Pei Ran lowered her head and tapped open her wristband. "Should I switch to full-graphic mode?"
"Yes," W said. "Since you can't write or use text, full-graphic mode will prevent any accidental contact with written characters, and you'll still be able to use the wristband. It's under 'General Settings' > 'Advanced Options,' alongside other accessibility features."
Pei Ran navigated into General Settings, found Accessibility, and saw the "Full-Graphic Mode," placed next to "Full Voice Assist," a feature designed for the visually impaired.
She tapped to enable it.
In an instant, all text vanished from the virtual screen. Every option was replaced by textless icons—pure visuals, without even letter-shaped symbols.
Pei Ran examined the new interface.
Icons had replaced every bit of text. The design was intuitive, not too difficult to navigate.
Even the time display had become a circular dial with no numbers, just a lone, ticking hand.
Apps that relied on text—like memos or e-readers—were hit the hardest.
All words inside them became invisible.
Typing interfaces could no longer be summoned.
Only preset emojis and sticker packs were available.
You couldn't even accidentally write a word.
Interestingly, stickers still retained text.
Since she couldn't write anymore, stickers had become critical.
Pei Ran began manually erasing all the text on each sticker.
She also deleted all images in her gallery that were covered in writing.
While working, she asked, "Why does something like full-graphic mode even exist?"
It felt… strange.
W replied, "Forty years ago, there was a shift toward icon-based, de-textualized interfaces. As life sped up, people preferred fast, intuitive input methods that required less abstract thought. The aesthetic trend followed suit. Even earlier, entertainment had quietly moved from written to visual and audio formats. Text usage in wearable apps steadily declined.
"Ten years ago, the Federation Parliament was gridlocked. No major party had a clear majority, so bizarre fringe parties held the swing votes. One such group was the 'No-Text Party'…"
There was actually a party like that?
"They leveraged their votes to negotiate," W continued. "They demanded a small clause in federal law, mandating that all wristbands include a 'Full-Graphic Mode.' Officially, it was framed as a benefit for those with reading disabilities. No one thought it would ever be useful. But here we are."
As he spoke, Pei Ran's wristband buzzed.
A small window popped up, hovering in midair—a trembling figure wrapped tightly in a blanket.
The original caption had been carefully scrubbed off.
With all system text now gone, even the sender's name and ID had disappeared.
Only a lonely profile icon remained.
Since neither Pei Ran nor her predecessor had personalized their contacts, most icons now appeared as generic grey silhouettes—nameless, indistinct, anonymous.
She checked the message history.
The sender was Aisha.
Aisha had clearly received the same alert about the coming upgrade to the Silence Protocol.
The timing was unpredictable. To be safe, no one could send image files with embedded text anymore.
Pei Ran studied the sticker. Aisha would be careful enough to erase text—but what about others?
What would happen if someone accidentally sent an image with text after the upgrade?
If it auto-displayed on the recipient's device… would it trigger something?
Maybe nothing. Maybe disaster.
Better not risk it.
Pei Ran opened settings.
The icon for "Message Settings" still looked familiar—just missing its label.
She found the one for "Pop-Up Previews"—a tiny screen with a floating image. Recognizable.
She turned it off.
Then she browsed her sticker gallery, picked out a "hug" emoji, and sent it to Aisha.
She also set Aisha's icon to the blanket-wrapped character from earlier.
Turning to the metal sphere on the passenger seat, Pei Ran lifted her camera.
"Say cheese."
W: ?
With the deep crack running across his head, he really did look like a "cheese."
She set his icon to the cracked version of his face.
The Defense Ministry's emergency number? She gave that a solid red icon.
Carefully, Pei Ran went through every important contact and assigned each a visual tag.
Then she combed through past chats.
All the messages now appeared as blank space—but images still had text.
One by one, she deleted them.
Aisha replied again.
This time, the sticker was a wild-haired little figure furiously pedaling a bike, flipping their hair like mad.
Pei Ran had the same sticker—she immediately saw that Aisha had edited it.
