Chapter 11 – The Panopticon I

He removed the external neural interface device and blinked, the white wall before him gradually coming into focus.

Squinting, he turned his head sideways—the light outside the window was too intense. He quickly raised a hand to shield his eyes, and in doing so, noticed the intravenous port on the back of his hand. He pulled it out and tried to stand up. At that moment, the loudspeaker issued the command again: “No. 0416, exit the pod immediately!”

Bracing himself against the chair, he struggled to stand steadily. Slowly, he shuffled his feet toward the door. The pod was small, about six or seven square meters, with a bed, a simple toilet, a set of parallel bars, and a standard access terminal.

When he reached the door, he flipped the old-fashioned red switch on it. A panel at waist height snapped open with a click, and he stretched both hands out, glancing back at the bright window.

Light—nothing but a vast expanse of blinding white light, impossible to see through.

With a metallic clank, his hands were cuffed outside the door. Then the airlock mechanism activated, and the door slowly slid open.

Standing there was a man dressed in a gray woolen uniform with a small stand-up collar. Tall, broad-faced, his hair neatly combed, he wore a red armband on his left sleeve bearing a double-diamond insignia, marking him as a senior Party member.

No. 0416 looked down at his hands—a pair of superalloy handcuffs equipped with tracking and self-destruct functions. He chuckled, “Why let me out? I’ve still got fourteen and a half years left.”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a baton-like object and gestured toward the curved corridor ahead, signaling for him to follow.

Following was a struggle. Despite No. 0416’s burly frame, strong arms, and healthy black hair, prolonged immersion in the virtual world had caused varying degrees of muscle atrophy throughout his body, particularly in his lower limbs. Even without the iron door and handcuffs, escaping this Panopticon would have been nearly impossible.

Bentham, 1748–1832, a British utilitarian philosopher, economist, and jurist, proposed the panopticon theory in 1785. Of course, No. 0416 knew nothing about this. He merely dragged his legs along in confusion as the warden led him down the curved corridor designed according to Bentham’s principles.

The Panopticon consisted of a central watchtower surrounded by a ring of prison pods. Each pod had a large window facing the central tower, which emitted an intense, unrelenting beam of light twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. The light was so strong that prisoners could never tell when they were being watched—or if they were being watched at all. This uncertainty kept them in a state of constant paranoia, too afraid to scheme or act out.

No. 0416 was one of the prisoners in the pods, while the man in the red armband ahead belonged to the watchtower. “Hey,” he asked haltingly, “are you really watching us, or are we just watching ourselves?”

A sharp crack—the Doctrine Baton lashed across his cheek.

“What a waste of a handsome face,” the man in the red armband said, turning to examine the red mark on his cheek. “So good-looking—you could’ve sold yourself for anything. But no, you had to go and kill someone.”

No. 0416 ran his tongue over the sore spot inside his mouth. “Been inside for almost five months, haven’t seen a single living soul,” he muttered, spitting to the side with a streetwise defiance. “Getting hit by you? Kinda feels good.”

The man finally stopped walking. “The Island of Saints is full of people,” he said, tapping the Doctrine Baton lightly against his palm. “You can kill and screw around all you want there. The whole point is to get you lot to ‘settle down’ after you’re ‘out.'”

“Out?” No. 0416 latched onto his words. “More like lucky to survive inside.”

The man laughed. He had a clean-cut face, the ruggedly handsome type. “Let me tell you, we just dragged someone out today. At least a month without ‘coming out’—by the time we found him, he was desiccated. Twenty-five years old,” he licked his lips, “about your age, huh?”

No. 0416 glared at him but didn’t answer.

“Alright,” the man turned back around and continued walking, his black leather shoes polished to a mirror shine, clicking sharply against the floor. “We need to hurry. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Everyone? No. 0416 raised an eyebrow. Just as he had suspected—in this heavily fortified prison where even guards seemed unnecessary, he might actually get the chance to meet him!

