Zhou Jiao took a deep breath and scrolled back up. Sure enough, the earlier comments were obviously generated by bots. A few more pages down, she started seeing real ones.
"Damn, that scared me!"
"Bot comments don't go trending, dude."
"Who is this guy? Why does he hate Biotech so much?"
"What do you mean why?! You need a reason to hate Biotech??? Unemployment's at a record high, isn't that because of Biotech? Without it, you could've held your job for ten years. But thanks to Biotech, you get optimized out before you hit 30—even with the global average lifespan at 100!"
"Relax. Maybe his whole family's unemployed."
...
Below that, it dissolved into mutual insults between netizens.
With unemployment at an all-time high, more and more company workers were being let go due to mental breakdowns. The pressure on people was overwhelming. Online arguments erupted almost constantly.
Social platforms encouraged this kind of venting—for clicks, yes, but also for stability. Better to let the rage out online than in real life, right?
Suddenly, Zhou Jiao's eyes locked onto one comment:
"Are you a Biotech employee?"
She frowned and clicked the commenter's avatar, but a pop-up appeared: "This user is anonymous."
Another tactic encouraged by social media—anonymity. Under the cloak of anonymity, emotions escalate, aggression spikes, and cold, extremist, black-and-white opinions flourish. Arguments flare up easily.
Ignoring the anonymity for now, it became increasingly likely that the account owner of "When Will Biotech Go Bankrupt" was indeed a Biotech employee.
Analyzing their posts, a few key phrases stood out:
"Everyone around me is a monster"
"Why am I the only one who knows"
"The truth"
"That person"
"I'm scared to death every day"
"Everyone around me is a monster"—he was likely in close contact with Biotech personnel.
"Why am I the only one who knows"—he probably worked in a Biotech lab, close to core projects. He might have seen things regular employees couldn't access.
"The truth"—a revealing phrase, typically used when someone's beliefs have been upended. He may have thought the experiments benefited humanity—until they didn't.
"That person"—he didn't say "they" or "that thing," which meant he knew exactly who had initiated this entire project.
Most likely someone high-ranking in Biotech, possibly a scientist with dangerous ambitions.
"I'm scared to death every day"—paired with the earlier "monsters" comment, it nearly confirmed he worked at Biotech.
Zhou Jiao had little sympathy for him. No sorrow, no pity. After all, he'd nearly gotten her killed by summoning those creatures. But he was tied to Jiang Lian's origins. Losing his testimony would make it much harder to send Jiang Lian "back home."
Her mind spun. Too many questions, too few answers. Her temples throbbed. She decided to sleep on it for now.
Fortunately, Jiang Lian only looked difficult to deal with. In reality, he was surprisingly easy to fool.
She asked if they could stay at a cheap motel.
He stared at her for a moment and said, "I can build a nest."
Zhou Jiao: "…No need for that. Let's just go with a cheap motel."
It had to be a cheap one. Her credit chip was frozen, and only the cheapest motels still accepted cash or pawned goods—since the Federation had long banned cash transactions.
She pawned her mini handgun and got a double room. With Jiang Lian by her side, the gun was pointless anyway.
Zhou Jiao was starving, exhausted, and mentally strained. The second she hit the bed, she blacked out—too tired to even register what Jiang Lian was doing.
Her sleep was restless.
She felt like she was sinking, deep into a dark ocean. The light above grew dim and sluggish. Pressure crushed her from all directions, squeezing her bones and limbs.
Her breath came shallow and cold sweat soaked her back. It felt like she'd be flattened into paper by the weight of the water at any moment.
Under this crushing pressure, she dreamt of her long-dead parents.
Unlike most people in Yucheng, Zhou Jiao had a peaceful, uneventful childhood. She had barely witnessed any gang fights. That alone made her upbringing unusual.
But this city—chaotic and frenzied—was a web of corporate corruption. The companies were mechanical spiders squatting at its center, spinning webs of sin.
Every day someone cried themselves unconscious in coffin apartments. Every day someone died of overdose. Every day someone was kidnapped and sold to underground clinics for flaunting fancy tech.
Fifty years ago, when sci-fi authors gazed at the stars, was this the future they dreamed of?