Pei Ran stared at the new lines drawn on the image.
"W, if I swipe my finger across an image like this, does that count as writing?"
One wrong stroke could be interpreted as a "1."
Even if Aisha's picture got through safely now, that didn't mean it would remain safe under the new rules.
W answered, "In the ship's logs, I once saw crew members using drawings to communicate during the upgraded phase of the Silence. I don't think it's considered writing."
So whatever was hiding out there, watching, deciding who lived or died—it was smart.
On the sticker, the original bicycle had been thickened.
It looked like the poor bike had binged and gotten fat overnight.
W observed, "That looks more like an e-bike. I think they found one."
Perfect.
The roads—if you could call them that—were awful.
Two-wheeled e-bikes might actually be more agile than old four-wheeled cars.
A small figure had also been drawn on the e-bike's backseat, with a few wrinkles on the forehead—probably her grandmother.
Aisha was showing she was riding hard, ferrying her grandmother with her.
Oddly, her backpack had extra green squiggles on it, like grass sprouting out.
Pei Ran couldn't figure out what it meant.
She didn't know how far they had gotten.
She asked, "Can you send me a map? No text. Just the area between Whiteport and Nighthaven."
W sent it instantly.
Pei Ran opened an image editor.
She marked Whiteport in red. Then Nighthaven.
She estimated her current location and dropped a black dot on the map. Sent it off.
Aisha replied almost immediately.
She added a white dot—she had started somewhere to the west of Whiteport.
Their routes diverged slightly.
They had already made some distance. Hopefully, they'd reach Nighthaven safely.
With text banned, communication was getting harder.
It felt like being cut off from the world.
Outside, dusk had fallen.
To avoid attracting attention—human or otherwise—Pei Ran kept the lights off.
She ate chips in the dark, quietly.
The fields and trees outside the window were black silhouettes.
Utter silence.
It felt like she was the last person on Earth.
Her and a talking AI metal sphere.
After finishing the chips and some water, Pei Ran tore off a new strip of tape and sealed her mouth shut again.
The irritated skin on her cheek still burned.
She reclined the seat, lay down, and closed her eyes.
The vehicle had plenty of power.
A little heat kept her warm.
W was on watch.
She fell asleep quickly.
Firelight flickered.
It lit up brown-black walls.
A deep rumble echoed, like it was on the far side of the wall—or just inches away.
Something massive was pounding again and again.
The bunker trembled.
"They've found us?"
"Are they coming in? Are they—?"
A disheveled, dirt-streaked middle-aged man muttered beside her, eyes wide, voice frantic.
Pei Ran clutched the only weapon they had—a sharpened steel spike, twenty centimeters long.
With her left arm, she held her sister tight.
Her sister's breath was shallow and fast, puffing against Pei Ran's arm.
She didn't make a sound.
Her eyes—black and bright—reflected the flames like a silent, coiled animal.
Pei Ran bent close, whispering fast and low:
"When I say 'run,' we go for the breach. There are so many people—they won't necessarily go after us first…"
BOOM—the wall finally gave way.
A harsh beam of light pierced the bunker.
Massive silver claws scraped through the gap—followed by half a body.
A grotesque AI warbeast.
It opened fire.
Flames erupted.
Gunfire roared, so fast the cracks blurred into one continuous blast.
People vanished, one by one—shredded to dust.
"RUN!!!" Pei Ran screamed, voice tearing. "RUN!!"
Her throat clenched.
Dry.
Like something was ripping at it—tearing, dragging her heart with it.
Pei Ran jolted upright.
"Pei Ran? Pei Ran? Wake up!"
W was speaking next to her ear.
"Did I say something?" she asked internally, her heart racing, though her voice was calm.
"No. You didn't speak," W replied. "You were frowning, tossing and turning, like you were having a nightmare. I was afraid you might start talking in your sleep, so I tried to wake you."
He'd called out just in time.
The fire in the dream faded, replaced by the faint outlines of the steering wheel and dashboard in the dark.