The elevator crossed a walkway to the central watchtower. No. 0416 followed the warden through three security doors into the administrative area. Like the prisoner section, the administrative area had twenty floors. They stopped on the fifth, exiting the elevator and turning east along the curved corridor.

It reminded No. 0416 of the CDs sold in antique shops—obsolete relics from sixty or seventy years ago. Circular discs with spiral tracks, read by a laser head moving clockwise or counterclockwise. To the laser, its world had only two directions, just like his now.

The man in the red armband stopped before an alloy door. A palm scan unlocked it, and as the airlock hissed open, No. 0416 trembled with excitement—but only for a second. Calmly, he stepped inside.

Indeed, everyone was waiting for him. The room was large, with chairs arranged in a circle. Only two seats were empty; the rest were occupied. Directly opposite the door sat another senior Party member, around thirty years old, his hair slicked back, with a slightly neurotic jawline and drooping eyes.

“Final participant, No. 0416, sentenced to fifteen years,” the escort reported. The seated Party member waved impatiently, signaling them to take their places.

No. 0416 was led to his seat, but his eyes remained fixed on the man giving orders. Cross-legged, the red armband on his sleeve resting against the chair’s armrest, his black shoes immaculate.

They were all cut from the same mold, these Party members—aside from differences in height and skin tone, they had no individuality. They were cogs in the Party’s machine. So which one was Silver?

Based on the final round of the game, No. 0416 was certain Silver wasn’t an NPC. Yet the character interface hadn’t listed him as an option. The only explanation was that he lacked the necessary permissions. More precisely, prisoners didn’t have access to the “Angel” character. So who did? Only the administrators.

No. 0416 settled into his chair. The man who had led him here sat diagonally across, holding a small notebook and speaking in an affected tone: “Since this is everyone’s first time out of the pods, I’ll start with a brief introduction.”

It was May 2078—the exact date wasn’t disclosed, likely because letting prisoners track time was deemed bad for discipline. He explained the Panopticon’s philosophy: “Let the prisoners police themselves,” through the watchtower’s unceasing “surveillance.” But No. 0416 suspected that, for all anyone knew, the people in the tower might not even be doing their jobs.

The Party loved the Panopticon because it reduced administrative costs—a handful of Party members could oversee thousands of prisoners. The propaganda department’s justification was even more high-minded: the circular design minimized direct contact between guards and inmates, effectively curbing beatings, rapes, and extortion. But for the prisoners, as long as they believed they were being watched, the prison remained impregnable.

“Under the strong leadership of the Social Nationalist Party, this year marks the 29th anniversary of the Panopticon’s establishment. In these 29 years, no prisoner has ever left their pod—not that they needed to,” he said with a benevolent smile. “You have the Island of Saints. The Party has invested heavily to provide you with the best welfare.”

He stood up. “For this temporary study group, I am the lead. You may address me as Officer A.” He gestured respectfully toward the man opposite the door. “Officer B,” then vaguely indicated the other direction, “Officer C.”

Only then did No. 0416 notice another administrator seated one person to his left—a pockmarked man in a dark gray woolen uniform with a stand-up collar, but no armband. A reserve Party member.

Three administrators. No. 0416 mulled it over. The range wasn’t too broad, but it wasn’t narrow either. How could he identify which one was Silver without exposing himself? More importantly, he still had to find him. His gaze swept lightly over the others—all wearing alloy handcuffs. Counting himself, there were seven in total.

“Officer,” someone suddenly raised a hand. No. 0416 looked over—to the right of Officer B sat a pale, scrawny man wearing old-fashioned glasses, looking nothing like a hardened criminal. “According to the Panopticon’s regulations, administrators aren’t permitted direct contact with prisoners, and prisoners aren’t allowed to see each other.”

He was referring to this so-called “study group”—a violation of protocol.

“May I ask why we’ve been gathered here?” he asked in a quiet, polite voice. “Do we have the right to refuse participation?”

