The word "OK" on the phone screen was particularly glaring in the dimly lit room. Ye Mo didn't reach out to touch it, but just stared at the words for a full ten seconds until the battery was so low that it automatically shut down and the screen went completely black, at which point the room returned to deathly silence.
He placed the phone face down on the table, his movements as gentle as if he were handling a bomb about to explode.
The sky outside the window was already bright. The morning sun of New York pierced through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating every detail of the dust in the air. The faint sound of traffic on the street drifted in, like the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore, rhythmic and indifferent. Ye Mo walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the curtain, and glanced at the bustling crowd below. Newspaper deliverymen, people rushing to catch the subway, people buying coffee—everything was proceeding as usual. No one knew what kind of thrilling, silent struggle had taken place last night in that abandoned industrial area.
This calm gave him an absurd sense of security.
He turned and sat back down on the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions and letting out a long breath. It was a breath he had held all night, filled with exhaustion and a sense of relief. He didn't immediately check his wounds or review the tactical details. Instead, he picked up the glass of water on the table, which had gone cold, and took a sip. The water was at a comfortable temperature, sliding down his throat and suppressing the churning discomfort in his stomach.
Consciousness sank into the " Gene Spiral Tower " in the mind.
There was no upgrade notification sound, no unlocking light effect for new abilities; the spiral tower still stood silently deep within the spiritual world. But Ye Mo could sense that something had changed. It wasn't an increase in power, but a change in texture. It was like a piece of pig iron that, after being forged a thousand times, hadn't changed its shape, but its internal structure had become denser and tougher.
He recalled the look in the Mutants ' eyes last night.
Fear, vigilance, and despair eventually transformed into a near-blind trust. This wasn't because he displayed overwhelming force, but because he offered a definitive answer: freedom. In this world rife with suspicion and conflict, certainty is scarcer than power.
Ye Mo closed his eyes, and the images of Emma Frost Thaddeus Ross's cold and beautiful face, Tony Stark's sharp eyes beneath his armor, and Steve Rogers' furrowed brows floated into his mind. These were the figures standing at the center of the storm, representing the two poles of order. Last night's actions were like a needle piercing this taut balloon, but instead of causing it to explode, they allowed the gas to slowly leak out.
He picked up the old-fashioned radio on the table and pressed the switch with somewhat stiff fingers.
A hissing sound of electricity filled the air, like a cleansing of the eardrums. Ye Mo tuned to several frequencies; most mainstream radio stations were broadcasting morning news, the content of which was nothing more than the latest developments in the Superhuman Registration Act, interviews with political figures, or promotional advertisements from some chain store. These sounds were loud and hollow, and he couldn't get into them.
He continued turning the knob until the frequency jumped to an edge band. There was no clear announcer, only intermittent signal and muffled voices.
"... I heard there was some commotion in Queens last night, apparently it was the 'Ghost'..."
"Don't talk nonsense, that was a S.H.I.E.L.D.. cleanup operation, wasn't it?"
"Clean up my ass! My cousin works as a security guard there, and he said not even a rat escaped, but everyone's gone..."
"Whoever it was, well done. Those bastards who were locked up are finally being kept in check."
Ye Mo's finger hovered over the knob, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips.
Those who supported the registration no longer simply defined him as a terrorist or Ravagers, but began to describe his actions with terms like "professionalism" and "tactical skill"; while those who opposed it cheered, they were also deeply wary of his mysterious identity. Both sides were reassessing the existence of this codenamed " Mr. X ".
This was neither the triumphant cheers of the victors nor the lamentations of the vanquished, but a complex emotion mixed with awe and curiosity.
A clearer, anonymous comment drifted into my ears. "This guy doesn't seem to be disrupting order; he's more like fixing it. He belongs neither to the government nor the resistance; he's just enforcing his own rules."
This sentence is like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples.
Ye Mo turned off the radio, and the room fell silent again. He stood up and walked to the mirror. The person in the mirror was wearing a simple black hooded sweatshirt, and his silver half-rimmed glasses reflected a cold light. His eyes no longer held the confusion and helplessness he had felt when he first transmigrated, but rather a sense of composure and certainty.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he suddenly realized that true "respect" doesn't come from the granting of power or the adoration of the masses, but from the recognition of one's strength and the righteousness of one's actions. When you can control the situation without abusing power, when you have the ability to harm others but choose to protect the weak, this contrast itself is enough to earn a certain degree of respect.
Even if this respect is hidden in the shadows, even if it exists only in the whispers of a few.
Ye Mo turned around, his back to the mirror, and walked towards the kitchen. There was still half a carton of milk and a few eggs in the Fridge. He took out a frying pan, turned on the stove, poured in oil, and cracked the eggs. The roar of the range hood drowned out all the noise outside the window.
The sizzling sound of the fried egg filled the kitchen; the egg white solidified, while the yolk retained its tempting golden color. The aroma permeated the entire kitchen—a most ordinary, most comforting scent.
He picked up his plate and sat back down at the table, slowly chewing his food. His taste buds savored the perfectly balanced saltiness, while his brain was racing, processing his next steps.
The storm surrounding the Superhuman Registration Act is far from over; in fact, one could say the real conflict has only just begun. But he is no longer just a bystander who wants to watch the show from the sidelines.
The identity of " Mr. X " is like a tailor-made suit of armor; though heavy, it allows him to find his place in this chaotic world.
He finished the last bite of his fried egg, put down his cutlery, and picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth. His movements were unhurried, as if he had just experienced not a life-or-death special operation, but an ordinary weekend breakfast.
The sunlight had completely filled the living room, warmly shining on his back. Ye Mo took a deep breath; the air was filled with the faint aroma of coffee and toast.
He knew the days ahead wouldn't be easy. Probing, tracking, and even direct confrontations from various forces would follow one after another. But he was no longer afraid. Because in this night's operation, he had found his Anchor.
That is reverence for life and the maintenance of order.
He stood up, placed the plate in the sink, and turned on the tap. The water washed away the grease on the bottom of the plate, making a splashing sound. Ye Mo watched the bubbles in the center of the swirling water burst and reform, his eyes calm as still water.
My phone vibrated.
It's a new text message, from the same unknown number.
Ye Mo didn't check immediately. Instead, he washed and dried his hands before picking up his phone.
There was only one image on the screen, a blurry screenshot from a surveillance camera, taken on the outskirts of the abandoned industrial area last night. In the image, a figure wearing a trench coat was emerging from the shadows, his back straight and his steps firm.
Below the image is a line of small text:
We saw it.
Ye Mo stared at the line of text, his finger hovering above the screen, pausing for a few seconds.
He didn't reply or delete. He simply pressed the lock screen button, placed the phone on the coffee table, and then turned and walked towards the balcony.
The wind was strong, making the curtains flutter loudly. Ye Mo leaned against the railing, watching the traffic flow on the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance, with golden sunlight shining on the river, making it sparkle.
A seagull skimmed across the water, letting out a clear cry.
Ye Mo narrowed his eyes, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
The voice of respect has already resonated in my heart.