W had moved himself onto the dashboard in front of the windshield—probably for a better view, easier to keep watch. His silver metallic sphere gleamed faintly in the dim light, eerily reminiscent of the mechanical beasts in her dream.
Pei Ran lay back down, staring at the car ceiling, sleep completely gone.
All around was still and silent. In the dead of winter, not even insects made a sound.
"Want me to sing again?" W asked suddenly.
That breathless, never-ending song. Apparently, he wasn't done with it.
Pei Ran said, "Sure."
W paused before he began again, his voice low and breathy, like a whisper close to her ear.
He didn't start with the gasping song this time. It was a different tune altogether, something like a folk ballad from an unknown place. His enunciation was clear, and for once, it truly felt like moonlight over an open field.
The lyrics painted a world vast and serene—high skies, long grass, birdsong, loved ones close, time slow and gentle.
Pei Ran slowly closed her eyes again.
By the time a faint glimmer of dawn edged the sky, her wristband alarm began to vibrate.
She sat up, tied her hair back, and took a JTN35 pill.
Three empty slots now marked the blister pack—twenty-seven tablets remaining. It looked like a countdown clock, tracking how many days she had left to live.
Pei Ran packed away the pills and unzipped her backpack.
She'd seen it in her memo—Fridays were burger days.
She didn't have a burger, but after rummaging around, solemnly decided to open a small can of beef to commemorate her Deep Silence upgrade.
Canned beef in this world was top quality. In the cold weather, the broth had congealed into a translucent jelly, trembling as it wrapped around large chunks of beef. When bitten into, the meat shredded cleanly—waxy in texture, and bursting with that distinct canned flavor.
By the time she finished breakfast and started the engine, daylight had fully arrived.
Yesterday's snow had melted completely.
The pristine white illusion across the fields was gone, replaced by a churned-up mess of mud.
Pei Ran and W navigated with a map, scouting for passable roads. By noon, through slow and difficult progress, they finally spotted a city on the horizon.
Yehaishi.
Gradually, real roads began to appear, flanked by factory buildings of various sizes.
Pei Ran was finally able to speed up—though the joy didn't last long.
A series of dull bangs echoed from up ahead.
She slammed on the brakes.
W reacted immediately, extending a folding arm to grip the handle above the passenger seat, stabilizing himself so he didn't tumble out of his safety harness.
"W, look over there."
Just up ahead, a tall factory building stood by the roadside. Its grayish-white exterior had once held large red characters—likely the factory name. Now those red letters burst into flames and smoke.
Within seconds, the fire went out.
The characters vanished, leaving behind scorched patches and trails of red molten material oozing down the wall—like blood.
Further ahead, more buildings were billowing black smoke. Any place with signage had turned charred and blackened.
It wasn't just the factory zone—Yehaishi proper was also affected.
From afar, faint black smoke was rising above the city, growing thicker by the second.
W said, "They're still erasing text."
Who exactly "they" were remained a mystery.
Then came another bang.
This one was close—too close.
A burst of heat whooshed into Pei Ran's face. She reacted purely on instinct, flinging open the car door and throwing herself outside, rolling a few meters away in seconds.
Black smoke filled the driver's cabin.
W wasn't slow either—he swung out using his folding arm, rolled to the ground, and followed her.
Dense smoke gushed out of the open car door, rising in waves before it finally dispersed.
The fire had started in the car's central console—specifically the old-fashioned physical display screen. The flames didn't spread, but the screen was scorched and warped beyond recognition.
"Probably because there was text on it," W said.
The display had been showing data just moments ago—mileage, speed, remaining power. And then, it spontaneously combusted.
Pei Ran froze for a second, then swiftly unwound her scarf, peeled off her coat, and took off the sweatshirt beneath. She stripped away everything layer by layer—even her wristband and shoes.
"Deep Silence" was escalating. If "they" could burn certain characters, other forms of text probably weren't safe either.
Anything with writing on it was a ticking bomb.
She checked her remaining clothes.
Fortunately, the innermost thermal wear had no tags or printing. The original owner seemed to have a habit of cutting those off. Her socks were solid-colored—also safe.