Officer A glanced at his notebook. “No. 0933,” he said with a smile so fake it was almost painful. “You’ve been here longer than I have. A real veteran.”

09? No. 0416 was surprised. Prisoner numbers in the Panopticon were assigned based on surveillance levels. Such a high number—what had he done to end up here?

“The purpose of this study group,” Officer A continued, “is to collect feedback on your experience with ‘Island of Saints.’ The game is outdated and due for routine maintenance.”

“Then why the seven of us?” No. 0933 pressed, his logic unshaken.

Officer A clearly disliked the questioning but maintained his Party-member decorum. “You were all online at the same time. As a sample group, you were selected.”

No. 0933 didn’t push further, and no one else raised their hand. Officer A went on: “On the Island of Saints, you have near-absolute freedom. Administrators can’t see your characters, actions, or voice logs—only your online activity. Aside from the prohibition against sharing real-world information, the system imposes no restrictions on you.”

Right, no sharing information. No. 0416 pondered. This rule ensured zero contact between prisoners—no long-term connections, no conspiracies, no escape plans. And of course, no falling in love.

“To avoid the potential for authoritarian abuse in one-on-one interrogations, the prison Party committee has decided to adopt the study group format,” Officer A suddenly barked, “Is that clear?!”

This was authoritarianism. No one dared speak; the room fell dead silent. No. 0416 clenched his fists. The baton strike in the prison corridor earlier had been authoritarian too. If this had been a one-on-one interrogation, this guy—he flicked a glance at Officer A—might’ve been far more brutal.

But he understood. These administrators, with their neatly combed hair, bright armbands, and airs of superiority, were ultimately no different from the prisoners. The inmates were locked in pods; the administrators were locked in the central tower.

“Among yourselves,” Officer A tapped his Doctrine Baton at the handcuffed prisoners, “you don’t know each other. On the Island of Saints, you might be friends or enemies.” He grinned. “Why don’t we start with introductions?”

Ah. No. 0416 got it. This “study group” wasn’t about preventing authoritarian abuse—it was about compensating for the administrators’ information asymmetry. Because some people would lie.

Officer A scanned the prisoners. “Let’s start with…” He paused, then corrected himself. “Starting from Officer B’s left, clockwise.”

No. 0416 looked to his right. Only one person sat between him and Officer B—a young man, barely out of his teens, with a clean-cut face but a quantum imaging implant over his left eye. Half-blind.

Everyone turned to look at him. The kid had the streetwise demeanor of someone rough, ruthless, and uncooperative. Reluctantly, he muttered, “I always play The Swordsman.”

“That’s it?” Officer A frowned. “Lots of people play The Swordsman. How would we know which one you are? Be specific.”

The kid half-lowered his head, as if the confession embarrassed him. “Just… The Swordsman. Respected, rich, don’t gotta eat slop every meal,” he hesitated, then added, “I gave him a trait—hates infidels.”

No. 0416 watched the others closely. At the mention of “infidels,” No. 0933’s eyebrow twitched—just for an instant, but it suggested they’d crossed paths.

Officer A checked his notebook again. “Why hate infidels?”

“Why not?” the kid grumbled—everything he said sounded like a grumble. “A Muslim who converts to some white man’s religion? No fucking dignity. Betraying his own boss.” Indignant, he added, “And he’s a total slut!”

Someone laughed. Clearly, he was talking about The Convert. Officer A seemed satisfied, jotting something in his notebook before cheerfully saying, “Next.”

No. 0416 quickly organized his thoughts. “I’m The Listener. Almost never played anything else. Uh… I had a regular Convert.” As he spoke, he debated whether to reveal anything substantial in the first round. “My quest was to find something,” he said, gauging reactions. “An Angel.”

Nine faces showed similar expressions—Angels were surprising to anyone. Not enough. He needed to be more explicit. “Took a lot of work to find him. I gave him a name,” he tested the waters. “Silver.”

