Pei Ran also sent Aisha a photo of the vanished library.
Her wristband buzzed again.
Another white-background image with black text appeared, but this time, the sender was different. It read: Federal Department of Defense and Security.
[ATTENTION ALL FEDERAL CITIZENS]
[THE SILENCE HAS BEGUN]
[DO NOT SPEAK. DO NOT SEND WRITTEN MESSAGES TO OTHERS. IMAGE COMMUNICATION IS THE ONLY SAFE METHOD. REPEATING: ONLY IMAGE COMMUNICATION IS CURRENTLY SAFE.]
This time, there was an additional section below:
[IF YOU ARE INSIDE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING BUILDINGS, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY: FEDERAL GOVERNMENT FACILITIES, MILITARY BASES, LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICES, LIBRARIES, UNIVERSITIES, RESEARCH INSTITUTIONS, TECH COMPANIES…]
The list was long. Strangely long.
It made sense for government and military targets to be hit. But why blow up schools and libraries?
At least residential buildings still seemed safe—for now.
Pei Ran combed through the remnants of the original host's memories.
This world was made up of two main continents—Domanya in the East and Cysthest in the West—plus scattered islands and smaller landmasses. The entire planet had long been unified under a single federal government, with virtually no external enemies.
Any potential for terrorism would only come from fringe or illegal organizations. Maybe they were behind this.
Outside, explosions were still rumbling. After a while, the assault finally ceased.
Aisha sent another image:
"Did you get the new warning message? Looks like apartments are fine. I'm going home. It's too dangerous outside."
Pei Ran replied with an image:
"Got it. I'm staying home too."
She looked around her small apartment.
If the entire Federation really had fallen, hiding out here might actually be the best option.
The walls were thick, the windows reinforced, the whole place more fortress than flat. She had food, water, and—so long as she didn't start talking to herself and accidentally trigger an explosion—she could ride this out, at least for a while.
Pei Ran rechecked her food supplies, inspected every bottle and container of water.
Still, an unease gnawed at her.
It had nothing to do with rations.
It felt like something was left undone.
Like her heart was dangling in the air, caught on a hook.
She opened her wristband's memo app again and scrolled to the strange alphanumeric code recorded there: JTN35.
Followed by five exclamation marks.
A dull ache began to creep in from her right shoulder.
The pain was subtle, like a fine thread unwinding from the joint between her cybernetic arm and shoulder, slowly crawling across her scapula and down toward her back.
The spreading ache felt like it was unblocking something—like unlocking a memory.
Something about medication.
Pei Ran opened her bedside drawer.
Inside lay a small black metal box.
She flipped it open—empty.
It was supposed to contain pills. She could almost feel the muscle memory of opening the lid, taking one pill with water. She must have done this many times.
The pills were gone. But there might be more elsewhere.
Guided by some deep-seated instinct, Pei Ran entered the bathroom and pulled a small case from the back of a cabinet.
The white lid bore a red cross. She opened it on the spot.
Inside were neatly arranged bottles, boxes, and packets—common medications.
Back in the bunker, meds were scarce. A lack of antibiotics could mean death from something as minor as diarrhea or a small infected cut. Whether someone lived or died could depend on whether they had a single box of pills.
The small case contained several precious types of antibiotics, antiseptic ointments, painkillers, fever reducers, cold meds, anti-diarrheal pills—even multivitamins and a few supplements Pei Ran couldn't identify.
She rummaged through everything and discovered a zipped fabric compartment on the inside of the lid.
Reaching inside, she pulled out a small paper envelope.
Inside that was a rectangular white pill box.
The design was minimal—nothing but a line of black-printed text: JTN35.
The box was also empty, but there was a folded instruction sheet inside:
For treatment of rejection syndrome caused by deep neural integration with specific models of cybernetic prosthetics.
Oral use. Adults: one tablet per day.
At the bottom, a line of red warning text stood out:
WARNING: Sudden discontinuation may result in fever, severe infection, or even fatal complications.
Pei Ran stared at the words "fatal complications" in silence.
No wonder the original host had written five exclamation marks after JTN35.
Honestly, five almost seemed too few.
The pain in her shoulder continued to spread.
She glanced again at the paper envelope.
On the front, printed in blue letters, was the name of a pharmacy: Wolin Pharmacy.
That name rang a bell.
On the bus ride home yesterday, she'd seen that same white-and-blue sign.
It was nearby—just two blocks away, on the ground floor of a large building. A small commercial area. Busier than here.
No matter how chaotic things were now, she had to go. If she wanted to survive.
Pei Ran rummaged through the cabinets and found exactly what she'd spotted the day before: a roll of black duct tape.
It was about five centimeters wide, and looked reliably sticky.
She cut a strip and went into the bathroom.
Facing the mirror, she shut her mouth tightly and carefully taped it shut, running the strip from cheek to cheek across her lips.
