He replied, "How do you know?"
Lily: "It's a small world. Did she tell you she could protect you, give you a new life?"
Mason didn't reply. Of course, he didn't believe that reason. It was just that Lily hadn't interacted with him much yet, and based on his gut feeling about her, she wouldn't cause him trouble anytime soon.
Lily: "Listen, she really can. But what she didn't tell you is that her last 'protected' client is now in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Take care."
Then she sent a photo: a blurry surveillance screenshot, looking like a courthouse entrance, where Elena was helping a hooded figure into a car.
Lily: "If you need to run for your life, call this number. Consider it me repaying the favor from the subway station."
Attached was a phone number.
Mason deleted the text thread but memorized the number.
He boarded the subway back. The car rattled, the lights harsh and white. Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes, trying to sort through his thoughts.
Elena. Lily. The reporter. Samuel.
Everyone wanted something from him. Everyone promised him something.
He suddenly remembered what Samuel had said in the alley: "The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places."
Perhaps the real test wasn't how to avoid being broken, but after being shattered, how to choose which fragment to use to cut open the cage.
It was dark when he returned to the basement.
He opened the door, flicked the switch. No light. Another power outage—an old problem in this building.
He fumbled his way to the bed, about to use his phone flashlight, when he stepped on something.
A piece of paper.
Mason froze. He had swept the floor before leaving. There couldn't be paper.
He turned on his phone's flashlight, pointing it at the floor.
It was the wrinkled back of a receipt, like torn from a fast-food restaurant slip. Scribbled in pencil were several lines, the handwriting messy but forceful:
*Luck is a disguised trap.
Strength is a sweet poison.
When you think you've finally grasped the ladder—
Look down. See who's holding the other end.*
Mason's blood ran cold.
That handwriting—he knew it too well. It was identical to the inscription Samuel had left on the title page of that Hemingway novel.
The old madman had been here. Entered his room. Left a warning.
He whirled around, the flashlight beam sweeping the entire basement. Empty. The window was shut, the door lock intact.
Just then, a cold, system-like prompt echoed in his mind:
**[Warning: External concept source hyperactivity detected]**
**[Signal source location: Multiple overlapping signals]**
**[Recommendation: Maintain vigilance. Avoid deep concept contact.]**
Mason clutched his forehead, a stab of pain. The spot on his wrist where that long-vanished golden symbol had been suddenly grew warm, then a persistent, fine prickling sensation, like countless needles jabbing at once.
He collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily.
His phone rang abruptly, the shrill tone reverberating in the dark basement.
Elena.
Mason stared at the name flashing on the screen, hesitated for five seconds, and answered.
"Mason." Elena's voice came through, lacking its earlier composure, instead unusually hurried and… tired. "Listen, there's something I have to tell you… Tom Wills. Found this afternoon in a rental car in Silver Lake. Dead. Preliminary judgement is a drug overdose."
Mason felt his stomach clench.
"But I checked his pre-autopsy report," Elena continued, her voice lowered. "He had no drug history. And, the last text in his phone's draft folder was addressed to us—it never sent. It said: 'They're here. Faster than we thought.'"
Mason's knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone.
"Listen, the test tomorrow is postponed. I need to reassess some things. Wait for my message. Don't go anywhere for now."
She paused. Her breathing, heavy, came through the receiver.
"And… my people saw someone near your place. Description matches that 'mad old man' you mentioned. Mason, whoever that man is, stay away from him. He's dangerous."
The call ended.
Mason sat in the darkness, the phone screen illuminating half his face.
His left hand held the phone. His right hand clutched Samuel's note.
Outside, a siren wailed, growing closer, stopping somewhere in the nearby blocks, then fading away.
He stood up, walked to the old, worn wardrobe, and opened it. Inside were only a few clothes and a backpack.
He took out the backpack and started packing: all his cash (over twenty thousand dollars, divided into stacks hidden in different compartments), Elena's business card, the slip with Lily's number, Samuel's warning note.
Then, a change of clothes, a bottle of water, a pack of energy bars.
He put on his jacket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and took one last look at this basement he'd lived in for nine months.
Mold spread across the ceiling like a map of despair. The pipe still dripped. *Drip. Drip.*
Mason turned off the phone flashlight, letting darkness completely swallow the space.
Then he opened the door, stepped out, and gently locked it—not because he planned to return, but because behind this door had once been his entire world. Locking it felt like a ritual.
