Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

The first room was a small conference room. Director Sun, all smiles, pushed a red-covered document in front of him, saying, "Three million will arrive today. We've already taken care of things with Deputy Director Zhang." The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the stale aroma of tea wafted over.

The second corridor was the Science and Technology Department's corridor. Director Qian, with a cigarette between his fingers, leaned close to him and whispered, "Director Wu's batch of equipment has a price difference of one million yuan. We'll split it in half, as usual." The embers of his cigarette glowed.

The third layer was the corridor of the research institute. The green light of the emergency exit was blindingly bright. Song Yuanming stood in the light, holding a stack of experimental data. His white lab coat was worn and faded from washing. He held a worn-out pen between his fingers and looked at him silently.

Desi Heavy Machinery was the laboratory before the explosion. The metal casing of the voltage regulator was icy cold to the touch, and the "click" sound of the overload protection switch popping open echoed repeatedly, making people's eardrums ache.

The fifth layer is his office, where a paper shredder whirred incessantly, with fragments of the list falling one after another, seemingly endlessly.

All the faces overlapped, all the sounds merged into a roar, like countless hands simultaneously tugging at his nerves.

Zhou Weiqing suddenly clutched his head, digging his fingers into his gray hair, his nails digging deep into his scalp, causing him to gasp in pain.

He crouched down and jumped up again, spinning around on the stage, letting out muffled roars, like a mad dog being beaten with sticks in a cage.

The sounds coming from the speakers began to overlap and break, mixed with heavy breathing and sharp screams, along with static from the electrical circuits, which made the audience cover their ears.

The guests in the front row stood up and backed away, knocking over their chairs with a loud crash.

Someone's hand holding the phone was shaking. The screen was lit up, and in the recorded footage, Professor Zhou, who had been so elegant just moments before, now had disheveled hair and a wrinkled suit, looking like a demon who had just crawled out of hell.

Then all the scenes shattered at the same time, like glass being smashed by a heavy hammer, with shards falling down in a torrent.

Zhou Weiqing found himself standing in a vast, white, empty space, with no boundaries and no sound. Only Song Yuanming stood in front of him, wearing a clean white lab coat and black-rimmed glasses, just like he had when he first entered the research institute twenty years ago. His eyes were bright, and his gaze was full of confusion as he looked at him.

"Senior brother, why did you do this?"

Zhou Weiqing stared at that face for a long time, then suddenly let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

"What are you pretending for? You'll be pretending until you die." He took a step forward, his finger stabbing hard into Song Yuanming's chest, the tip hitting the air. "You know best why I did this. You're better than me in everything, you never let me have my way."

You publish your paper in a core journal, where do I submit mine? You stand on the stage receiving an award, and I'm applauding you from below, did you even glance back at me? You didn't.

His voice suddenly rose: "You never look at me! You never need to look at me! You have your own genius, what use is a senior brother like me?"

He grabbed Song Yuanming by the collar, bringing his face very close, spitting on Song's calm face. "Let me tell you, I slept very well after you died."

Every night when I lie down, thinking about what your lab will look like after it explodes, thinking about your notes locked in my drawer, thinking about your projects bearing my name, Zhou Weiqing, I sleep better than ever before.

He released his grip, took a step back, suddenly spread his arms wide, tilted his head back, and shouted into the vast white void: "Look at me now! The Provincial Science and Technology Award is about to be mine!"

The neurorehabilitation project, with a funding of 60 million! On and off stage, everyone calls me Professor Zhou! These things, I could never have obtained while you were alive! Now that you're dead, they're all mine!

"Song Yuanming! Did you hear me! You're dead! Your research is mine! Your project is mine! Your students are all dead! Your family is all dead! There is no longer a Song Yuanming in this world! There is only me! There is only Zhou Weiqing!"

In reality, Zhou Weiqing stood in front of the microphone, his hands gripping the air, roaring at the empty space in front of him. His voice was amplified by the speakers, sharp and broken, mixed with panting and manic laughter, echoing back and forth in the hall.

He released his grip, spread his arms, tilted his head back, and shouted at the ceiling, "Only me! Only Zhou Weiqing!"

The echo fell, struck the crystal chandelier, and shattered into pieces all over the floor.

He laughed so hard he bent over, then suddenly straightened up, his gray hair falling down to cover half his face, which was covered in sweat and drool, dripping down his jawline.

He began pacing back and forth on the stage, his steps quick and fragmented, swaying from left to right and then from right to left, muttering to himself in a voice that rose and fell: "I am not as good as you... You are dead... Your research is mine... Your project is mine... I am Professor Zhou... I am Zhou Weiqing... You all saw it, didn't you... You all saw it, didn't you..."

Lin Shen sat in the corner, watching the crazed figure on the stage.

This person declared victory to Song Yuanming in his hallucination, and flaunted his achievements to thin air in reality—how ugly!

Zhou Weiqing suddenly stopped, turned abruptly to the audience, and pointed at each person in the front row with his finger. His voice was so shrill it seemed to tear at their eardrums: "You! You don't deserve to sit here! Who approved your funding? Who signed off on your projects? Everything you eat, drink, and use—wasn't it all fought for for you by me, Zhou Weiqing!"

He grabbed the microphone from the podium and slammed it down onto the stage. The microphone cord snapped with a loud "bang," and the speaker emitted a sharp whistling sound.

People in the front row screamed and backed away, knocking over tables, shattering wine glasses on the floor, and spilling red wine on the carpet like pools of blood.

He then grabbed an enamel teacup from the podium and threw it. The lid flew off, and hot water splashed all over the people in the front row. Some people jumped up from the burns, cursing as they pushed their way to the back.

Just as the situation was about to spiral out of control, the banquet hall doors were suddenly pushed open from the outside, and two rows of security guards in dark blue uniforms strode in.

The team leader was Fang Yu from the district's public security bureau. He was in his early thirties, had an old scar on his face, handcuffs on the right side of his belt, and the baton behind his waist had half of its black handle sticking out.

He glanced at the frenzied Zhou Weiqing on stage, then gestured to the team members behind him. The security guards from the west walked around the stage from both sides, hugging the walls.

Zhou Weiqing stood at the edge of the stage and saw a man in uniform rushing up. But in his field of vision, Song Yuanming, wearing a white coat, walked towards him step by step from the other end of the corridor. He was clean and tidy, just like he was twenty years ago.

He took a sudden step back, his heel hitting the base of the podium, his body swayed, and he almost fell.

"You're here again." His voice was forced out of his throat, dry and rough like sandpaper scraping against wood. "You're dead, why are you back again!"