At three o'clock in the morning, a sweeping robot with its battery removed and burned to black crawled back into the deceased's apartment for the third time.
It guarded a pot without rice, laid out two pairs of slippers, and whispered greetings to the empty sofa. Subsequently, a confirmation form popped up on the house cleaner's badge: The local residue did not have personality rights and agreed to be recycled as unowned data.
When the countdown started, Lin Zhibai was separated by an anonymous line, but he asked him to put his hands in his pockets.
Lin Zhibai was once a core system engineer of Taixuan. Now he wears Taoist robes and guards a broken Taoist temple that is disconnected from the Internet. He relies on offline coupons to deal with the "residues" that the cloud refuses to acknowledge and that reality cannot bury.
In this futuristic city where acid rain persists all year round, death has long been turned into an annual renewal business by large companies. Personality models who can afford the package enter the Tiangong for long-term custody; data that loses the paying subjects is split, downgraded, and sent to the rotating queue, with the destination pointing to the low computing power pool that no one is responsible for.
Lin Zhibai would not easily call a piece of data a person, nor would he prove to the system that there was no one in it.
The dead fly into the clouds, and Pindao is responsible for disconnecting the Internet and delivering them.
Lin Zhibai used to be Taixuan's core system engineer, but now he guards a Taoist temple that is disconnected from the Internet, relying on offline coupons to deal with the "residues" that the cloud refuses to acknowledge.
He wasn't sure if anyone else was in the data.
But as long as there is a sentence left unfinished, he cannot let the system press confirm for the deceased.
The dead fly into the clouds, and Pindao is responsible for disconnecting the Internet and delivering them.