The wisp of gas was nearly transparent, invisible in the dim office. Qiyue held his breath, his eyes stinging—the neurotoxin had already begun to take effect. His phone vibrated again; it was the same unknown number:
"5-minute lethal dose. Find the HVAC control panel."
HVAC control panel? Qiyue looked around, his vision blurring from the toxin. The office décor had been left behind by the previous CEO, and he wasn't entirely familiar with every functional area.
Outside the door, footsteps paced back and forth. The assassin was waiting, waiting for him to lose consciousness or die.
Qiyue crouched down, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible. Toxin molecules were heavier than air; staying close to the floor would minimize inhalation. He crawled forward, the cast on his left leg scraping against the carpet with a faint sound.
The footsteps outside stopped abruptly. Qiyue froze, his heart hammering like a drum.
Three seconds later, the footsteps resumed. The assassin hadn't heard him.
Underneath the desk was a small console usually used to adjust the lighting and blinds. Qiyue fumbled and pressed each button until he finally found a switch labeled "HVAC"—Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning system.
When he pressed it, a panel on the wall popped open, revealing complex circuitry and a miniature screen. A red warning flashed on the screen: System Failure, Safety Lock Engaged.
Qiyue’s lungs began to burn. Despite holding his breath, he had still inhaled a trace amount of the toxin. His fingers grew numb, and the circuit board before his eyes began to double and shift. According to Su Muqing’s files, this toxin would first cause hallucinations, then paralysis, and finally respiratory failure.
He had to shut down the ventilation system or reverse the airflow. But the control panel required a password, and he had only—
A violent fit of coughing broke through his tightly sealed lips. Instantly, the sound of metal clashing came from outside the door—the assassin had drawn his weapon.
Color spots began to appear at the edges of Qiyue’s vision; this was a sign that the toxin was invading his nervous system. He stared at the control panel, a desperate inspiration suddenly striking him: What if he could foresee the password?
Focusing all his attention, Qiyue attempted to trigger his precognition. A headache surged like a tidal wave, more intense than any he had felt before. Warm blood trickled from his nose, dripping onto the control panel.
In an instant, he "saw" it—the sequence in which the buttons on the panel were pressed: Right 3, Left 7, Right 1, Left 4. The image flashed by, but it was clear enough.
His fingers trembling, he entered the sequence. The screen flickered and turned green: System Lock Released.
Qiyue immediately tapped the "Airflow Reversal" option. The ventilation system emitted a dull hum, and the direction of that transparent wisp of gas changed—from seeping inward to being drawn outward.
But it wasn't enough. The toxin had already entered his bloodstream; his fingers began to spasm, and black spots appeared in the center of his vision. The buttons on the control panel blurred into illegibility.
Outside the door, the assassin seemed to notice something unusual and began trying to pick the lock.
Qiyue’s consciousness began to drift. In a haze, he saw a strange image: a white laboratory where the original host, Qiyue, was tied to a chair. Opposite him sat a haggard-looking middle-aged woman, and some kind of instrument connected the two of them.
"Seventh attempt, Mother," a young woman’s voice said—it was Su Muqing! "This time, the catalyst will increase neuronal synaptic..."
The image suddenly shifted: the same laboratory, the middle-aged woman lying in a pool of blood, glass shards embedded in her chest. The original host, Qiyue, knelt beside her, holding a blood-stained experimental record book in his hands.
What were these? The original host's memories? Or hallucinations caused by the toxin?
The control panel suddenly emitted a piercing alarm. The assassin finally burst through the door, revealing an unremarkable Asian face beneath a black cap, a silenced pistol in his hand.
"Don't move," the assassin's voice sounded as if it were coming from underwater. "If the toxin isn't enough, then I'll finish you with a bullet."
Qiyue wanted to dodge, but his body wouldn't obey. The toxin had paralyzed his motor nerves; he could only watch helplessly as the assassin raised the gun.
Just at this critical moment, Qiyue’s headache reached its peak. A surge of unprecedented energy erupted from the depths of his brain, and the world before his eyes suddenly "twisted"—the circuits on the control panel reorganized themselves as if they were living things, and the metal blades of the vents bent and warped, forming a reflective mirror.
The midday sun reflected through this makeshift mirror, shining precisely into the assassin’s eyes. The assassin instinctively turned his head and closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet grazed Qiyue’s ear and embedded itself in the wall.
The ventilation system suddenly roared at full power, sounding like a jet engine. Distracted by this unexpected interference, the assassin didn't notice the office door being kicked open violently from the outside.
A petite figure rushed in, holding a fire extinguisher, and sprayed it directly at the assassin’s face. White powder filled half the room, and the assassin retreated, screaming.
"Mr. Qiyue! Catch this!" a female voice shouted, and something slid toward Qiyue’s hand.
It was an auto-injector filled with blue liquid. Qiyue used his last ounce of strength to press the injector against his thigh.
