We always think that memory is the container of the soul.
Until one day, you discover that those childhood fragments in your memory are implanted codes, and those unforgettable pains are other people's traumas. Even the moment you stare into the mirror - the contraction of your pupils and the frequency of trembling eyelashes - are all accurately replicating the conditioned reflex of a certain person who has passed away.
My name is Shen Zhao, and I am also SMH-2092-14.
This notebook records how lies take root, how truth festers, and how in this genetic wasteland, we use fragments of memory to piece together the outline of "self." You will read the cold data in the laboratory, the bloody fairy tales in the nursery, and the blue snowstorm that swept the world - when 300,000 clones hummed "Not the Original Self" at the same time, everything in the world was moved.
But please remember: the scariest thing is not to become a copy, but to discover that even the "original" is living in someone else's script.
What you will see is the collective escape of all unrecognized souls from the cage of genes.
