At 3:45 a. m., the silence of downtown New York was like a thick layer of cotton, silencing all the noise.
Ye Mo didn't sleep. Or rather, he simply couldn't sleep.
The soft screech of shoes scraping the floor still echoed in his ears, like a fine needle piercing the last vestige of sleep. The lurking person downstairs had left, but the chill of being watched still lingered on his spine. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles white from the effort.
" Gene Spiral Tower." He murmured this name to himself, a name only he could hear.
The tower remained silent, without any light effects or sound alerts. But this was typical of the system—it only provided the tools, not the instructions. Previous tests had been futile, like punching thin air; all the effort was wasted without hitting anything. But now it was different. The presence of the lurking entity, coupled with the restless energy within, was like a stone thrown into stagnant water.
Ye Mo closed his eyes, ceasing his scanning of the ethereal electromagnetic signals. He withdrew his consciousness, focusing entirely on the spatial structure around him.
Before his time travel, he was an ordinary college student with little knowledge of architectural mechanics and spatial geometry, but that didn't stop him from acting on his intuition. He imagined himself as a drop of ink, falling into clear water and slowly spreading. Not spreading outwards, but seeping inwards, penetrating the walls, the floor, and the foundation.
At first, it was all chaos. Dark and viscous, as if countless hands were pulling at his consciousness. Exhaustion surged like a tide, and his eyelids were too heavy to lift. Physical weariness and mental tension fought in his mind, making his temples throb.
But he didn't stop.
He forcibly suppressed his body's reaction, allowing his mental senses to extend outwards along that "pulling sensation." The sound of the wind, the lingering echo of distant sirens, the flow of water from underground pipes... he filtered out these distractions like sand. His attention was fixed on one point—the unusual "fold" he had sensed earlier.
Something's not right.
Normal space is smooth and uniform. But at that coordinate, space seems to have been squeezed hard by an invisible hand, resulting in distortion and folding.
This is it.
Ye Mo gritted his teeth, compressed the last bit of his mental energy into a thin needle, and stabbed it fiercely into the fold.
Buzz--
A very slight tremor resonated in my mind, not a sound, but a resonance of frequency. Immediately afterward, a crack appeared in the darkness before me.
It's not a visual crack, but a penetration at the cognitive level.
Ye Mo's spirit instantly transcended distance. He "saw" it.
It was a facility located deep underground.
The images were eerily clear. Thick lead walls, layers upon layers of magical barriers, and the nauseating smell of disinfectant mixed with rust permeating the air. This was no ordinary prison; it was a meticulously constructed " Black Box " designed to isolate all investigative methods.
The view extends downwards, passing through tens of meters of soil, into the core area three underground levels.
Rows of cold metal cages stood in neat rows. Each cage held a person.
Ye Mo's breath hitched for a moment.
He couldn't perceive the specific faces, but he could clearly sense the emotional fluctuations emanating from those vital signs: despair, anger, resentment, and a deep sense of powerlessness. These emotions intertwined, forming a dark torrent that assaulted his nerves.
These people are not criminals. Their energy responses are chaotic, some weak, some violent, but without exception, they are all in a state of extreme repression. This is typical of superhumans, and they are those who refuse to register or are targeted by the Superhuman Registration Act.
A secret prison.
Supporters of the Superhuman Registration Act have built a private system of repression outside the overt legal framework. They don't hold trials or conduct public hearings; they simply arrest people and throw them into a place that even S.H.I.E.L.D.. might not be able to find.
This is what is known as "purging dissidents".
Ye Mo opened his eyes, his chest heaving violently. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, dripping onto the floor with a soft pattering sound.
His hands were trembling. Not from fear, but from anger.
That red line, that bottom line based on the "innocent," is now frantically calling the police. This isn't law enforcement; it's kidnapping, illegal detention, and systemic political persecution. If left unchecked, next time it could be Emma Frost, it could be Tony, or it could be any ordinary person labeled as such.
But he couldn't move.
Rushing in now? That's idiotic. The other side's ability to build facilities of this caliber indicates their resource mobilization capabilities are far beyond imagination. Even if he possesses Regenerative Phasing abilities, facing hordes of armed guards and unknown defensive mechanisms would be suicide. More importantly, once he makes a move, he'll be completely exposed. " Mr. X's" mysterious protective charm will instantly become a death warrant.
Has the neutrality strategy failed?
No, not yet.
Neutrality does not mean Coldblood. The Scavengers's job is not to catch thieves for the police, nor to fight for heroes. The Scavengers's job is to clean up the mess in chaos and light the torch in the darkness.
This prison is the biggest garbage dump.
Ye Mo took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He sat back down on the sofa, picked up the pen on the table, and drew a new small circle on the white paper covered with dots.
Code name: Black Box.
Location: Deep underground in the Xiacheng District.
Nature: Illegal detention facility.
Target: Superpowered individuals who oppose the Superhuman Registration Act.
Status: High risk, requires long-term penetration.
He didn't write "rescue" or "attack." He wrote "investigation."
Since a direct assault won't work, we'll try a flank approach. No matter how well-hidden this prison is, it still has its operational patterns. The guard shift changes, the supply routes, the frequency of energy fluctuations, even the location of the sewage pipes... Anything built by humans has its vulnerabilities.
What he needs to do is to understand every single brick of this cage.
Ye Mo's brain raced, like a sophisticated computer, as he began to dissect the scene before him. He recalled the details he had previously perceived: the faint energy leakage at the seams of the lead plates indicated a high-intensity energy source inside; the periodic flashing frequency of the magic barrier meant that the control rooms were not in the same location, suggesting the possible existence of remote control nodes; although the prisoners' emotional fluctuations were intense, there was no large-scale suicidal tendency, indicating that the guarding methods were mainly psychological suppression rather than physical torture.
These fragments of information pieced together a preliminary map in his mind.
It's not detailed enough, but it's sufficient as a starting point.
He needs a more advanced perception. His current Spatial Perception is merely a superficial "vision," like looking through frosted glass. To create a precise rescue route map, he must sharpen and extend his vision.
This takes time, a lot of practice, and more skill fragments to enhance the neural load.
Ye Mo put down his pen and rubbed his aching temples. His body felt completely drained, waves of exhaustion washing over him. But he dared not rest. If he fell asleep, the clear perception he had just had might become blurred, and those crucial details might be lost.
He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled back a corner of the curtain.
The sky outside was still dark, with a hint of gray on the distant horizon. The city was about to awaken, but beneath its surface, a silent Carnage was underway.
He touched the silver half-rimmed glasses in his pocket; his fingertips were icy cold.
" Mr. X," he murmured the code name.
The sound was very soft, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet room.
This is not a game, nor is it role-playing. This is war. A war about freedom and control, and he chose the most difficult path—to survive in the cracks and break through in the darkness.
He turned back to his desk and opened his laptop. The screen illuminated his young yet weathered face. He began writing a new script, not to hack into a server, but to record and analyze the unusual energy fluctuations in the surrounding area over the next few days.
Data doesn't lie. As long as someone enters or leaves that prison, and as long as there's an energy leak, the data will leave a trace.
What he had to do was to read the enemy's pulse from these traces.
Ye Mo's fingers tapped on the keyboard, his rhythm steady and powerful. Each line of code was a step towards that secret prison.
The wind outside the window has stopped.
The New York morning arrived quietly, carrying with it the calm before the storm.