Pei Ran breathed a little easier and reached into her sweatshirt pocket for the pill pack.
Medicine was the most precious thing she had.
The box originally contained allergy meds—its surfaces were covered in print. Pei Ran removed two blisters and tossed the box far away. Thankfully, the foil packs had no writing.
She slipped the two precious strips into her pocket and—amid the rush—glanced at W.
The moment she had started undressing, he'd rotated his upper half away, politely averting his gaze.
Huh? Pei Ran was a bit surprised. He'd hesitated when grabbing her hand yesterday, and now this?
He was just an AI—genderless by design.
Sure, he could pant and murmur suggestively at her ear, but that was simply simulated behavior based on her preferences.
In the bunker world, AI had long achieved something like consciousness, but they reproduced via software replication and hardware manufacturing—not biology.
In terms of gender, they were no different from household appliances.
No one covered up while changing in front of a vacuum cleaner or washing machine.
Even if the vacuum sang songs or cried out, "Master, help me, I'm stuck!"—it was still just a machine.
Maybe W was having some kind of identity confusion. Or maybe he was just worried that peeking would offend her and ruin their working relationship.
No time to dwell on it. Pei Ran opened the back door and hauled out her large backpack.
"I can help you remove the labels," W said.
He reached in with his silver claw, fished out a canned food tin, and expertly tore off the branded wrapper.
W was very considerate—he kept his camera facing away from her the entire time.
Still, he could see her arm as she reached past him.
She was wearing only a thin, tight black thermal shirt. In this weather, that was definitely not warm enough.
W guessed she must be looking for scissors—to cut off tags from her clothes, so she could wear them again.
Pei Ran pulled out a small fruit knife instead.
W's view tilted—he was suddenly being lifted by the string on his head.
Caught off guard, with one claw still holding the can, he froze in mid-air.
Pei Ran quickly scraped the painted letters "DOD" off his body.
Then she pried him open and inserted the fruit knife.
Thankfully, he was military-grade. Most of his internal parts were label-free—just a few had printed serial numbers.
Some were stickers and easy to remove. Others scraped off clean.
W waited silently for her to finish. Then said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Pei Ran set him down, finally dug out a pair of scissors, and cut the tags off her coat, scarf, sweatshirt, and shoes.
The inner tongue of the shoes had a stamped label that wouldn't come off—she simply cut it out.
She checked the soles. Thankfully, only tread patterns—no molded lettering.
She double-checked everything, even her ponytail band, to ensure there wasn't a single character left on her body. Then, she put her clothes back on.
Something was still in the coat pocket—
A scrap from the pillbox conjured with green light last time, and Shi Geye's black notebook.
She tossed the scrap and flipped through the notebook. Inside the cover was a small gold emblem: a flower resembling the iris she'd seen in her e-reader. Oddly, this one had three blooms on a single stem.
It wasn't writing, so it could wait.
Only twenty-something pages were drawn, each depicting a person meeting a gruesome fate.
An engine overheating, a spare tire blowing out, men and women—young and old—freezing up or falling over, forced to speak, and then exploding. Each expression was vividly rendered.
But Pei Ran noticed something odd.
Despite all these pages, Shi Geye's methods were remarkably repetitive—paralysis, forced speech, death.
As a professional comic artist, he had the skill to draw anything. So why only these few outcomes?
Maybe it wasn't a matter of creativity—but of limitation. Just like she could only write two characters in green light.
She'd planned to tear out the pages, but changed her mind. Instead, she snipped out the written parts.
W, meanwhile, had gone back to peeling off labels—like a factory-line robot built for this one task.
He'd already removed the packaging from the canned food and was now working on compressing the labeled wrappers from the emergency biscuits.
He turned to glance at Pei Ran.
In this situation, when writing could spontaneously combust at any moment, she'd been methodical in her priorities—
First, her own survival.
Second, him.
Third, Shi Geye's valuable notebook.
W quickly figured out what came fourth in her mind.
Food.