One word out loud… and she'd be dead.
It was easy enough to stay silent at home, but outside, anything could happen.
She didn't entirely trust herself. Better to take physical precautions.
Pei Ran tied back her hair into a ponytail with quick, practiced motions.
Just one day into a normal life, and the world had already fallen apart.
Still, even in this chaos, it was nothing compared to the bunker.
She just had to not speak.
No matter what. Not a single word.
She wrapped a scarf around her neck, found the original host's large hiking backpack in the closet, and stuffed the duct tape roll into it. The bag fit snugly and had lots of compartments. Perfect.
She put on gloves, her scarf, her shoes, and headed out.
The fingerprint lock on her apartment door still worked—probably had its own power source. She locked the door behind her and stepped into the hallway.
Dried blood stained the floor, dark and clotted. The air reeked faintly of iron.
Power was out. The only lights came from emergency fixtures in the corridor.
The elevator panel was dark.
Pei Ran opened the stairwell door and started down.
Her footsteps echoed through the empty stairwell.
All the way to the ground floor—she didn't see another soul.
The front desk downstairs was a relic, old and shabby.
No one there—just a pile of exploded flesh. Someone hadn't been so lucky.
Pei Ran pushed open the building's front doors and stepped out into the street.
The sky was still gray and sickly.
The sun hung dim and colorless.
The air was sharp with winter chill.
No cars. No people.
Only the occasional splatter of meat and gore on the pavement, faint blood-smell curling through the cold.
She walked two blocks.
Then, finally—people.
The commercial district was a mess.
Some storefronts were shut tight; others hung open, broken.
Bodies littered the streets. Panic swirled like a storm.
The smart ones—those who grasped the scale of the disaster—were looting supplies with wild urgency.
Everyone looked frantic, on the brink. Like the end had come.
Pei Ran felt… oddly comforted.
This chaos felt familiar. Like home.
The biggest store in the area was a supermarket.
Its doors were wide open, shelves torn apart, self-checkout stations left useless.
No staff.
People were sprinting in and out, arms loaded.
Total frenzy.
It was obvious how this started.
Someone ran out of food.
The system was down—no power, no internet, no speech allowed.
Of course employees bailed.
The law enforcement offices were gone—no consequences anymore.
A man, juggling several bags of bread, barreled out of the store and crashed into Pei Ran's shoulder.
He didn't stop. Just barked, "Are you blind? Watch where you're going—"
Pei Ran immediately jumped back, several meters away.
She thought, You won't need to watch where you're going for long.
The man froze.
Realized what he'd just done.
Panic seized him. He dropped the bread and clapped both hands over his mouth, like he could force the words back in.
But it was too late.
One… two… three…
Boom.
A bloody crater marked where he had been. Shreds of bread littered the ground.
Pei Ran stayed to the side, avoiding the panicked crowd, scanning for the pharmacy.
Then she saw her.
A girl in a black coat stood on the sidewalk, scarf hiding the lower half of her face.
Only her jet-black eyes were visible.
Beside her, a person-sized holographic screen was glowing.
She wasn't using image messages—she'd typed words in bold, on a virtual notepad:
DO NOT SPEAK. YOU WILL EXPLODE.
DO NOT SEND TEXT MESSAGES VIA WRISTBANDS.
Pei Ran read through the rest—stuff she already knew.
Then she saw the last line:
NEVER USE HOVER CARS.
THEY ALL USE AI VOICE SYSTEMS THAT CANNOT BE DISABLED. TURNING THEM ON WILL TRIGGER DETONATION.
So anything that spoke—people, cars—could kill.
No wonder the skies were empty now. Everyone who boarded a hover car was already dead.
But this girl had revealed something important:
Typing messages on a screen was safe.
It was only wristband-sent text that triggered explosions.
No one knew the rules. Each death was an experiment in terror.
Sharing known rules could save lives.
She stood alone in the chaos like a still stone in rushing water.
Pei Ran knew what she had to do.
Information for information. That was the bunker way.
She wrote a line on her screen, walked over, and held her wristband's holographic display up so the girl could see from a few paces away:
HUMAN EXPLOSIONS HAVE A 1-METER RADIUS. YOU HAVE 3 SECONDS FROM SOUND TO DETONATION—JUST ENOUGH TO ESCAPE.
The girl read it, met Pei Ran's eyes, then quickly added the line to her own list.
Pei Ran moved on.
The pharmacy was just ahead.
Its door hung open.
Shelves were in shambles, the floor littered with medicine boxes.
Crowded, but eerily silent.
People moved fast, rifling through shelves in total quiet.
No talking. Just thudding feet, crashing boxes.
Someone had died here already—blood smeared in footprints across the floor.
No employees. Either dead, or gone.
Pei Ran carefully wove through the crowd, eyes searching the shelves.