How can you be sure that you will always be you?
[When your memory becomes currency, reality becomes the most expensive luxury]
While Chen Yi's keyboard tray was swallowing blood, the blue mist was corroding the entire office building. In anonymous forums, colleagues used his mental diagnosis to place death bets, and vending machines sold fragments of his memory. His father's exploration log from 1983 revealed the horrifying truth—memory tax was paid with every breath, and his job number, C-17, was engraved on the tree rings.
The 72-hour countdown tattoo burns on the palm, and the fog blade burning memory pierces the cyber cage: forgetting the smile of first love and killing the shadow octopus, erasing the mother's last words and crushing the gargoyle. When hundreds of his own embryos were exposed in the underground cloning base, his stillborn brother was having his genes cannibalized through the quantum umbilical cord. The office cubicle is reduced in dimension and turned into a battlefield, and the choices of 256 parallel worlds reflect the blood spectrum in the fog blade crystal.
"There is no savior, only door-builders." When Chen Yi inserted the mist blade into his heart, the blood mist condensed into a micro-gate matrix connecting reality, but he discovered that he was just an experiment in the 17th reincarnation - the blue pill suppressed the ability to create mist, and the theme park sold three-minute savior experience tickets. At the final awakening moment of the hive universe, he is imprisoned in every cell with his blade raised, and the rusty gears are eternally biting in the blue mist.
This bloody dance of office politics and Cthulhu aesthetics will eventually play an existential requiem amidst the roar of cognitive cleansing and quantum wombs.