Immediately, reactions surfaced. The most obvious was Officer B. From the start of the conversation until now, his eyes had remained lowered, but at this moment, he glanced over as if casually trying to appear nonchalant. But No. 0416 was a man who had killed—not just one or two people. He could read every subtle shift in expression.

This Officer B—when his eyes were downcast, nothing stood out. But now that his whole face was visible, it was strikingly handsome. Long lashes, dark and bright eyes that shimmered like rippling water when he moved them. Following the line of his tightly pursed lips downward: the silver buttons on his woolen uniform, the red armband symbolizing political authority, the slender fingers adorned with a Party insignia ring—each detail added a layer of imposing allure to his beauty.

They might have shared a brief moment of eye contact. The instant their gazes met, they both looked away simultaneously. This drew No. 0416’s attention to No. 0933 beside Officer B—that scrawny man. Even behind glasses, his shock was evident. Not just at the name “Silver,” but clearly also at him, at what he had said.

No. 0416 didn’t look at him again, afraid of revealing anything. Naturally, he turned to Officer A instead—only to find that the man, like him, was observing, scrutinizing everyone’s reactions.

This was a game of the mantis stalking the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. No. 0416 reminded himself to be careful.

“You…” Officer B suddenly spoke. No. 0416’s gaze snapped back to him. The man had lowered his eyes again, making his full forehead even more striking. “Tell us about that Convert of yours.”

Convert? No. 0416 racked his brain to recall what he’d just said. Ah, he’d mentioned having a “fixed Convert.” “There’s so much to say about him. Beautiful, agile, passionate. He—”

Officer B impatiently tapped his heel against the floor, exuding the kind of arrogance that came from being used to giving orders. “Say something different.”

No. 0416 immediately grasped the importance of this statement. If handled well, it could convince Officer B that he truly was The Listener. Once Officer B believed it, everyone else would too.

“Something different…” No. 0416 deliberately adopted an awkward expression, blushing like an innocent young man. “Falling in love—does that count as different?”

“Fuck me!” The Swordsman beside him cursed under his breath. No. 0416 didn’t care. His focus was solely on Officer B. What was amusing was that No. 0933 had lowered his head at this point, slightly drawing his feet in as if embarrassed.

“Falling in love,” Officer B repeated his words. “Or just fucking around?”

No. 0416 met his gaze openly. “When you’re in love, you want to fuck.” He scratched his head, feigning bashfulness. “Never done it before, but once I started, I couldn’t stop—”

“Enough,” Officer B cut him off. “Next.”

He believed it. No. 0416 was certain—at least for now, there were no doubts. Relaxing, he noticed another detail: the person to his left, who had been leaning toward him earlier, had now shifted to lean the other way. Was it just fatigue from sitting in one position? Or was he disgusted by the vulgar talk about fucking? Or… was there another reason?

“I mostly play The Convert,” that man said. The moment the words “The Convert” left his mouth, someone burst into laughter. Unfazed, he continued, “I’ve also played The Mute and the choirboy a couple of times, but only once or twice.”

Officer B didn’t speak again. Officer A took over the questioning, his brows furrowing sternly as he asked, “So have you fucked The Listener?”

That really broke the tension. These were prisoners, after all—not exactly paragons of restraint. They erupted into laughter, rocking back and forth in their chairs. No. 0416 chuckled along, coldly observing Officer A. The man seemed like nothing more than a petty troublemaker, but in reality, he was skillfully muddying the waters. Once the waters were muddied, subconscious reactions would betray the truth.

“No,” the man replied. “Only The Archer.”

No. 0416 turned to look at him—a man with a strikingly arresting appearance. How to describe it? His hair was cropped so short it clung to his scalp, a brutally simple style that laid his features bare. And those features… No. 0416 didn’t know how to put it. They were too sharp, too arresting, their aggression unforgettable.

As No. 0416 studied him, the man met his gaze unflinchingly. His eyebrows were naturally refined, as if meticulously groomed, and when they arched slightly, they carried an extraordinary air.

No. 0416 smiled, about to strike up a conversation, when Officer A interjected, “Then tell us your story, ‘Convert.'”