The ice-cold medication entered his veins, instantly spreading through his body like a raging fire. Qiyue arched his back, screaming silently. A series of fragmented images flashed before his eyes: childhood memories (not his own), a laboratory ceiling, Su Muqing’s tear-stained face, a document labeled "Parallel World Crossing Agreement"...
When his vision cleared, the assassin was nowhere to be seen. Kneeling in front of him was Chen Xiaoyu, the office receptionist intern—a sweet-looking girl in her early twenties, now checking his pupils with a serious expression.
"The antidote is working, but you need professional hospital treatment." Her voice was low and calm, a complete contrast to her usual bubbly image.
"Who... are you?" Qiyue asked, his voice hoarse.
Chen Xiaoyu didn't answer directly; instead, she rolled up her left sleeve to reveal a tattoo on the inside of her wrist—a miniature lighthouse. "Sister Su asked me to watch over you. She anticipated that Zheng Mingyuan would poison you again."
Lighthouse. The "Beacon Project" of Stellar Investment. Another piece fell into place in Qiyue’s mind. Chen Xiaoyu was an informant Su Muqing had planted within the company.
"The assassin...?"
"Ran off, but left this behind." Chen Xiaoyu held up a transparent evidence bag containing the shell casing the assassin had dropped. "Enough to call the police."
Qiyue shook his head: "Don't call the police." He knew all too well about Zheng Mingyuan’s network within the police force. "Help me... contact this person." He typed a name into his phone: Li Jianfeng—the owner of that top-tier security firm.
Chen Xiaoyu nodded, dialing the number as she said, "The ambulance will be here in five minutes. They will perform a routine check, but they won't find traces of the neurotoxin—this type metabolizes after 24 hours."
"How do you know so much?" Qiyue managed to sit up. The antidote made his thoughts exceptionally clear, as if his brain had been forcibly overclocked.
Chen Xiaoyu hesitated for a moment. "My mother was once a medical officer for the Beacon Project. She... didn't make it out alive." A trace of pain flashed in the girl’s eyes. "Sister Su said you might be the key to ending all of this."
Noisy footsteps echoed in the hallway; the company security guards and other employees had finally arrived. Chen Xiaoyu instantly reverted to her persona as the innocent intern, shouting in a panic, "Call an ambulance! Mr. Qiyue suddenly collapsed!"
Qiyue closed his eyes in cooperation. Before slipping entirely into his act, he noticed Chen Xiaoyu quietly slipping a metal object into his pocket—a miniature communicator.
The ambulance arrived with a wail. The paramedics placed an oxygen mask on Qiyue and performed basic checks. "Blood pressure is high; it might be a collapse caused by overwork," the older doctor said to his colleague. "Send him to Sacred Heart Hospital for a detailed check."
Sacred Heart Hospital? Qiyue felt a chill. That was a hospital affiliated with Tianyue Financial, and the medical director was Zheng Mingyuan’s college roommate. This was no coincidence.
He wanted to protest, but the side effects of the medication suddenly hit, his tongue feeling as heavy as lead. The moment the ambulance doors closed, Qiyue saw Chen Xiaoyu standing at the company entrance, her lips moving silently: "Beware of the hospital."
The white corridors of Sacred Heart Hospital seemed endless. Lying on the stretcher, Qiyue felt as if he were passing through a time tunnel. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling zipped by one after another, like the fragmented memories flashing back in his mind.
"Patient had a brief loss of consciousness, blood pressure 160/95, EKG normal..." the nurse reported to the attending physician.
"Arrange for a brain CT and a full blood panel." The doctor’s voice was familiar. Qiyue forced his eyes open and saw a round face—Zhang Wei, Zheng Mingyuan’s crony. "Especially a psychiatric evaluation; the board is very concerned about Mr. Qiyue’s recent mental state."
Psychiatric evaluation? Qiyue understood Zheng Mingyuan’s plan instantly. He wasn't trying to kill him directly, but to label him as mentally ill, which would allow him to legally control both Qiyue and his shares.
"I... am fine," Qiyue said, struggling to speak. "No need... for a psychiatric evaluation."
Zhang Wei smiled hypocritically: "Mr. Qiyue, you just claimed to see an assassin who doesn't exist. This is a classic symptom of paranoid delusion; we must take responsibility for you."
Qiyue wanted to refute him, but a sharp pain suddenly pierced his temples. He curled up, and a precognitive image flashed before his eyes: he was tied to a hospital bed, being injected with some kind of yellow liquid; his medical records were being falsified as "Acute Schizophrenic Episode"; Zheng Mingyuan was in court, petitioning to become his legal guardian...
After the image faded, Qiyue found himself being pushed into the CT room. The technician was preparing to stabilize his head.
"Wait a moment!" Qiyue suddenly shouted. "I need to use the restroom!"
Zhang Wei frowned: "Go after the check."
"I need to go now!" Qiyue intentionally raised his volume. "Does Sacred Heart Hospital not even respect a patient’s basic human rights?"