In the hallway, sounds of other tenants' TVs, a baby crying, a couple arguing. The noise of life, real and mundane. Mason walked quickly down the corridor without looking back.
He reached the building's exit and pushed open the heavy iron door.
The Los Angeles night wind hit him, carrying exhaust fumes and the distant scent of the ocean. Neon lights flickered on both sides of the street, traffic streamed, pedestrians hurried.
Mason stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the night sky. The city's light pollution was too severe for stars; only a dull red glow remained, like a wound this city would never heal.
*Everyone claims to offer me a path.
The reporter wants to turn me into a commodity, Lily into a plaything, Elena into a specimen, Samuel… what does he want to turn me into?
And now I realize the most terrifying thing isn't having no choices, but that every path leads deeper into darkness.*
He took a deep breath, feeling the side pocket of his backpack, his fingers touching something hard.
It was the sample brochure from Elena's company, which he'd unconsciously stuffed in there earlier.
He pulled it out, opening it under the streetlight's glow.
Glossy paper, professional layout. The cover featured her company's logo—a simple scale, with a line beneath: "Voss Risk Consultancy—When your world starts to crumble, we are your final load-bearing wall."
He flipped to the inside page, the founder's introduction.
A professional photo of Elena Voss, wearing the same dark grey suit he'd seen today, a professional smile on her face. The text below:
"Elena Voss, Founder & CEO. Former Senior Consultant, FBI Commercial Crimes Division. New York State Bar. California Crisis Management Association Board Member…"
Mason's pupils constricted.
*Former Senior Consultant, FBI Commercial Crimes Division.*
She had never mentioned that. Not once.
He stared at the line, a cold chill creeping up his spine, but then another emotion surfaced—not fear, but a near-cruel clarity.
*If she's former FBI… then her interest in 'anomalous cases' might genuinely not be purely commercial. Her research into 'intuitive perception' could involve deeper layers. The reporter Tom Wills's bizarre death—'overdose with no drug history'—sounded exactly like the style of certain agencies' clean-up operations.*
But precisely because of that, he couldn't cut ties.
Mason shoved the brochure back into his backpack, zipping it tight. He took out his phone. Two unread messages.
One from Elena: "Do not contact me tomorrow. Await my instructions. Keep your phone on. If you encounter anything suspicious, call this number immediately: 310-555-0187. This is a direct line to my private security team."
One from Lily, sent ten minutes ago: "Thought about it? My door's still open for you. 😉 But seriously, be careful. Someone at Elena Voss's level doesn't help people for no reason. What does she see in you? Besides… you know. 😉 Need a place to lay low? I have a safe house in Venice Beach. Sending the address."
Immediately followed by a second message from Lily with an address.
Mason stared at the two messages. Two women, two completely different approaches, yet both pointing to the same fact: they were both watching him, both trying to pull him into their sphere of protection (or control).
He needed them.
Not out of trust—trust had become a luxury this night—but out of survival instinct. Elena represented a legal umbrella and professional resources; Lily might offer an escape route through the grey areas. With the reporter just dead and Samuel reappearing, cutting off contact with either would be foolish.
But he couldn't proceed without precautions.
Mason walked into a 24-hour convenience store on the corner. He bought three things: a pre-paid anonymous SIM card (cash), the cheapest burner phone available (also cash), and a dark blue baseball cap.
In the store's restroom, he made the switch: removed the original SIM from his primary phone and inserted it into the burner, powering it on. Then, he inserted the new anonymous SIM into his primary phone. Now he had two usable numbers—one 'public' anonymous line, one 'private' original line.
Using the anonymous number, he texted Elena: "Acknowledged." No signature.
Using the original number, he replied to Lily: "Thanks. Will contact if needed."
After doing this, he felt a strange sense of control. Faint, but real. He wasn't passively waiting for rescue or ruin; within his limited means, he had created a little room to maneuver.
Leaving the convenience store, he pulled the baseball cap low, shading half his face. Not because he thought he was being followed (though he likely was), but because this simple disguise made him feel psychologically safer.
At a street corner, a homeless man leaned against a wall, a paper cup in front of him. As Mason passed, he pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and bent to place it in the cup.
The homeless man looked up. Beneath the grime, his eyes were unusually clear.
"Where you headed, kid?" he asked, his voice raspy.
Mason paused. He'd been asked that question too many times today.