The man thought for a moment and asked, “Can I mention game details or plot points?”

Officer A glanced at Officer B, who gave no indication either way. So Officer A nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I was searching for something with The Listener,” he said slowly. No. 0416 noticed that the slowness didn’t seem habitual—it felt deliberate, as if he feared speaking too quickly might reveal some personal quirk. “Beneath the Saints’ Tombs, we found an iron cage.” He turned to No. 0416. “But it wasn’t an Angel. It was a half-dead man.”

The first contradiction had emerged. Everyone looked over. No. 0416 didn’t explain, because Officer B hadn’t even lifted his eyes. The man continued, “But we encountered a demon.”

“What kind of bullshit is this?” The Swordsman muttered. “Total fucking fabrication. I’ve been on the Island of Saints for two and a half years—never heard anything like it!”

“The NPC we reported the quest to was an old man. He was the demon.”

Officer A scanned the group, searching for any sign of corroboration, but it wasn’t that easy. “And then?”

“If,” the man said, “the person in the cage really was an Angel, then the demon bought him just to kill him. This is a game of Angels versus demons.” He suddenly laughed, directing it at Officer A. “You guys are so clichéd.”

He was a troublemaker. No. 0416 instinctively leaned away, putting distance between them. Then came Officer A’s command: “No. 0416, I authorize you to hit him.”

Sighing internally, No. 0416 stood up. Looking down at the man, he delivered a solid punch to that striking face. Blood immediately welled up at the temple. Then he sat back down.

“Next!” Officer A barked.

To the left of The Convert was the reserve Party member. Beyond him sat an old man in his sixties, his hair disheveled. “I play The Ascetic.”

The Ascetic—a character No. 0416 had never interacted with. He studied the man: an ordinary-looking elder with calm eyes and a voice that trembled slightly, perhaps from age-related ailments. “The Flagellant, The Penitent, and I are a team. We have two quests. One of them is to help The Listener find the Angel.”

No. 0416 stared at him, his astonishment blatant. The Ascetic paused and raised a hand. “Officer, may I have some water?”

Officer A signaled with his eyes. The reserve Party member immediately got up to fetch it, leaving the door slightly ajar. The Ascetic continued, “The Flagellant is our core—the main thread of the entire game.” He glanced repeatedly at the door, as if waiting for the water. “This isn’t a game of Angels versus demons. It’s—”

Suddenly, he leapt from his chair with unexpected agility and force, bolting for the door. Everyone froze. Was this… an unplanned escape attempt?

The administrators should have given chase. Yet neither Officer A nor Officer B moved from their seats. Moments later, the shrill beep of an alarm echoed down the hallway. The reserve Party member returned unhurriedly, placing a cup of water in front of the empty chair before sitting back down. Barely five minutes passed before the door was violently shoved open—it was The Ascetic, drenched in sweat, his alloy handcuffs glowing red-hot. The alarm blared from the electronic sensor on the cuffs, linked to their self-destruct mechanism.

“You ran too fast,” Officer A said. “Have some water.”

The Ascetic trembled as he crouched to pick up the cup. Officer A consulted his notebook. “One suspected escape attempt adds three years to your sentence. How many times is this now?”

The old man didn’t answer. Officer A lightly tapped his Doctrine Baton against his trouser leg. “Next.”

“Wait,” No. 0933 stood up. The electronic alarm’s beeping slowed and weakened. “He hasn’t finished.”

Officer A turned a smiling face to him. “What’s it to you?”

No. 0933 lowered his head and slowly sat back down. He was truly frail, with long bangs covering half his face and a pointed chin that looked like it could shutter at the slightest touch. “I always thought I was the center of the game. I… am The Listener.”

Silence fell. Officer A sneered coldly. “Don’t rush to perform. It’s not your turn yet.” He rapped his Doctrine Baton against the person to his right. “You’re up.”

