Footsteps echoed down the hallway, slow and deliberate. The sound of rubber soles scraping against concrete seemed to drag, as if the walker was lost in thought.
The door creaked open.
Zhao Ang was younger than I'd imagined—perhaps thirty, with thin metal-rimmed glasses so thick they slightly distorted his eyes. He wore a faded navy work jacket, its cuffs smudged with dark gray stains that looked like toner or chemical residue.
He didn't look at me first. His gaze swept the lab equipment, then settled on my face.
"You're Chen Yu?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Lin Hao's roommate?"
"Yes."
He nodded, closed the door, and turned the lock. The motion was casual, but before closing, he glanced down the hallway—checking if anyone was following.
He walked to the workbench and unplugged the printer mid-operation. The machine whimpered softly as its lights died, leaving half a sheet of paper stuck in the output tray like a rigid tongue.
"Did you touch that paper?" He nodded toward the sheet I'd seen earlier, the one that said *Don't tear it yourself*.
"Yes."
"Read it?"
"Yes."
He removed his glasses, wiped them on his sleeve, and sat in the chair across from me. His chair was lower than mine, so he had to tilt his head slightly to meet my gaze—a posture that made his eyes seem unusually intense.
"How much time do you have left?"
I hesitated, then understood. "Seventy-two hours. It should hit exactly seventy-two hours tonight, but..." I pulled out my phone to check the time. "...it's been over an hour already."
"Less than seventy-one hours," Zhao Ang corrected, leaning back and tapping his knee unconsciously. "Whether that's enough depends on luck—and how deeply it's infiltrated you. Tell me, when did the first paper appear?"
I recounted the entire story from the beginning. When I finished, Zhao Ang fell silent. The fluorescent light above hummed, casting his shadow across the scattered paper samples on the table.
"Do you know what I research?" he finally asked.
"Paper."
"Right, but not just paper." Zhao Ang stood, walked to the row of instruments along the wall, and rested a hand on a scanning electron microscope. "Specifically, I study information residue in paper fibers."
"The mainstream academic community doesn't recognize this concept. My papers got rejected three times—they called me a pseudoscientist and cut my funding. That's why I moved to this dump."
He picked up a blank sheet of A4 paper and held it up.
"Most people see just paper." He flipped it over. "But if you look closely enough, paper fibers have incredibly complex structures. Countless gaps exist between fibers—gaps that absorb environmental particles during manufacturing."
"More importantly, when the toner fuses under heat, the carbon powder penetrates the fibers. This isn't just physical adhesion; it alters the charge distribution on the fiber surface."
He set the paper down and walked back to the desk, picking up a folder filled with photographs.
"I've spent five years collecting samples—papers from crime scenes, hospitals, old bookstores, even scrapyards. The results are always the same: every sheet of paper carries traces of the people who touched it, who wrote on it, who discarded it."
"Your printing shop is special. Song Tui doesn't just print documents—he prints *memories*. The papers that come out of those machines aren't just ink on fiber; they're fragments of consciousness, sealed into the paper during the fusing process."
I stared at him. "You're saying the papers in my shop are..."
"Anchors. Each one connects to someone's mind. When you shred them, you're not just destroying paper—you're severing that connection. But here's the problem: the connection doesn't just disappear. It has to go somewhere."
He slid a photo across the table. It showed a young woman lying in a hospital bed, her eyes closed.
"This was my last assistant. She worked at the same printing shop before you. She found out what was happening and tried to destroy all the anchors. The backlash... you saw the photos. Her body was found in the shredder."
I felt cold. "So that's what happens if I try to tear the paper myself?"
"Not exactly. Tearing breaks the connection too suddenly. The anchor rebounds—instead of severing the link, it pulls *you* into the void left behind. That's why Song Tui made you sign that contract. He knew you'd eventually find out, and he wanted to make sure the rebound has somewhere to go."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a small metal box, placing it on the table. Inside were seventeen glass tubes, each filled with a fine gray-black powder.
"This is the only way out. These are residual powders collected from papers that have already been through the shredder—leftover traces of consciousness. If we can overload the anchor with enough of this, we can overwrite the connection before it rebounds."
He picked up one of the tubes. "The powder needs to go into Song Tui's shredder. That's where the anchors are processed. But there's a catch: you have to do it alone. If Song Tui catches you, he'll stop you. And if you fail..."
He didn't need to finish.
I looked at the glass tubes, then at Zhao Ang. "How do I get into his room? The shop has a back entrance, but his office is locked."
"I have a key." Zhao Ang pulled a key from his pocket—a strange key, its surface textured like pressed pulp. "It's made from the same paper the anchors are printed on. It'll open his door, but only once. After that, it dissolves."
He handed me the key and the metal box. "The shredder is in the back room, behind his desk. You'll need to replace its control chip—here." He gave me a small circuit board. "This one forces it into reverse overload mode. Once activated, you have exactly three minutes to pour all the powder in before it burns out."
I took the items, my hands shaking. "And if it works?"
"Then the anchor will be overwritten. The connection will break, and you'll be free. But if it doesn't..." He paused. "The powder contains fragments of people who didn't survive. If the overload fails, their consciousness will flood into you instead."
