As dawn broke, the city was not yet fully awake.
Ye Mo crouched behind the window crack of the abandoned parcel collection point, his fingers resting on the knob of an old-fashioned surveillance camera, gently turning it half a turn. The image flickered, then refocused on the sloping road at the street corner— Scott Lang's usual route after his release from prison. He had slept less than three hours last night; his eyes were dark and bluish, but his mind was as clear as if he had just downed an ice-cold Red Bull. The USB drive, pressed against his chest in his inner pocket, felt cool, reminding him that this was no drill.
At 11:07, a gray commuter bus arrived from the direction of the prison and stopped at the street corner. The door opened with a "whoosh," and a man wearing a faded blue jacket stepped off, carrying a plastic bag. He had a buzz cut, a stubble beard, slightly hunched shoulders, and his left foot dragged slightly as he walked, as if an old injury hadn't healed. But the instant his eyes swept across the street, it was quick, precise, and steady, like a hunting dog sniffing the wind.
"It's you," Ye Mo said softly, without smiling or moving.
He knew the man's name was Scott Lang, a former electrical engineer who had served three years in prison for theft. He also knew that the guy had never successfully escaped from prison, but every time he did, he did it with a stubborn "I have to try" attitude. More importantly, this guy had saved people—not for merit, but simply because he saw something and wanted to help.
Now, let's see if that drive is still there.
Ye Mo reached for the modified remote control on the corner of the table with his right hand, his thumb hovering over the red button. This thing looked like a toy car controller, but it was actually connected to a remote-controlled model disguised as a delivery tricycle 300 meters away. The vehicle had no batteries, only a miniature motor and a sound and light simulation system. It wouldn't kill an ant, but the sound would scare an ordinary person to death.
He stared at Scott on the surveillance screen. The man was standing under the bus stop, rummaging through a plastic bag, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, looking at it, and then putting it back. His movements were slow, but he wasn't flustered. There weren't many people on the street at that time; a few shop assistants were wiping windows, an older woman was walking her dog, and the aroma of jianbing guozi (Chinese crepes) wafted in the air.
The timing is perfect.
Ye Mo pressed the button.
"Boom--!"
With a roar of its engine, the "out-of-control" tricycle hurtled down the slope, its tires screeching as it veered off the ground, heading straight for the pancake stall on the sidewalk. The stall owner, a middle-aged man, was looking down at his customers when he heard the commotion and looked up abruptly, his face turning pale. Two young people buying breakfast nearby took off running, their dog leashes slipping from their grasp, and the dachshund barking wildly as it darted about.
The whole process took less than five seconds.
The camera cuts to Scott —who had his back to the scene of the incident. His first reaction upon hearing the sound was to take a half-step back, his body tense, clearly startled. But instead of running, he immediately turned around, his gaze quickly scanning the vehicle's trajectory, the surrounding crowd, and the positions of obstacles. Then, almost reflexively, he rushed towards the two-meter-high metal advertising stand on the roadside.
The frame wasn't securely fixed, so he grabbed it, knocked it down, and pushed it forward, sending it crashing into the tricycle's path. The front of the tricycle hit it, bounced a few degrees, veered off course, grazed the pancake stall's awning, and plunged into the green belt, finally getting stuck at the roots of a tree.
No one is hurt.
The stall owner hesitated for a few seconds before shouting, "Who is it? Who's driving?!"
A crowd began to gather, and some people took out their phones to take pictures. Scott stood there panting, his hand still gripping the corner of the advertising stand, his knuckles white. He looked down at the dirty tips of his shoes, then looked up at the "accident car," and his brows slowly furrowed.
"Something's not right," he said. "This car... doesn't have a driver?"
Ye Mo smirked inside the room, but remained silent.
He pulled up another device and played back the multi-angle video. He focused on the sequence of Scott's eye movements: first, he identified the source of the threat; then, he assessed the escape route; next, he identified available tools; and finally, he intervened—the entire process took 0.8 seconds. That's at least three times faster than the average person's stress response.
This is neither luck nor impulsiveness.
This is a trained instinct.
He switched to the audio analysis interface, filtered out the ambient noise, and extracted only the sound wave frequencies of Scott's speech. When the results came out, he narrowed his eyes—his emotional fluctuations were extremely low, his speech was steady, and even the surge of adrenaline didn't affect his pronunciation rhythm. This kind of person in a gunfight movie either survives to the end or dies the most horribly; in any case, he won't break down halfway through.