That man was burly, with an unremarkable face and an equally unremarkable voice. “I play everything,” he said. “I’ve played all the roles they have.”

Officer A made a note. “Any you haven’t played?”

All eyes turned to him. This answer was crucial, because playing everything was the same as playing nothing. These were seasoned prisoners—they knew someone so nondescript couldn’t be genuine.

“Hmm…” He seemed to be thinking carefully. “Haven’t played The Mute.”

“Why not?” Officer A asked.

“I don’t like being mute.” He gestured at his throat. “When I’m angry or getting beaten up, not being able to talk would drive me crazy.”

It was convincing. No. 0416 stopped watching him. Officer A pressed on, “Any characters that left an impression?”

“They’re all about the same,” the man said in a tone so plain it was boring. “The Firehand, maybe. A blacksmith. Playing him feels great. A minor character, but he’s got everything he needs. Lives a comfortable life.”

Officer A jotted something down. There was no need to question further. He prodded the person to his left with the Doctrine Baton. “Your turn.”

That man straightened up. He had excellent tattoos—letters, skulls, cross-embroidered roses—running from his brow bones down his cheeks, neck, arms, and even his ankles. That skin was worth a fortune.

“I’m The Thief,” he said, slouching. “My line of work.”

No. 0416 noticed that when he said “my line of work,” Officer A’s expression turned amused. Clearly, it wasn’t the truth. But that was normal. In prison, who didn’t have secrets they’d rather keep hidden? Especially these old-timers—lying was second nature by now.

“I stole from The Archer once,” he said eagerly, as if itching to spill his guts. “A little gold ring. Fuck, almost got myself killed.”

A gold ring? No. 0416 was puzzled. Had The Convert ever had a storyline like that? Just then, the man to his left shifted, unconsciously leaning forward. This change suggested he was paying close attention. Had he lost the ring?

“And then?” Officer A asked.

“Gave it back,” The Thief said. “You don’t mess with The Archer. He plays dirty. I’ve taken beatings for botched jobs before, but never like that. Fuck’s sake, it’s just a game. No need to go that hard.”

His performance was convincing enough, but Officer A wasn’t done. He pressed for details: “How’d you pull it off?”

The Thief hesitated noticeably before grinning. “Bumped into him, lifted it. Old tricks.”

No. 0416 heard The Convert snort beside him—a derisive, knowing laugh, as if The Thief’s story wasn’t the whole truth.

Officer A nodded, then suddenly turned his gaze to No. 0933. “Only one left,” he said provocatively, pointing at him with the Doctrine Baton. “Go ahead.”

No. 0416 felt inexplicably tense. This was the last person—the one who had claimed to play The Listener—and he was so frail, as if he could be easily manipulated.

“I am The Listener,” No. 0933 began calmly. “I’ve been here a long time. For the first few years, I never entered the Island of Saints because I opposed this kind of immersive game. It numbs people—”

“Stop!” Officer A barked sharply. “What you’re saying has nothing to do with the game content.” He swept a malicious gaze over the prisoners. “Or are you sending a message to someone here?”

“No,” No. 0933 denied outright, then continued, “In recent years, I’ve always played The Listener because one day, I found a sentence scratched into the wall under my bed—carved with fingernails.”

Officer A stopped writing. Officer B looked up. Everyone turned to stare at No. 0933 as he slowly said, “The sentence was, ‘Play The Listener.'”

Officer B immediately signaled to Officer C, who stood and left. No. 0416 knew he was going to verify the claim in the pod.

“I kept playing The Listener, over and over,” No. 0933 said. “The more I played, the more I reminded myself not to get sucked in, not to be numbed. It’s all an illusion. Those people are all criminals. I had to stay calm.”

No. 0416 clenched his fists, his entire body tensing. “I had to stay calm,” he repeated silently. It was already certain—No. 0933 was him.

“Like you’re not a criminal yourself. Enough,” Officer A said impatiently, flipping through his notebook. “Get to the specifics. Your Convert.”

