Gou Zai Punishment Division

He ripped the black cloth bag off with a rubber glove.

The rough canvas scraped against my scalp, causing a stinging pain.

The bright light was blinding, and Chen Mo instinctively closed his eyes, tears welling up in his eyes.

The field of vision flickered twice before gradually focusing.

Above them was an explosion-proof lamp covered with a wire mesh.

The light bulb was old and made a constant hissing sound, and the dim yellow light flickered on and off, as if it might go out at any moment.

The walls of the sewage elevator were covered with rust, and dark red bloodstains clung to the gaps in the iron plates.

Some were already cracked, while others looked like they had just oozed out.

The freight elevator suddenly lurched and plummeted downwards.

The wind pressure filled our ears, leaving only a low, rumbling sound.

Chen Mo felt a churning in his stomach.

He suddenly had a very brief illusion—

He had just experienced that feeling of falling once.

The grating grinding sound of gears meshing echoed in the narrow space, overlapping with the feeling that "it has already happened," making it impossible to distinguish the order of events.

The hazmat suits restricted the guards' line of sight.

As the two turned to pull the control lever, their backs were briefly exposed.

Chen Mo did not hesitate.

He reached into his suit pocket and quickly folded the old train ticket, which was stained with sticky red ink.

Using the squatting posture to relieve the strain, he quietly slipped the ticket into the gap between the freight elevator wall panels.

The edge of the paper brushed against my fingertips, and the ink carried a smell that was hard to describe—either fishy or sweet.

He remained calm, suppressing his discomfort even more deeply.

Pretending to be terrified and incompetent is the safest option at this moment.

The freight elevator crashed to the bottom.

The vibration traveled up from the soles of my feet to my knees and then spread upwards.

The iron fence slid open with a clang.

The guards used iron bars to push him against his back and kicked him into a narrow iron hut like a piece of cargo.

The surrounding tiles were mottled, and dark red bloodstains spread in the dampness. Several cast iron pipes stood in the corner.

The smell of formaldehyde mixed with stagnant water and fermentation hit me.

The cast iron valve above turned, producing a dull thud.

A sharp hissing sound of high-pressure water flow came from inside the water pipe.

The next instant, several high-pressure water jets slammed down on him.

The water was cold, yet contained a hint of warmth, as if it had been drawn from a living creature.

The disinfectant smell was pungent, but it couldn't mask the stench of blood.

This is a bureaucratic "exorcism" procedure.

I rinsed my whole body with cold water, washing away the lingering chill and dust from the train.

Chen Mo was choked so badly he almost suffocated, the acid in his stomach mixed with the taste of formaldehyde rushing to his throat.

He felt nauseous.

I wanted to vomit everything out of my stomach, I wanted to turn around and smash open that iron gate, and escape from this hellish place like a madman.

But he could only grit his teeth, swallow the nausea, and gasp for breath.

He pinched his thigh hard.

The pain pinned consciousness to the spot, suppressing the humiliation and panic of being treated as industrial waste to be cleaned.

The water flow suddenly stopped.

Behind the barbed wire fence, the fire in the furnace flickered dimly.

The guard used a long-handled iron fork to lift the cheap suit covered in mud and water, and casually shoved it into the furnace.

The fabric quickly shrank and rolled up, its edges turned black, and finally turned into a dark reddish-gray.

It disappeared along with the fake ID.

The firelight flickered in his pupils for a moment.

The suit turned into a dark reddish-gray and disappeared along with the fake documents.

Chen Mo knew that the world under the sunlight was gone.

A tarpaulin package that smelled of mothballs was thrown at his feet.

A hoarse, static-like sound came from the loudspeaker:

"There's a vacancy in the ground floor archives, the roster has been crossed out. Put on the uniform, now you are him."

Chen Mo's throat tightened slightly, but his voice remained unusually steady.

"it's me."

He squatted down and untied the oilcloth.

The rough, old gray uniform had dry, stiff creases, and the fabric felt like sandpaper to the touch.

He put on his clothes.

He had no idea where the ground floor archives were.

But he knew that the light by the door had broken three times.

—The second time was because someone hanged himself on the lamp stand.

This memory came without warning.

Chen Mo paused for a moment.

He had no reason to know this.

The next second, his legs had already started moving forward on their own.

The iron gates on both sides of the corridor were tightly closed.

The keyhole was sealed with dried red wax, and the stamp was crooked, as if it had been covered up backwards.

Several red posters, damp with moisture, were pasted on the wall, their ink-wash prints blurred.

Quotas for Incense Offerings in the Jurisdiction of the Night Wanderer

Official document on severely cracking down on the illegal possession of special waste materials.

"Regulations for Accessing Archives"

1. No one may access their own files without authorization.

II. Those who violate this rule will bear the consequences themselves.

Below the red text is a line of smaller text that has been almost completely obscured by water stains:

"Violation retroactive application takes effect"

Chen Mo's gaze swept over it without lingering.

Turn left, avoiding the leaking steam pipes overhead.

Turn right and step over a raised, broken tile.

These actions were so natural that they showed no sign of thought.

As he passed a fork in the road, his body suddenly stopped.

There's a freight elevator in front of us.

The iron fence was half open, and there was no one inside. The explosion-proof lights were still buzzing.

