stay absolutely awake as I approach that deadly hour.
Before my first check-in, I sat on the cold floor, my palms slick with clammy sweat. I found the “safety channel” program I had downloaded earlier, its icon nonexistent.
Three in the morning. The moment the hands pointed to that number, I held my breath and double-clicked to run it.
A black command line window popped up, revealing nothingness.
After an agonizing wait of several seconds, a line of white text appeared:
[Frequency Connection confirmed. Please enter the current status code.]
Status code? This wasn’t mentioned in the instructions! Was this some sort of pop quiz? Or had I missed something before? Cold sweat poured down my back.
I forced myself to analyze calmly. “Noise does not interfere with your judgment core,” “Maintain thought.” They didn’t want my genuine feelings; they wanted answers that fit their “standards.” What was my current state? Anxiety? Fear? On the brink of collapse? No, I absolutely couldn’t expose that! I had to appear “stable,” and it needed to align with their cryptic jargon.
I thought of their repeated mentions of “Frequency,” “energy,” and “cognition.” I tried entering a word: “Nominal.” This term represents “rated” or “normal” in engineering; it sounded neutral yet technical, and it was unlikely to be wrong—perfect for their pretentious calmness.
I hit enter.
The window text vanished. After another few seconds of silence, new text appeared:
[Status recorded. Channel closing countdown: 10 seconds.]
The numbers began to count down. I quickly closed the program.
Did I guess right? Or were they just recording this as a negative indicator of my "stability"?
Slumped in the chair, I felt as if I had just undergone an interrogation, utterly exhausted.
The next two days were a hellish repetition.
During the day, I battled the ever-growing demons in my mind in the darkness. I paced, curled up, and repeatedly recalled every detail. That cross-shaped scratch... half erased... did it signify "warning lifted"? Or "mission changed"? Or perhaps "half credible"? I even dipped my finger in water and drew that mark and cross on the table, trying to find some geometric hint from the composition or proportions. But my mind felt like a mushy mess.
The following afternoon, just as I was dozing off, a faint, continuous buzzing sound came from upstairs, like some electrical appliance short-circuiting or perhaps... some kind of signal interference? The sound lasted for about ten seconds before abruptly disappearing. I strained to listen for any further noise but heard nothing. Was it old wiring upstairs? Or something else? This subtle anomaly pricked at my highly sensitive nerves like a needle, intensifying my paranoia.
Nights were endless torment and a fearful waiting for three o'clock in the morning.
During the second check-in, the prompt changed to: [Current Thought Coordinate?] Coordinate? Geographic coordinate or mental coordinate? I guessed they wanted to understand my "thought dynamics." I typed: "Seeking Clarity." It indicated that I was "thinking" while also suggesting that I had not yet "solidified," fitting a state that needed to be "enlightened."
For the third check-in, the prompt was the most bizarre: [Perceived Entropy Increase Index?] Entropy increase? A concept from physics? Or their jargon? They always emphasized order, Frequency, stability... Entropy increase represented chaos and disorder. So should I respond oppositely? I typed: "Stabilizing."
Each response felt like a gamble. With every channel closure, I sensed that door to the abyss creaking open just a little more.
I felt as if this vacuum prison was slowly and cruelly dismantling, analyzing, and reshaping me. They stripped away my senses, severed my connections, magnified my fears—all to destroy the foundation of my existence as an independent individual, leaving me to cling like a vine to their toxic tree.
Xiao Ya... that girl who was only nineteen... had she gone through all this too? How did she endure it? Or... had she not endured at all?
Just thinking of her crushed my heart. No! I couldn't break down! For her, for myself, for that "message in a bottle" that might never be seen, I had to hold on! I needed to see what these bastards were really up to!
At the end of 72 hours, I finally crawled out from the endless darkness and inner screams.
I felt like a death row inmate waiting for dawn, curled up in a corner, listening to my heartbeat weaken from extreme fatigue and tension. After the last check-in ended, I could no longer close my eyes. My gaze fixed on the sliver of light seeping through the curtain's gap.
Time had never felt so slow and so terrifying.
The sky finally brightened. A faint light pierced through the darkness, announcing the end of the 72-hour quarantine period.
And then?
Silence.
A silence more terrifying than before.
No emails, no messages, no contact whatsoever.
Have I been forgotten? Or have I failed the "evaluation" and been quietly disposed of? Or are they somewhere I don't know, coldly "scanning" this shell of a person I’ve become?
Panic surged over me like a tidal wave, nearly drowning me. I stood up and staggered toward the door, an overwhelming urge to burst through it almost tearing my sanity apart.
Just then—
The old laptop I had set aside, which had long since lost power and should have been out of battery, suddenly emitted a faint yet clear "beep"!
Every hair on my body stood on end as I whipped around!
The screen—it lit up by itself!
Not a blue screen, not a startup logo, but a pure, blinding white light! Like the cold, sterile lights of an operating room, devoid of any warmth!
What the hell?! What’s going on?! The power and internet are down! Could it be that there’s still a faint backup power source activated remotely? Or did that damned encrypted upload tool leave a backdoor?! Did that bastard Old K set me up?! What level of black technology is this?!
My mind was in chaos, my heart nearly stopped.
In the center of the white screen, several lines of black text slowly materialized—emotionless and mechanical, like a final judgment printed by a machine:
The purity scan of the information has been completed. Assessment result: meets the minimum standards.
Minimum standards? Just barely passing? I survived?
Before I could process this information, the text changed again:
Cognitive bandwidth test passed. Environmental adaptability: below average. Cognitive framework: significant redundancy and potential instability detected, mandatory recalibration required.
Significant redundancy?! Potential instability?! Mandatory recalibration?! They’ve discovered the contingency I left behind?! Or is it simply because of my inner defiance and resistance?!
Fear poured over me like ice water.
Then, the final line appeared, carrying a mechanical and undeniable command:
Temporary authorization of “Calibration Node” granted. Next phase task: Frequency Tuning. Instructions will be delivered within 24 hours via the implanted Neural Interface. Maintain receiving status.
Calibration Node? Neural Interface?!
I suddenly looked down at my arms, my neck, my entire body… Where did this Neural Interface come from?! When was it implanted?!
An unprecedented, bone-deep terror and nausea seized me in an instant!
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