Zhou Jiao didn't know. She didn't even know why her parents died.
It happened without warning—like a piano piece cut off mid-performance.
They were on their way to work. The subway car exploded without any sign.
The transit company blamed a suicide bomber linked to a terrorist group.
For twenty years, Zhou Jiao rarely questioned it. She didn't read conspiracy forums. She was raised by company schools, surrounded by company people.
She wasn't loyal to the system—but never imagined trying to overturn it.
Jiang Lian's appearance forced her to see the rot.
He was terrifying and strange—but somehow helped her see past the lies.
Was it possible… her parents hadn't died in a terrorist attack?
Every day, someone suffered chip-induced psychosis. How do you know the bomber wasn't just another chip-crazed casualty?
It felt like some divine hand was rewinding the footage for her—frame by frame.
The subway's howling wind roared in her ears as she stood, now, in that doomed car.
She saw her parents, silver light flickering in their eyes as they worked via chip. Across from them sat a man with sunken cheeks, dry lips, and greasy hair clumped into strings. He looked like he'd been living on the subway for days.
That wasn't unusual. 24-hour subways were filled with newly jobless workers, kicked out of corporate housing, too proud to live in slums.
Zhou Jiao had seen too many cases like this in the hospital. She instantly recognized the signs of stimulant withdrawal.
He needed a tranquilizer—fast—or his nervous system would break down.
But he had no meds.
No one around him noticed—everyone buried in work. In this world, if you didn't fight for every second, you didn't survive.
Zhou Jiao stepped closer.
The man mumbled with cracked lips, trembling, voice nearly drowned by the subway's roar.
"I told them… I didn't do it… Why fire me… Why cut off my meds… I can't go on… I can't go on…"
"Meds"—clearly referring to corporate-issued stimulants.
Only high-level employees got those, along with monitoring chips tracking vitals.
It was supposed to "protect" their health—but was really about control.
As time passed, his expression twisted in madness. Then suddenly, he screamed:
"I'm going to die—I'M GOING TO DIE—AND YOU'RE ALL COMING WITH ME!"
Cases like this weren't rare. Some passengers immediately reacted, dialing emergency services, trying to calm him down.
Her parents were among them.
Always the "nice ones," even in their will they'd begged her to be good. Of course they rushed over.
But they didn't know he was a top-tier employee.
And top-tier employees were trained in combat—just like Zhou Jiao, a mere doctor, had trained in firearms.
Their training was deeper. It included… chip-triggered self-destruction.
The illusion shattered.
Everything snapped into place: her parents didn't die in a terrorist attack. They were collateral damage in a psychotic outburst—enabled by corporate neglect.
Red light flashed in his eyes. Zhou Jiao could do nothing but watch.
The man exploded.
BOOM!
The car disintegrated. Glass shattered. Time froze. Shards floated in the air.
Smoke. Fire. Flesh. The tunnel. A dozen stunned eyes. All of it—an apathetic full stop.
Then, just as quickly, the scene dissolved into a press conference.
A spokesman in black took the podium.
Calm and collected, he blamed it all on terrorism.
"We'll work with the Federation to prevent future incidents."
Livestream over. But the conference continued.
A bold journalist asked:
"Sources say the bomber was a senior corporate employee. Comments?"
"Our employees are top graduates, morally sound. I trust none would commit an act so self-destructive."
"How will you support victims' families?"
"They'll receive humanitarian care."
Then a sharp voice rang out:
"Why didn't security detect the self-destruct chip? When Biotech's CEO visits, we can't even bring water onto the train… You let that man on. You only make exceptions for corporate elites!"
The spokesman said nothing—just waved security over. The journalist was removed.
The rest of the questions went soft.
Everyone understood: even with backing, some lines couldn't be crossed.
…
So that's what happened, Zhou Jiao thought.
But now that she knew, what could she do?
The bomber was dead.
Wasn't it still "an accident"?
A voice inside her answered: You know it wasn't.
The company knew overuse of chips led to psychosis—and still pushed them onto employees.
The company knew those employees might explode—and still let them on public transport.
The subway company? Just following government contracts.