Other patients and their families began to look over. Zhang Wei had to compromise: "A nurse will accompany you."
In the toilet stall, Qiyue quickly took out the communicator Chen Xiaoyu had given him. There were only two options on the micro-screen: Call, Locate. He pressed the call button.
After three soft pings, Su Muqing’s voice came through: "Has the toxin metabolized?"
"Almost." Qiyue lowered his voice. "They’re arranging a psychiatric evaluation, preparing to label me as mentally ill."
"As expected," Su Muqing seemed unsurprised. "Listen, outside the restroom window is a service corridor. Turn right and walk straight, and there’s an emergency exit. My car is waiting for you in the B2 parking garage."
"Why are you at the hospital?"
"I rushed over after Chen Xiaoyu notified me of the ambulance’s destination." Su Muqing paused. "Qiyue, no matter what you see, stay calm. Your abilities are evolving, but the side effects will become increasingly severe."
Qiyue wanted to ask more, but the nurse outside the door began knocking: "Mr. Qiyue, are you all right?"
"Be right out!" He flushed the toilet to cover, then pushed open the window. Just as Su Muqing said, there was a narrow corridor outside. Qiyue endured the pain in his left leg as he climbed out, nearly falling when he hit the ground.
The service corridor was empty, and at the end was indeed a door labeled "Emergency Exit." Qiyue pushed it open and found himself in a stairwell. Footsteps came from downstairs; he instinctively hid in the shadows.
Two men in lab coats walked up quickly, carrying restraint straps and syringes.
"Director Zhang said he was in the CT room. Why is no one there?"
"He can’t have gone far. Split up and search!"
Qiyue held his breath and waited for them to walk away before continuing downstairs. His headache returned, this time accompanied by strange ringing in his ears. He leaned against the wall as he moved, color spots flashing before his eyes from time to time.
The B2 parking garage was dimly lit, and Qiyue quickly spotted the familiar black SUV—the one Su Muqing had driven last time. He stumbled over, and the car doors unlocked automatically.
The car was empty. On the driver’s seat lay a note: "Start the vehicle; navigation is set. Keep the communicator on. —S"
As soon as Qiyue sat in the driver’s seat, a shout came from the parking garage entrance: "He’s there!"
Zhang Wei rushed over with two security guards. Qiyue quickly started the vehicle, and the SUV let out a low roar. The security guards tried to block his path, but he stepped on the accelerator without hesitation.
As the car surged out of the garage, he saw Zhang Wei’s face twisted with rage in the rearview mirror. Qiyue knew this flight would completely escalate the conflict with Zheng Mingyuan. But at this moment, he had no other choice.
The navigation pointed toward an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. As Qiyue pulled onto the main road, he realized his hands were shaking violently. It wasn't just the aftereffects of the toxin, but those fragmented, strange memories constantly flashing back.
The original Qiyue’s relationship with the Beacon Project, the identity of Su Muqing’s mother, that "Parallel World Crossing Agreement"... all the clues pointed to an unsettling conclusion: his transition was no accident, but a meticulously planned experiment.
And what was more terrifying was that as his abilities evolved, he was gradually losing control over his "self"—those memories of the original host, those fragments of foreseeing the future, those unfamiliar skills that would occasionally surface... Qiyue found it increasingly difficult to distinguish who he really was.
As the SUV crossed the bridge over the river, the sunset stained the water the color of blood. The communicator suddenly buzzed, and Su Muqing’s voice carried static:
"Qiyue, listen carefully. There is a safe house on the third basement level of the factory. The password is the sum of the percentage fluctuations you foresaw for NT Technology."
"Aren't you coming?"
"I have more important things to do." Su Muqing’s tone was solemn. "Zheng Mingyuan just filed a restraining order against you, citing 'mental instability endangering public safety.' The judge is his uncle; it will be signed in half an hour."
Qiyue gripped the steering wheel tightly. Zheng Mingyuan was moving faster than he had anticipated. "Then what should I do?"
"Everything you need is in the safe house. Do not show your face for 72 hours. Wait for my message." The communication cut out, then recovered a few seconds later. "Also... no matter what you see, remember it isn't real. Your brain is reorganizing, and it will confuse reality with precognition."
The call ended. Qiyue looked at the silhouette of the factory appearing in the distance, and a bizarre sense of déjà vu surged into his mind—he seemed to see the factory burning in flames, and himself standing on the roof, holding some glowing object...
The headache struck again, more intense than ever. Qiyue gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on driving. His ability was evolving, but the cost was increasing as well. He vaguely felt that if this "evolution" continued, it might completely change him—or destroy him.
The iron gate of the factory was right in front of him. Qiyue stopped the car, the sunset casting a long shadow behind him, like a path leading toward an unknown darkness. He touched the communicator in his pocket and stepped toward those rusted, mottled gates.
Behind him, the city lights flickered on; before him, the darkness surged forward like a tide...