"There's something there," Ye Mo murmured.
He pulled out a piece of sticky note and quickly sketched a simple diagram with a pencil: street layout, billboard locations, tricycle impact angles, then circled Scott's standing point and labeled it "Decision Center." He then wrote three lines:
1. Crisis identification speed: S-level (close to tactical prediction)
2. Action Priority: Safety of others > Personal risk (non-self-preservation personality)
3. Environmental Utilization Capability: High (Effective use of non-standard tools)
He paused for a moment before adding the last line, "Potentially guiding value."
He tapped the pen tip twice on the paper, folded it up, stuffed it into his coat pocket, and casually turned off all the cameras. The room immediately darkened, with only the buzzing of the crowd outside coming from the ventilation vents.
With this, the first phase is complete.
He didn't rush to leave. Instead, he opened a drawer, took out a pair of reading glasses, and put them on—not to see clearly, but purely to disguise his identity. He had rented this room three days ago; it was nominally a "preparatory office for a pilot project of community convenience services." A handwritten notice was posted on the wall. "This location will soon launch public services such as express delivery collection, meal delivery for the elderly, and appliance repair. Residents are welcome to inquire."
It's ridiculous, but it makes sense. In a place like this, you need a reason that doesn't seem too suspicious to stay.
He walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Order had been restored to the street; traffic police were there, investigating the "out-of-control" tricycle. The stall owner was calm and still doing business. Scott? He was long gone, leaving only the toppled advertising stand propped up against the wall.
Ye Mo took off his glasses, stuffed them into his pocket, picked up his backpack, and prepared to leave. Before leaving, he glanced back at the monitoring host; the hard drive indicator light was off. All the data had been copied; the original equipment would remain here, waiting for the landlord to discover in a few days that "the scammer has run off with the money."
He opened the iron gate, and a gust of hot air hit his face. The July sun was already scorching, and the asphalt road was shimmering with dazzling light. He didn't have an umbrella or a hat, and just walked north along the shadows by the street, his pace neither fast nor slow, like a corporate slave who had just finished overtime.
After walking two intersections, he turned into a convenience store. A blast of cold air hit him, and he went straight to the beverage counter, grabbed a bottle of iced green tea, and scanned the code to pay. The cashier glanced up at him, then looked down at his phone again.
Ye Mo leaned against the freezer by the door and drank half a bottle, his gaze falling out the window. Across the street, Scott was sitting on a bench at the bus stop, holding a cup of soy milk, blowing on it as he drank. He had changed into a pair of clean sneakers, and his jacket was zipped up; he looked much more energetic than when he had just been released from prison.
Ye Mo didn't go over, nor did he look at it much. He finished the rest of his tea, threw the empty bottle into the trash can, and turned to leave.
He knew where the guy would go next—public records show that Scott's first contact after his release was his daughter's mother, whose address was in an apartment building in Brooklyn. He would try to find work, repairing appliances, wiring, or making small inventions to earn money. He would try to be a good father, even though his ex-wife was still wary of him.
None of these matters.
Importantly, he has passed the test.
No superpowers, no special suits, no divine intervention. Just an honest man recently released from prison, on an ordinary street, faced with a sudden chaos, chose to step in and help.
Even if the car wasn't dangerous at all.
Ye Mo crossed the intersection and turned into the underpass. His footsteps echoed off the tiled walls, a steady rhythm. He was already planning the next step of the "chance encounter"—not too coincidental, not too late. Ideally, it would be in front of a repair shop, where Scott would run into an unsolvable electrical problem, and coincidentally, an old man with white hair would also be there...
He almost burst out laughing at the thought.
Sometimes, you just have to give fate a push.
He stepped out of the passageway, and the sunlight shone down again. His phone vibrated; it was a weather app notification: scattered thunderstorms expected in the afternoon.
He looked up at the sky; the clouds were a bit thick, but it wasn't raining yet.
He continued walking forward, the document titled "X-7 Operation Draft" lying quietly in his backpack. On the corner of the first page, a new line of small print had been added in red pen:
[Target ID: SL-01]
[Status Update: Basic test passed]
[Next Phase: Introducing Key Figures]
The ink had dried, like a seal.