"Looking for a place," he finally answered. "Somewhere to think quietly for a night. Not a motel, too expensive. Not a friend's place… I don't have friends."
The homeless man grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth. He pointed west. "Six blocks down this street. A 24-hour self-storage place. Unit B-17, third floor. Code's 4781. I… used to rent it. Still got two weeks left. There's a cot inside. Fairly clean."
Mason was taken aback. "Why tell me?"
The man shrugged. "You gave twenty bucks. And you look tired. The kind of tired that's in the bones. I know that kind."
Mason was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," the man waved a dismissive hand. "The lease is up end of the month. Use it or don't."
*He might be repaying a kindness, but I can't assume his motives are simple. Right now, I need to move, try to shake off any tails. Could this homeless guy be working for one of them? If that's the case, then following his directions now might make whoever's watching believe I'm still within their grasp. I'll figure out my next move later.* Mason knew that with his current abilities, no matter where he hid, they would find him.
Mason walked in the indicated direction. Six blocks later, he saw the self-storage warehouse—a four-story concrete building with few windows, an electronic keypad at the entrance. He entered the code. The door clicked open.
Third floor, B-17. He entered the code again. The rolling metal door slowly rose.
It was more spacious inside than expected, about ten square meters. Some clutter covered with tarps, but indeed a cot in the corner, even a thin blanket. A small fridge (unplugged), a camping stove, a few water bottles. Most importantly, it was quiet, private, and crucially—no one knew he was here.
Mason set down his backpack, locked the rolling door from the inside (it had a deadbolt). He sat on the cot, pulling out his phones.
The primary phone (anonymous SIM) had no new messages. The burner (original number) had one new text from an unknown number:
"Do not return to basement. Someone waits. Not friend. —S"
S. Samuel.
A chill ran down Mason's spine. Samuel not only knew his previous address but was actively monitoring his movements. And this message came to his original number—meaning Samuel knew it, had possibly been watching for a while.
But strangely, the message read more like a warning than a threat.
Mason didn't reply. He powered off the burner phone, removed its battery (this older model allowed it), and stored them separately. Then he lay back on the cot, staring at the storage unit's grey-white ceiling.
*Elena. Lily. Samuel.
Protector? Tempter? Guide? Or Predator?*
Perhaps all. Perhaps none. Perhaps in this game, roles were never fixed, but constantly shifting with the situation.
He could reason this much: the current crisis-ridden situation wasn't solely caused by the principle of cause and effect from the subway incident; that was at most one factor among many. The origin of all this was Samuel! But who was he? Why did he initiate contact? Too many things were unclear. He needed to wait for more events to unfold, to gather more information to make judgments. It was this passivity that was agonizing and frustrating.
He remembered the slow-flowing blue hourglass in Elena's apartment, the Hemingway quote Samuel had left behind. Lily's sly look at the card table and the touch of her toe against his calf beneath it.
Everyone showed him a piece of the truth, hiding another. Everyone tried to define him—victim, prodigy, pawn, plaything, specimen.
But perhaps true power lay not in accepting any definition, but in refusing to be completely defined by anyone.
Mason closed his eyes. He needed sleep, even just a few hours. Tomorrow, he needed to decide: continue hiding, or take the initiative? Accept Elena's test invitation, or explore Lily's offered "safe house"? Try to contact Samuel for answers, or completely sever ties with the mysterious old man?
Outside, the Los Angeles night was thick as ink. In the distance, sirens wailed again, closer this time, more urgent.
And in another corner of the city, Elena Voss stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse apartment, a secure satellite phone in her hand.
"Yes, he received the warning," she said to the person on the other end, her voice cool. "But he didn't go to ground as expected. He went to a storage unit… An interesting choice."
She paused, listening to the response.
"No, I don't think he's aware yet. But he has an… animal-like danger sense. That's good. It means he has the potential to survive in more complex environments."
Another silence.
"The plan remains. I'll contact him tomorrow, proceed with the assessment. But the approach needs adjustment, gentler. He's transitioning from 'prey' to 'hunter.' It's a delicate phase. Can't push too hard."
She ended the call, walking over to the blue hourglass. The sand inside seemed to flow faster than during the day.
Elena reached out, her finger lightly touching the glass surface.
"Grow faster, Mason," she murmured to herself, her expression complex. "They… have already noticed you."
The hourglass was silent.
The sand continued to fall.
As if counting down to something.