After a week of escalating panic in New York, it turned into a buzzing sound that permeated the air.
It's hidden in the excessively jarring warning sound when the subway doors close.
Hidden in the whispers and murmurs of people in office buildings.
It was also hidden in the tireless circling of police helicopters in the night sky.
The vanished monument has become an invisible scar on the city.
People unconsciously quicken their pace when walking across that open space in Central Park.
The government's incompetence and lies, coupled with Vought's silence, made this fear even more concrete.
People no longer believe any official explanations and have turned to conspiracy theories.
An unseen "ghost," capable of manipulating the city at will, is carrying out its bizarre "performance art."
This ghost left no demands, no conditions.
Its silence is more chilling than any declaration of terror.
The panic intensified until the morning of the eighth day, when the prelude came to an end.
The first act has officially begun.
The location is the Brooklyn Bridge.
This magnificent structure is one of New York's undisputed landmarks.
It is a perfect combination of human engineering and the spirit of the industrial age.
As the morning light pierced through the thin mist, casting golden streaks along the suspension cable, the first commuters spotted the "exhibit."
It's located right next to Manhattan.
A face appeared out of nowhere on the thickest granite pier.
A face wailing, formed by concrete relief.
It looks as if it grew out of the inside of the bridge pier.
The material blends perfectly with the bridge pier itself, as if it has been there for over a hundred years.
The expression on that face was filled with unspeakable pain, and its mouth was wide open, emitting a silent scream.
Empty eye sockets stare at every human who crosses the bridge.
What's most chilling is that the surface of the relief is covered with tiny cracks.
Dark red rust-colored liquid slowly seeped from the cracks, like endless tears of blood winding down the surface of the bridge pier.
The initial shock quickly turned into panic that swept the entire city.
Traffic was completely paralyzed.
Countless vehicles were stuck on the bridge, and people got out of their cars to take pictures, discuss, and scream at the terrifying face.
"Oh my god... what is this?"
"It's that ghost! It's appeared again!"
" Ghost Art Exhibition "—a term coined by a certain media outlet—became a trending hashtag in New York within just one hour.
The government didn't even have time to fabricate lies.
A top-notch team of structural engineers was urgently dispatched to the site.
They used the most sophisticated instruments to conduct a comprehensive inspection of the bridge piers.
The conclusion sent a chill down everyone's spine.
"That shouldn't be the case..."
An elderly engineer with white hair looked at the data report in his hand and muttered to himself.
This completely contradicts any laws of physics.
"The bridge's internal load-bearing structure is intact and shows no signs of stress."
"This... this relief's density and composition are exactly the same as the main body of the bridge pier. It's not a foreign object; it's part of the bridge pier itself."
This conclusion is more terrifying than any ghost story.
In that Shadow kingdom beneath New York, where the sun never rises.
Just then, the ID named " Prophet " posted new content.
No warning, no title.
Only a murmur from the depths of a nightmare.
"I saw... a throne built of sorrow."
"I saw it... a ghost that turns the city into tombstones."
" Vought is feeding a behemoth unlike any we've ever seen before; its food is our fear."
"He will begin with art and end with destruction."
"All heroes will pale in comparison; the entire city will be his funeral."
This mystical prophecy was like a piece of ice thrown into boiling water.
A brief period of calm was followed by an even more violent outburst.
"Enough! Prophet, stop spreading your doomsday theories!"
A radical member with the ID " Iron Armor Steel Fist " was the first to speak out.
What we need now is action, a counterattack, not to listen to your poetry!
"Exactly! A funeral? That's an exaggeration. You mean this guy is another monster released by Vought? As long as we find him, there's always a way to deal with him!"
"I'm more inclined to believe this is a conspiracy orchestrated by Vought to introduce a new hero or to push for stricter regulations."
Most people in the forum had long since lost patience due to the repeated failures and feelings of powerlessness.
They would rather believe that this was an enemy who could be defeated by fists than accept an incomprehensible, godlike opponent.
To them, the " Prophet's" warnings were far too alarmist.
It's more like a cowardly act that undermines morale.
Only the Haozi sensed something was wrong when he saw that text.
His rodent-like instinct for survival in the dark was screaming at him frantically.
What others see is poetry.
What he smelled was death.
The Haozi did not argue in the forum.
He silently shut down the terminal, his thin face and small eyes filled with anxiety and unease.
He entered his own "kingdom".
Deep inside an abandoned subway control room, there were piles of stolen electrical wires and food.
He emitted a series of high-frequency squeaking sounds.
Go ahead...
He muttered to himself.
"My children..."
"Go into every vein of the city, into every scar."
"Go find the scent of that ghost."
The entire dispatch room came alive.
In the darkness, countless soft, rustling sounds arose.
Black and gray shadows emerged from the cracks in the corners of the walls, from the pipes in the ceiling, and from the holes in the floor.
They converged into a black tide, flowing along the intricate network of sewers into New York City's vast, unknown underground world.
They will become the eyes and nose of the Haozi, searching for that terrifying artist whom even Vought couldn't find.
Classical music was playing softly in Hannibal's office.
He held a glass of Burgundy red wine, admiring the text on the screen in front of him.
That was the internal forum of the " Awakened Mutual Aid Society ".
A member whom he had carefully turned against, who was dissatisfied with the " Prophet's" leadership, granted him unrestricted access.
He saw the " Prophet's " desperate yet accurate prophecy.
We also witnessed the stupidity and arrogance of those radical members.
Of course, he also noticed the Haozi's silence, and the sudden increase in tiny, abnormal heat source signals in the city's underground monitoring system afterward.
"A group of interesting little mice."
Hannibal commented softly.
Instead of stopping him, he decided to... use this "sense of justice."
His artist needs some new paint.
These selfless souls who willingly offer themselves up are undoubtedly top-quality material.
With the assistance of Motoko Kusanagi, a fabricated intelligence report begins to be constructed.
He didn't give the location directly; that would be too deliberate.
He inadvertently leaked a tampered copy of Vought ' internal energy monitoring log through an insider in a technical discussion section of a forum.
Logs show that for several consecutive days, high-frequency energy reactions of unknown origin have been observed late at night in an abandoned industrial area on the outskirts of the city.
"... This waveform is very similar to the data recorded on those whose abilities went out of control during the early stages of the SOMS outbreak."
The insider commented below the post with the tone of someone who had discovered something amazing.
"My God, this location... Didn't the government say they were going to redevelop this area? Could they be secretly holding some victims with unstable abilities there for experiments?!"
This speculation ignited Gunpowder keg throughout the forum.
A victim secretly imprisoned and tortured day and night by Vought!
This setup perfectly fulfilled the imagination of all members of the Mutual Aid Society.
It pulled that indescribable "ghost artist" back into the realm they could understand—a "fellow human" worthy of compassion and salvation.