"Hello, Mr. Carter. We've verified your medical records. You meet all our institute's volunteer criteria. Please report to Central A City, District 19, tomorrow before 12:00 PM. We'll text the exact address to your phone — please keep an eye out."
"So soon?"
"Our staff are very efficient," the woman said with a soft, amused chuckle.
"Wait — I never agreed to join your experiment. I don't even know what it involves. Can you explain it to me now?" Ethan asked.
"That's fine, Mr. Carter. We've already bought you a high-speed train ticket from the nearest station to A‑grade City in District 19. The train leaves in an hour and a half. Bring your ID to the station to collect the ticket and board. Lodging and meals at our institute will be top-tier. Staff will walk you through the testing process when you arrive, and your consent will be respected throughout."
"If you decide not to participate before testing, we'll provide a return ticket. If you're coming, please be there by 6:00 PM tonight. Any other questions?"
The rapid-fire information left Ethan momentarily stunned.
"Are you an organ‑trafficking ring?" he blurted after a beat.
"If you have concerns, sir, you can cancel the ticket we booked for you. Our institute never forces volunteers," she replied, amused.
"All right." Ethan didn't know what else to say and ended the call.
Right after hanging up he got two texts. One anonymous message listed the institute's exact address in A City; the other confirmed his ticket — an upgraded business-class seat on the high-speed train, worth about half a month's wages from his part-time jobs.
"Is this bait to catch a big fish? A few hundred on a train ticket for my organs… But A City's law enforcement is strict; I've never heard of crimes like that here. The address is downtown, not the outskirts. Maybe I should check it out?"
Ethan flipped open his small booklet of money-making plans and weighed them against the institute's invitation.
"Maybe it's legit. You can usually tell a real research institute. If this is a state-backed project, funding could be in the tens or hundreds of millions. Giving a few hundred thousand to volunteer test subjects isn't out of the question… If something goes wrong, at worst I lose a day. I can start my money plans the next day."
"Also, maybe they picked me because of that hidden condition in my body — that's possible…"
Ethan acted fast by nature. He called his convenience-store boss and quit his temp job. Then he changed into lighter clothes: a gray hoodie, sweatpants, and a fairly clean pair of skate shoes.
While digging through his drawer he found some middle-school photos.
In those photos he'd represented his school at a county athletic meet; the once-robust kid now looked thinner. What had happened during high school?
He tucked the photos under his shirt, glanced at his mother sleeping in the other room, and headed to the county train station.
Onboard the business-class carriage, attendants handed out complimentary meals. Most passengers carried briefcases and looked like influential city types; Ethan, from a small county, stood out.
"Sitting business-class doesn't always mean you're wealthy — only three of them here look like real bosses," he observed inwardly.
He watched people and food, cataloguing details to gauge whether someone's polished look hid real substance. He meant no harm.
Central A City is District 19's busiest hub. Prices are roughly ten times those in Ethan's C‑level county, and living there isn't just about money — non‑native residency requires heavy financial backing.
"One day I, Ethan Carter, will change this," he whispered, pulling his hood up to blend into the crowd.
"Someone from the slums? Xiao An, come here — don't get infected," a heavily accessorized woman warned her child, signaling Ethan to move on.
Walking downtown, seeing skyscrapers and briefcase-carrying professionals on high-end phones, Ethan felt a faint envy.
He knew that even if he'd gotten into a top university, he'd only live in A City for four years. After graduation he'd likely be forced back to the C‑level county. A degree might secure a living, but it wouldn't guarantee a life here.
That sense of unfairness had leaked into his college essay as a veiled, prose-style rant — and earned him a zero in Chinese. In his view, if he hadn't written so obliquely, the graders might have flunked his other subjects too.
He'd also given up on the university route because of his mother's illness and the latent virus in his own body.
"Where's 315 Punk Street on East Road?" he muttered.
It was his first time navigating the city; he felt a little lost. By luck he found a posted city map.
Following it led him to an older punk‑style building. A bronze plaque beside a side door read:
— District 19 Advanced Life Research Institute —