I nodded. "Got it."
Zhao Ang stood and walked to the door, then turned back. "One more thing. When you're pouring the powder, you might see things—memories, faces, voices. Don't listen to them. They're just echoes. Stay focused on the task."
I put the key, the chip, and the metal box into my backpack. "Thanks."
He gave me a small smile. "Don't die. I still need someone to help me finish this research."
I left the lab and walked to the bus stop. The afternoon sun was hot, but I felt cold all over. My mind kept replaying Zhao Ang's words—*anchors*, *rebound*, *consciousness fragments*. It sounded like science fiction, but I'd seen the proof. I'd felt it.
The bus arrived, and I got on, sitting in the back. Outside the window, the city passed by in a blur. I thought about the papers in the shop, about the man in the gray coat, about Song Tui's strange behavior. None of it made sense before, but now...
Now it all fit.
When I got back to the shop, Song Tui was behind the counter, typing on his laptop. He looked up when I came in, but said nothing—just went back to typing. I went to the back room and pretended to organize the paper stock, but really I was watching him, waiting for my chance.
An hour later, he stood up. "I'm going to the recycling center. Lock up when you leave."
He grabbed his coat and left. I waited until I heard the front door close, then pulled the key from my pocket and went to the office door. The key fit perfectly, and the lock clicked open.
Inside, the room was dimly lit. The forty-six printers lined the walls, all silent. Song Tui's desk was cluttered with papers and folders. Behind it, I saw the shredder—larger than the one in the front, its metal body scarred with scratches.
I walked over and knelt down, unscrewing the panel on the back of the shredder. The control chip was easy to find. I pulled out the old one and inserted Zhao Ang's chip, then screwed the panel back on.
Next, I opened the metal box and took out the first glass tube. The powder inside looked like fine ash. I removed the stopper and poured it into the shredder's feed slot. The powder fell silently, disappearing into the machine.
One tube, two, three...
By the seventh tube, I started to feel strange. A low hum vibrated through the floor, and the lights flickered. I ignored it and kept pouring.
On the twelfth tube, the first printer started up.
It was a soft whir at first, then a click as paper began to feed through. I looked up—one of the printers along the wall was spewing sheets, blank except for a single word printed in the center.
My name.
Chen Yu.
More printers started up, one by one. The room filled with the sound of paper feeding, and the air smelled like toner and something else—like burning hair. I kept pouring, my hands shaking now.
When I reached the seventeenth and final tube, all forty-six printers were running, flooding the room with paper. Each sheet had my name on it, some with fragments of my memories—childhood birthdays, school exams, the first time I kissed a girl.
My head began to ache, a sharp pain behind my eyes. I dropped the empty tube and reached for the shredder's red button, but my vision blurred. The room spun, and the papers on the floor seemed to rise up, swirling around me.
Then I heard a voice.
"Stop."
I looked up. Song Tui was standing in the doorway, his face expressionless. The printers continued to spew paper, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on me.
"I told you not to touch the anchors," he said. "You should have listened."
I stumbled back, knocking over a stack of paper. "What are you doing?"
"Protecting what's mine." He took a step forward. "Those papers aren't just memories—they're *power*. Every time someone prints something here, they leave a piece of themselves behind. I've been collecting those pieces for years."
"You're stealing people's minds!"
"Stealing?" He laughed, a cold, empty sound. "I'm preserving them. Without me, those memories would fade away, lost forever. I'm giving them a home."
The pain in my head intensified, and I fell to my knees. The papers around me seemed to glow, and I could hear voices—whispers, fragments of conversations, laughter. They were all around me, pressing in.
"Let me go," I whispered.
Song Tui knelt down beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You can't leave. Not now. You've already touched too many anchors. You're part of this now."
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the voices. But they kept coming, louder and louder, until I couldn't think. Then, through the chaos, I heard another voice—Zhao Ang's.
"Chen Yu! The button!"
I opened my eyes. Song Tui was standing, looking toward the door. Zhao Ang was there, holding a metal rod. Before Song Tui could react, Zhao Ang swung, hitting him across the back of the head. Song Tui collapsed.
"Now!" Zhao Ang yelled.
I scrambled to my feet and ran to the shredder, slamming my fist on the red button. The machine roared to life, and the papers swirling around me were sucked in, shredded into tiny pieces.
The voices stopped. The pain in my head faded. The room went quiet, except for the shredder's hum.
Zhao Ang helped me to my feet. "You did it."
I looked at Song Tui, lying unconscious on the floor. "What happens now?"
Zhao Ang sighed. "The police will take him. But the anchors... they're gone. Destroyed."
I nodded, feeling empty. "And the people whose memories were in those papers?"
"They're free," Zhao Ang said. "Their consciousness can finally rest."
We left the room and closed the door. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky orange. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight lift from my shoulders.
"Thank you," I said.
Zhao Ang smiled. "Don't mention it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some research to finish."
He walked away, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk. I looked back at the printing shop, its windows dark now. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of light inside, but when I blinked, it was gone.
I turned and walked down the street, never looking back.