On a stormy night at Mount Taiping, I burned my first black card and set off a globally livestreamed “leap from a building.” I also unleashed an emotional virus called “Firefeather.”
It landed on the roof of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, at the corner of my mother’s tear-streaked eye, and in every heart formatted by capital.
We laughed, we flew, and we made ourselves into chips, plugging into our father’s mainframe to tear down the Zhenyuan server.
When the ∞ Era began and the Order Rain fell, I finally understood: freedom isn’t breaking out of a cocoon. It’s burning the cocoon to ash, then trading that ash for the next flame.
Beneath the Firefeather, there is no savior, only a bunch of lunatics willing to pay the price to “be themselves,” and a countdown that never ends.