At that moment, No. 0933 gave No. 0416 an imperceptible glance—just a fleeting touch before withdrawing. “I… don’t really have a Convert. I only care about the quests,” he said evenly. “Maybe if I solve the mystery, I’ll find out who left that message and why they told me to play The Listener.”

Just then, Officer C returned, walking straight to Officer A and whispering something in his ear. Officer A nodded. “Seven people, all familiar now.” He glanced at Officer B as if seeking his opinion. “How about a short break?”

Officer B brushed off his trouser leg and stood, straightening his red armband with the rigid posture of a soldier, then pushed the door open and left. Officer A hurried after him, leaving Officer C behind to watch the prisoners.

The eight men exchanged glances. None of them cared about Officer C—their attention was fixed on each other. These were all hardened criminals, locked away for long stretches. Suddenly face-to-face, they were like a pack of idle hounds catching a whiff of unfamiliar scent, baring their teeth in anticipation.

The Swordsman was the first to provoke The Thief: “Were you really a thief outside? Thieves get sent to the Panopticon?”

Officer C didn’t stop them from talking, instead busying himself with organizing the records. The Thief smirked. “Then you can guess what level of ‘thief’ I am.”

Beep beep. The tiny communicator on Officer C’s chest suddenly flashed. He stood, gathered his notebook, and hurried out, leaving the room with only the seven felons.

“No way,” The Convert muttered in disbelief. “They’re just leaving us like this? They really don’t take us seriously.”

The Firehand nudged his chin toward The Ascetic. “They know we can’t cause trouble.” He shook his cuffed wrists. “With these things on, we’re all dead meat.”

“Hey,” The Convert leaned forward, resting his arm on Officer C’s vacated chair, addressing The Ascetic. “You’re an idiot, running off with cuffs on?”

The old man chuckled, clearly mocking. The Convert shot to his feet, and immediately, everyone tensed, leaning back defensively. “What the hell? Sit down!”

It couldn’t be helped. Any one of them could be a killing machine. Even wild dogs would snap at each other in a pack. The Convert slowly sat back down as The Ascetic said sagely, “Kid, they say these cuffs can explode. If you don’t test it, how do you know it’s true?”

The younger men froze.

“We don’t get chances like this often,” The Ascetic said cheerfully. “How could I not take the opportunity?”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then The Convert broke the silence himself. “They said you’ve ‘attempted escape’ multiple times before?”

The Ascetic was still sipping his water, taking small, deliberate gulps. “Five or six times. Wanted to see if the central tower really monitors us 24/7 like they claim.”

This was what everyone cared about. They pressed, “Does it?”

“Yes,” the old man confirmed. “From banging on doors to prying at windows, the loudspeaker warns you. With so many pods, they’re either using AI or have ‘eyes.'” “Eyes” referred to nano-cameras.

“No ‘eyes,'” The Thief said. “I checked thoroughly when I got here. Clean.”

“No ‘ears’ either,” The Ascetic added. “I’m sure of that. Whether you spout anti-Party slogans or plan an escape, no one warns you.”

“Hey,” The Swordsman suddenly turned to No. 0416. “Why aren’t you talking?”

No. 0416 glanced at him, exasperated. “Three administrators, and not one’s watching us. Does that seem normal?” He looked up at the ceiling. “They want us to talk freely.”

Everyone fell silent, following his gaze. Soon, Officer C returned, instructing stiffly, “Next, the officers will question you one by one. The Swordsman.”

The Swordsman followed him out. The others complained loudly, “Hey, I thought we weren’t doing one-on-ones…” Amid the noise, No. 0416 suddenly looked at No. 0933—and found him staring back.

His eyes were timid, shaped like tender spring leaves, oval and not particularly striking. The moment their gazes met, he lowered his head, just as shy as he’d been in the game.

