The code on the screen washed over my retina like a waterfall. After the last line of instructions was executed, the Enter key was pressed hard.
Ye Mo leaned back in his chair and exhaled a long breath. The tension that had been hanging over the back of his head finally dissipated, replaced by a near-exhausting sense of ease. He glanced at the time: 4:44 AM. At this hour, most people in New York were still asleep or had just finished a night of revelry. But for some, these were life-or-death moments.
He didn't get up immediately, but stared at the icon of the signal source that had just disappeared on the screen. It was the "data ghost" he had carefully crafted.
He spent a full three hours on this anonymous letter.
Ordinary encrypted transmissions are too easily traced. Although S.H.I.E.L.D..'s hacking team has reservations about the Superpower Superhuman Registration Act, their technical foundation remains intact. Hydra is even more formidable; the black technology wielded by those lunatics is enough to tear through any conventional firewall. Therefore, Ye Mo chose the most primitive and covert path: utilizing the electromagnetic noise of the physical environment.
The electromagnetic environment around the prison that he had previously sensed was very peculiar. The magical barrier there generated a low-frequency pulse interference, like the static screen on an old-fashioned television when there was no signal. Ye Mo wrote a special code virus, disguised as a normal system maintenance log, and parasitized this interference wave. This code had no title, no signature, and not even a standard protocol header; it was just a string of seemingly meaningless gibberish mixed in with the city's radio noise.
Before sending, he activated multiple relays. The signal, originating from his terminal, instantly split into three paths, each relayed via three different abandoned base stations in New York City. These three base stations were located in different corners of Manhattan, with no logical connection between them. To the trackers, they would see three completely random fragments of data, making it impossible to piece together the true source.
Finally, Ye Mo deleted all local temporary files and cache. The hard drive indicator light flashed a few times and then returned to normal.
Now, this letter is no longer under his control. Like a seed, it has been scattered by the wind, and where it lands, whether it takes root and sprouts, depends entirely on fate. Or rather, it depends entirely on the wisdom of the recipient.
Ye Mo stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was still overcast, the clouds so thick they seemed to press down. New York mornings carried a unique damp smell, mixed with car exhaust and the salty stench of the distant harbor.
He turned on an old radio that had been converted into a listening device. He had bought it from a flea market; the casing was a bit chipped and the knobs were loose, but its receiving frequency was very pure, specifically designed to capture black market communication channels that were ignored by mainstream networks.
A faint static hum came through the headphones, followed by a brief silence.
Ye Mo held his breath.
Then, a low voice broke the silence. "Received? What the hell is this?"
Another voice sounded somewhat flustered, "Don't rush to delete it! Look at these coordinates... This is a structural diagram of the sewage outlet in the lower district? And the guard shift change time here... The error is less than ten seconds."
The first voice paused, seemingly scanning the information quickly. "The location of the lead plate seam... that's incredibly accurate. Could someone be right next to us?"
"Impossible. If it were someone from nearby, they would have acted already. Besides, this intelligence doesn't mention any supernatural phenomena; it's all about physical loopholes. It's like... like the result of high-tech reconnaissance."
Ye Mo's lips curled up slightly. This was the effect he wanted. "De-magicalization." If the intelligence contained terms like " Telepathy " or "space penetration," the resistance organization's first reaction would be fear and suspicion, thinking it was a trap or some kind of mind control. Only by packaging it as a pure technological achievement could they believe it was high-intelligence support from an ally, rather than spying by a superhuman.
As the conversation progressed, his tone became more urgent.
"Leader, we need to reassess our strategy. The original plan is simply not feasible; this lead wall is a dead end. But now... with this, we can try to cut in through the cooling water pipes."
"The risk is too high. Once the alarm is triggered..."
"How will we know if we don't try? It's better than sitting and waiting to die. Besides, the fact that this person is so precise shows that he has a thorough understanding of the prison's inner workings. He's helping us break the deadlock."
Ye Mo turned off the listening device.
That unspoken understanding stirred within him. He didn't need to know their names, nor their specific actions. As long as he confirmed they had received the information and were adjusting their deployment according to the intelligence, that was enough.
It's a subtle sense of control. Like lighting a match in the dark; though the light is faint, it's enough to illuminate the path ahead.
He recalled the clip he had just overheard, in which one of the young members excitedly mentioned searching for the "invisible helper." This yearning for and trust in the unknown power was a sign of the budding spirit of rebellion. In this oppressive corner of the city, the spark of hope was quietly being passed on.
Ye Mo turned back to the table, picked up the whiteboard eraser, and began to erase the densely packed route map bit by bit. White powder fell onto the table, like the end of some kind of ritual.
He didn't expect anything in return, nor did he seek recognition. For him now, every action he took was to uphold the bottom line of "the innocent being" as the standard. As for the consequences, that was a matter for later.
He tidied the documents on the table and stuffed them into his backpack. His movements were practiced and calm, without the slightest hesitation.
The sky outside the window had brightened slightly, but it was still overcast. Ye Mo pulled up the hood of his hoodie, covering most of his face, leaving only his deep eyes visible. He pushed open the door and walked into the corridor.
The lights in the hallway flickered, and a musty, stale smell filled the air. His steps were light, almost silent. Every step seemed calculated, every turn anticipated.
He knew that from now on, he would be going into hiding.
The city's underground network is in turmoil, and he is the one pulling the strings behind the scenes. Whatever awaits him—whether it's deeper political maneuvering or an impending storm—he is prepared.
Ye Mo stepped out of the building and blended into the bustling morning crowd. His figure was quickly swallowed up by the countless commuters rushing to work, making it impossible to distinguish which one was the real " Mr. X ".
Only the wind, blowing through the streets, carried away a faint trace of the lingering warmth of the data.