At 2:30 a. m., the air in the base's rest area was frozen solid.
Ye Mo sat on the edge of the sofa, the black coffee in his hand long since cold, a thin film of oil forming on the surface. After Emma Frost left, only the low hum of the ventilation ducts and his own slightly heavy breathing remained in the room. The tenderness and dependence he had felt earlier vanished like the receding tide, replaced by a chill that seeped into his bones. He had to admit, Emma Frost was right; running away was indeed a lame excuse, but in the Marvel world, being an ordinary person was harder than climbing to heaven.
He put down his cup, his fingertips tapping unconsciously on the coffee table. The rhythm was rapid, tinged with anxiety.
"Neutral."
These two words swirled in my mind, finally settling on a red line.
Completely standing idly by? No way. The memory of those kids trampled in the last airport battle is still fresh in his mind. Taking sides completely? Even more absurd. The Superhuman Registration Act is a meat grinder; no matter which side wins, the survivors are all cannon fodder. Ye Mo transmigrated here to survive, not to be anyone's pawn.
Therefore, the bottom line must be clearly defined.
He conjured up the invisible scale in his mind. On the left was the "registration faction," and on the right, the "anti-registration faction." A needle hung in the middle of the scale, and this needle was called "the innocent." As long as the two sides fought without damaging this needle, he would act as if he were invisible, a background character, or a passing NPC. But once someone crossed the line, targeted civilians, or engaged in ethnic cleansing, then this needle would have to fall.
He's not a hero, he's Scavengers.
This new role made him feel much more at ease. He didn't have to bear the moral burden of saving the world, nor did he have to stand idly by while his friends killed each other. It was an extremely delicate balancing act; a slight deviation would result in utter destruction. But he was good at it; after all, he had survived for so long in the face of the system by finding loopholes in the cracks.
Next is the plan.
Having ideas is useless; they need to be put into practice. Ye Mo closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into that deep mental ocean— the Gene Spiral Tower. The tower remained silent, without the glow of unlocking new levels or the sound of mission notifications. But this was precisely his style; the system only provided the tools, how to use them was up to him.
The current situation is actually quite bad. Telepathy has a limited range, the Wall Phasing Technique can only save lives and not control the situation, and Self-Healing is a passive skill. To monitor the situation without revealing their identity, they'll have to rely on their brains.
He began to sift through the existing intelligence network. S.H.I.E.L.D.. was too bureaucratic, the Avengers too divided, and the street thugs too uncontrollable. The only ones he could rely on were his own eyes and his own brain. He decided to establish an independent source of information, independent of any official channels. He would start with those corners overlooked by the mainstream: the underground black market, illegal Mutants, and even some inconspicuous blind spots in community surveillance.
I've already decided on a code name. " Mr. X." It sounds pretentious, but in this circle, mystery is a talisman. As long as nobody knows who you are, you'll always have a chance to make a move.
He picked up a pen and quickly sketched on a blank sheet of paper. Lines intersected, nodes connected, and a huge spider web gradually took shape. Each node represented a potential risk point, and each line represented the direction of information flow. Although the data was sparse at the moment, the skeleton of the web had been built. As long as flesh was added, it would come to life.
After finishing the last stroke, Ye Mo rubbed his temples. Exhaustion washed over him again, but he dared not sleep. Sleep meant letting his guard down, and the current situation allowed no room for complacency.
He stood up and walked to the window. The curtains were drawn tightly, letting in no light. Outside was the New York night, its glitz and glamour concealing countless prying eyes. He knew that his presence had been noticed by some astute predators. Last night's operation in the industrial area, though discreet, had revealed a subtle, ever-present surge of power, like a firefly in the night, impossible to hide.
It's okay. Being noticed means he has value. Mediocrity is the greatest danger, and at least for now, he has the right to be noticed.
He turned back to his desk and opened an old laptop. The screen emitted a pale blue light, illuminating his cold, stern face. He typed in a series of complex commands and began scanning the surrounding electromagnetic signals. This wasn't for attack, but for perception. He was testing his Spatial Perception, trying to capture the subtle vibrations in the air.
Once, twice, three times...
There was no response. A deathly silence settled deep within his mind, with only the Gene Spiral Tower standing silently there, as if mocking his futile efforts.
Ye Mo was not discouraged. The awakening of this ability requires a trigger, a specific emotional or environmental stimulus. What he was doing now was simply sharpening his blade. The blade wasn't sharp because it hadn't yet hit a stone.
He turned off the computer, and the room fell into darkness again. Only a sliver of light from a distant streetlamp shone through the gap in the curtains, casting a thin, long line of light on the floor.
He lay back on the sofa, his body tense like a bow. His consciousness wasn't fully asleep, but lingered in a half-dreaming, half-awake state. He felt something surging in his mind, like the faint heat emanating from the bottom of a dormant volcano. It was the rudimentary form of spatial perception; though vague and weak, it was undeniably present.
He didn't need to rush to rescue people, nor did he need to immediately engage in battle. He needed a pair of eyes that could see into the "cage." These eyes weren't open yet, but their eyelids were already trembling.
Time ticked by. The hands of the clock on the wall crossed twelve, then pointed to one, two, three...
Ye Mo's breathing became even and deep, but his hands still gripped the sofa armrests tightly, his knuckles turning white. He was waiting, waiting for that critical point to arrive.
Just then, a very faint sound came from downstairs.
It wasn't the sound of wind, nor of mice; it sounded more like the squeak of a shoe sole scraping the ground. Very light, very professional, with a deliberate attempt to conceal its presence.
Ye Mo's eyes snapped open, his pupils contracting. He didn't move, not even blink. That familiar, cold gaze returned. This time it was closer, clearer. The other person was downstairs, perhaps in the next block, lurking like a cheetah, observing his every move.
Ye Mo's lips curled into a chilling smile.
Since you want to see, then you can see as much as you want. But he won't give you the chance to see his hand.
He slowly released the armrest, leaned back, and closed his eyes again. On the surface, he seemed to be fast asleep, but in reality, his consciousness was highly focused, and all his senses were tuned to receive information.
The footsteps downstairs paused for a moment, as if sensing something amiss, or perhaps confirming that the target was truly unprepared. A moment later, the footsteps resumed, this time more cautious, moving along the edge of the wall before finally disappearing into the night.
Ye Mo didn't open his eyes, but silently memorized the location in his mind.
The game has only just begun.
He rolled over, adjusting to a more comfortable position, letting his consciousness drift in the darkness. The Gene Spiral Tower trembled slightly deep within his consciousness, emitting a barely audible hum. It was a longing, and also a premonition.
The door to the space is slowly being pushed open a crack.
And he stood at the edge of that crevice, waiting for the wind to blow it open.