Lin Yan parked the hoverbike outside the cordon of District 7, and the environmental data automatically popped up on the helmet mask: the radiation value was normal, the oxygen content was low, and the temperature was minus fifteen degrees. He rubbed his frozen fingers, and the white breath he exhaled condensed into fine droplets on the inside of the mask. This is this damn place again. The voice of my partner Lao Chen came from the intercom, with a sizzling electric sound: I said Yanzi, do the superiors dislike us? This is the third time this month that District 7 has been dispatched. What are you complaining about? Overtime pay is doubled. Lin Yan jumped off the motorcycle, and his boots made a crunching sound when he stepped into half a foot of gray-white dust. In the distance, the abandoned colonial outpost looked like a giant beast crawling in the darkness. Several windows were dark, and occasionally metal plates were blown by the wind, making a harsh friction sound. Old Chen followed from behind, carrying a standard investigation box in his hand. This guy is in his early forties and has worked in the Anomaly Processing Bureau for fifteen years. The scar on his face from his eyebrow bone to the corner of his mouth is a souvenir left in District 4 three years ago. What's the use of doubling it, you have to have the life flower.