The others chatted idly, of course avoiding anything important, jumping from topic to topic—mostly complaining about the food on the Island of Saints, the dry bread and rotten vegetable soup. Amid the grumbling, No. 0416 faintly heard someone say, “…At least I have enough oil…”

The voice was unremarkable, lost in the chorus of complaints. No. 0416 traced it to The Firehand. Frowning, he was about to join the conversation when Officer C returned with The Swordsman, rapping on the doorframe. “The Listener.”

He was calling them in the order they’d spoken earlier. No. 0416 stood and followed him out, rounding a short stretch of corridor to an alloy door. There was no electronic nameplate—likely an administrator’s office.

Inside, the room wasn’t large, but compared to the meeting room, it was luxurious. Most striking was the human touch—a leather sofa, velvet curtains, an ashtray, an oil painting on the wall. On the desk sat a half-finished cup of coffee, a sugar packet beside the coaster, and behind it, a cigar box and red wine. A retro way to indulge.

Officer A sat on the small sofa. Diagonally across, at the desk, Officer B lit a cigarette with a match. No. 0416 sneezed. Officer B shook out the match and leaned back in his high-backed chair, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Allergic to smoke?”

“No,” No. 0416 sniffed. “It’s just been a while since I’ve smelled the good stuff.” He straightened, making himself seem less rough. “Takes some getting used to.”

“Right,” Officer A chuckled mockingly. “You’ve seen all the finest things. But now…” He didn’t finish. There was no need. “Alright, all those lies you told earlier—you’ve got a chance to correct them now.”

Lies? No. 0416 looked at Officer B, who observed him through the smoke. No—that gaze was more like admiration, scrutinizing him head to toe, missing no detail. The look made No. 0416 think he might be able to take a risk.

“One-on-one, then I’ll talk,” he demanded.

Officer A tilted his head, as if surprised. No. 0416 repeated, “One-on-one. I’ll only talk to one officer.”

Officer A glanced at Officer B, who took a slow drag from his cigarette before giving a slight nod. Reluctantly, Officer A snapped his notebook shut, straightened his uniform with visible irritation, and left.

Alone, the room was quiet enough to hear the cigarette burning. “He was bluffing me,” No. 0416 said.

Officer B ignored him, picking up a small device from the desk—palm-sized, metallic white. With a press, something in the ceiling corners hissed and retracted. Nano-cameras.

No. 0416 watched as Officer B stood and circled the desk, approaching him. What now? Play hard to get? Before he could decide, Officer B had already brushed past him to gaze out the window.

It was a large window, overlooking the midday horizon and the high-speed freeway in the distance, where vehicles of all shapes occasionally flashed by. No. 0416 took a deep breath, turned, and stepped up behind him.

A beautiful back—precise, dignified, flawless. No. 0416 raised a hand. He could try resting it on his shoulder, or maybe brushing his arm. But instead, he chose to grip his neck—boldly, even rudely—from behind, fingers curling around it gently.

Officer B shuddered visibly. No. 0416 realized then—this was a lonely man, likely untouched for a long time. Physical contact, he thought. Things might be simpler than he’d imagined.

“That last round…” Officer B murmured. “I knew you’d figure out I was an admin.”

No. 0416 didn’t answer, pressing closer, kneading his neck tenderly. Officer B tilted his head back with a soft, ambiguous sigh. “What you saw was an adjacent instance. Another pair of ‘Silver’ and ‘The Listener.'”

Still silent, afraid of misspeaking, No. 0416 let Officer B lean against his shoulder. “We reached the instance boundary, so the ‘world’ started glitching. You—”

“Did you set all this up just to find me?” No. 0416 cut him off. The topic of instances was unfamiliar—pursuing it wouldn’t help him. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Officer B didn’t answer. Clearly, he was hiding something. No. 0416 feigned concern. “Someone in there was lying.”

“I know,” Officer B murmured, almost melting into his embrace, tilting his head submissively. “Will you help me?”

“Sure,” No. 0416 grinned. “I also want to know if that guy is my Convert.”

He was referring to the man who’d sat to his left. Officer B didn’t show displeasure, but the soft, unresisting surrender from earlier was gone.