And who handed them those contracts?
Her headache worsened.
She felt foolish—twenty years blind to the spiderweb tightening around her.
Now the spider was at her doorstep.
The despair was different from facing Jiang Lian.
Natural disasters like him—horrifying, yes—but they ended.
Corporate rule? No one knew when that would end.
The sinking continued.
Her chest ached. Her bones groaned.
"Why do I have to face all this? Jiang Lian… the company… can I really handle it?"
She couldn't.
She wasn't even sure she could survive Jiang Lian.
She kept sinking.
The immense pressure made her bones creak and groan.
—Maybe this is it.
Give up. Let go of everything.
To hell with the company, the chip, and the monsters. Just follow the current, sink deeper and deeper, until the crushing weight of the deep sea compresses her into a mist of blood.
Then, finally, she'd be free.
But at that moment, a cold, heavy force wrapped around her waist—tight and unyielding—yanking her back from that endless descent.
In an instant, daylight fell like a hammer. Her vision cleared—
Dim fluorescent lights. Walls plastered with cheap flyers. Dirty light leaking through dusty blinds, casting pale shadows across her eyelids.
She remembered now. This was the cheap motel she'd rented that morning with nothing but a gun.
The pressure around her waist intensified, radiating unmistakable irritation.
She turned her head—and her eyelid twitched.
Even the despair from her nightmare ebbed a little.
…Was it possible she had rented this place, not bought it? Like, the kind of room you sleep in once and then check out of immediately after?
Because aside from the small visible corner she'd first seen, the entire room was filled to the brim with grotesque purple-black tentacles.
They writhed and pulsed like slick membranes from a nightmare—clinging to corners, doorframes, under the bed, even curling tightly into cracks in the walls.
And the worst part? They had no eyes, but she felt them watching.
A thousand invisible gazes boring into her, ready to smother her just to inhale the breath she exhaled.
Zhou Jiao: "…"
She honestly wanted to go right back to sleep.
Jiang Lian didn't like it when she looked at the tentacles.
He reached out, pinched her chin between two fingers, and turned her face away. His voice was cold:
"You smelled disgusting just now."
He pried her jaw open with a knuckle and leaned in close to sniff—making sure the stench was gone.
His eyes still held that icy displeasure.
"If it happens again, I'll…"
He meant to say: If it happens again, I'll kill you.
But every time he tried to kill her, she always managed to wriggle away in the weirdest ways.
…He hesitated.
Zhou Jiao didn't care about the twisted anger on his face.
He wasn't emanating true killing intent, so she wasn't worried about why he looked so pissed.
She only cared about one thing: "Did you wake me up?"
"Yes," Jiang Lian replied flatly.
The rotting, deathlike stench she gave off in her sleep still clung to his senses. His expression darkened.
"If you're always going to smell like that when you sleep, maybe you shouldn't—"
Before he could finish, warmth pressed against his lips.
Zhou Jiao tilted her head up and brushed her tongue against his teeth, gently kissing him.
Jiang Lian looked down at her, unmoved.
As if her kiss meant nothing.
But his throat bobbed with a harsh swallow, taking in every drop of her spit she passed to him.
The tentacle wrapped around her waist tightened further, digging in so hard it almost bruised her skin.
Zhou Jiao patted it lightly, coaxing him to ease up.
She murmured against his lips, sweet and sticky:
"Thank you for waking me. I'm sorry—I didn't know I smelled that bad when I had nightmares. I'll try not to have them again."
But maybe the dream still lingered—her scent hadn't completely faded.
Still, he didn't push her away.
Didn't loosen the tentacle holding her.
In fact, when she tried to pull back, the grip only grew more intense.
A silent, seething warning not to leave.
He hated this feeling.
It was like something coiling tighter and tighter around his throat.
It drove him into a rage, made him itch to kill something—anything.
Several times, the tentacles on his body almost began secreting neurotoxin, desperate to end the human who made him so unsettled.
But before the venom could fully form, the tentacles snapped back—vanishing into the rift behind him.
Almost like… they were afraid.
Afraid of actually hurting her.
The feeling was alien to him.
Uncomfortable.
And, more than anything—
Frightening.