He didn't remember walking past this spot.

But his hand had already been extended.

My fingertips slipped into the crack in the wall panel and precisely pulled out the folded old train ticket.

The entire movement was so fluid and without the slightest hesitation, as if it had been repeated countless times.

He wiped the ticket dry and stuffed it into the hidden pocket of his uniform.

Only then did his legs continue forward.

A hunchbacked old man pushing a metal hearse came towards us.

Chen Mo's muscles tightened slightly.

Before we could even think of a solution, the old man had already spoken.

"You're here again, just in time. The stove in the cleaning room isn't working well today."

His tone was familiar, even tinged with impatience.

He paused for a moment, then added casually:

"Did they change people again today?"

Before Chen Mo could catch up, his vocal cords moved first.

"No choice, they've given us more quotas. Want to have a smoke?"

His tone was natural, carrying just the right amount of flattery and indifference.

His right hand had already pulled half a crumpled, cheap cigarette from the left breast pocket of his uniform and handed it over.

He didn't even know there was smoke there.

The old man took the cigarette, skillfully tucked it behind his ear, and chuckled hoarsely twice.

"Yeah, you have to endure it to stay alive. I'm leaving."

The sound of the cart wheels gradually faded away in the corridor.

Chen Mo stood there, looking at his hands.

He suddenly felt like laughing.

A maniacal laugh so absurd it was almost nerve-wracking.

He could barely keep his own name. He could die here at any moment. His mind had gone completely blank just now, and he almost got seen through—

My body actually offered me a cigarette and I just let it go?

He gasped for breath in the stale air of the corridor, leaning against the cold iron wall, letting the absurd sense of separation pound around in his chest.

After a brief moment of collapse and release, he raised his hand and rubbed his stiff cheeks hard.

This body is familiar with every inch of this corridor.

His consciousness was merely something that was implanted into him.

He continued walking forward.

Inside the skull, a voice kept asking, "Where am I going?"

The body had already stopped in front of the "file correction room".

Push the door open.

The rusty door hinges made a dry, creaking sound.

The room was stuffy and the air was filled with the musty smell of old paper.

Total darkness.

As he entered the room, his right hand accurately struck the recessed corner of the wall.

With a "snap," the faulty switch was turned on.

The lights flickered twice before stabilizing.

On the table is an old-fashioned cathode ray tube screen with peeling paint.

The smell of ozone and a high-frequency hum spread through the air.

Against a pure black background, a dark green cursor moves slowly.

A few lines of fragmented, garbled log entries are scrolling:

'...Affiliation: [Punishment Division] South Sea Lower Division...'

"...[Warning] Traces of a [transmigration] anomaly detected; spatial anchor point lost..."

"...[Anomaly Report] Suspected fluctuation of the [Eye of Cause and Effect] authority, causality is reversed and misaligned..."

Chen Mo's pupils contracted slightly.

He didn't touch the keyboard.

Simply remove your hands slowly, and then use your sleeve to wipe away any traces that may be left on the edge of the table.

This place, responsible for monitoring anomalies and hunting down "outsiders," is actually the corner where intelligence is most concentrated.

On the table was a rough-looking "Invoice for Personnel Losses Due to Abnormal Accidents".

The name field reads two characters: Chen Mo.

The ink had long since dried, and a thin layer of dust covered the paper.

Next to the fingerprint in the red ink, there was a tuft of waterweed.

Black water dripped down the edge of the paper, carrying the chilling scent of silt from the riverbed.

On the corner of the table was a chipped enamel mug.

The tea inside had long since gone cold.

Chen Mo looked at that name.

All that remained in my eyes was a numb, lifeless stillness.

This name should be there.

—Even earlier than he remembered his own existence.

He reached out and brushed the paper aside.

The corner of the paper drooped down.

The symbiotic creature beneath my feet silently sprang out, spreading along the table leg and covering the paper.

The aquatic plants withered quickly, and the fishy smell dissipated.

The entire process of being devoured was unusually smooth, as if the body's senses had been forcibly severed.

Only a hollow feeling spread through my chest.

His gaze fell on the tea mug.

My fingers have automatically gripped the chipped handle.

Their movements were perfectly synchronized, as if they had become a habit over many years.

Chen Mo abruptly pulled his hand back.

It felt like I'd been burned.

My underwear was instantly soaked with cold sweat.

He can't go crazy. He's still a living person, not some formatted and reinstalled system hard drive.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

I started frantically calculating tomorrow's rent in my head, as well as the 600 yuan attendance bonus that would be deducted if I was late.

Use these mundane and concrete pressures to fix yourself in reality.

The green light on the screen flickered slightly.

The dark figure shrank back into the sole of the shoe.

The bill of accounts is missing a fingerprint.

There was no inkpad on the table.

Chen Mo picked up the rusty fountain pen and uncapped it.

Point the pen tip at the pad of your thumb and press down firmly.

The moment the rust pierced the flesh, the pain was cold and distinct.

He squeezed out the blood and pressed it onto the register.

The bloodstains slowly spread across the rough paper.

He opened the drawer.

Deep inside the drawer, a file folder bearing a red "Top Secret" stamp lay quietly.

A butterfly was perched on the doorknob.

The wings slowly opened and closed.

The corridor outside the door was deathly silent.