Xia Xiaoman's finger hovered over the fingerprint lock in the study, her breath caught in her throat.
Li Moting's private domain had always been off-limits to her, but tonight, he had flown to Singapore to handle an urgent merger, giving her a three-hour window. The electronic lock emitted a faint hum, recognizing the unique pattern of the "Ⅶ"-shaped scar on her wrist—a discovery that sent a tremor through her heart.
"Welcome back, Carrier No. 7," a mechanical female voice murmured softly.
The study was colder than she had imagined. The climate control was set to a constant 19.4°C, identical to that safe house, that refrigerated truck. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a massive web of information on the wall—hundreds of photographs connected by red threads, with her parents' funeral portraits at the center.
A throbbing pain pulsed at Xia Xiaoman's temples. Her hyperthymesia burned every detail into her mind in an instant: the autopsy report dated July 17, 2003, the toxicology analysis of concrete samples, surveillance stills from her father's lab… Her fingers trembled as she reached for the final document, a manila envelope stamped with **"MN-07 Final Experiment Log."**
As the papers slid out, a child's drawing fluttered to the floor. Identical to the one she had found before—except this one had a line of faded blood on the back:
**"Little Seven must always remember—death is not the end. Forgetting is."**
Her father's handwriting.
A wave of dizziness struck her. Xia Xiaoman steadied herself against the desk and noticed a hidden compartment slightly ajar. Inside lay an old-fashioned voice recorder, labeled **"Xia Mingyuan's Final Message."**
The moment she pressed play, her father's exhausted voice shattered the silence of the night:
"Xiaoman, if you're hearing this, it means Li Chenzhou's plan succeeded. MN-07 was never a memory transfer project… It was a memory weapon. Moting's mother and I tried to destroy the data, but—"
The recording cut off abruptly, replaced by Li Chenzhou's icy voice:
"Think carefully, Dr. Xia. Your daughter's hippocampus has already been modified. There's no reversing it."
In the background, a little girl's heart-wrenching sobs echoed. Xia Xiaoman's blood ran cold—that was seven-year-old her.
"Let's make a deal," Li Chenzhou's voice carried a cruel amusement. "You walk into the waste disposal tank willingly, and I'll let Moting become her 'emotional anchor.' After all…"
Footsteps.
Xia Xiaoman's head snapped up. Outside the study, the sound of Italian leather shoes clicking against marble grew unmistakably clear—Li Moting had returned early.
Panicked, she shoved the documents back, but her elbow knocked over an inkwell. Dark blue liquid spilled across her father's portrait, and something eerie happened—the photo developed a hidden image: a young Li Moting strapped to a medical bed, while she stood beside him, holding a syringe.
"The cause of emotional detachment disorder is simple," the recorder played her father's despairing whisper. "We made him watch… as you forgot him."
The doorknob turned.
Xia Xiaoman backed toward the window, realizing the meteorite brooch on her collar was burning hot. Suddenly, she understood—this wasn't an ornament. It was a memory trigger.
The moment she pressed the gemstone, every suppressed memory surged forth like a tidal wave:
Seven-year-old her, standing in the lab, a syringe filled with the final MN-07 formula in hand. The little boy on the medical bed struggled desperately, the "Ⅰ"-shaped scar on his wrist oozing blood.
**"Little Seven!"** he had screamed, tears streaming down his face. **"You promised you'd remember me!"**
And she had pushed the plunger down without a flicker of emotion.
"Did you find the answers you were looking for?"
Li Moting's voice came from behind her. Xia Xiaoman turned to see him standing in the doorway's shadows, the same military dagger in his left hand—the one that had pierced Zhao Shiheng's throat. Moonlight outlined half his face, the golden-brown streaks in his right iris now spreading across the entire pupil—the mark of MN-07's full activation.
"Now you understand," he said, stepping closer, the blade glinting coldly. "Why I had to make you fall in love with me again."
Outside, the lights of the Li Corporation tower flickered out all at once. In the final second before the city plunged into darkness, Xia Xiaoman saw the scar on his left wrist clearly—it wasn't three parallel lines.
It was a meticulously traced Roman numeral:
**"Ⅶ."**