The backup phone's screen went completely black, like a piece of cooled coal.
Ye Mo didn't put his phone in his pocket; instead, he casually tossed it onto the old desk piled with clutter. The sound of the phone hitting the table was muffled, but it was exceptionally clear in the empty apartment. He didn't turn around and leave immediately; instead, he stood there, staring at the darkness for a full five seconds.
The stinging sensation from southern Africa still lingered in my mind.
It wasn't the kind of pain that makes your head throb, but a deeper, metallic tremor. It was like an extremely thin ice needle climbing up your spine, straight to the top of your head. The feeling was so specific that he could feel which nerve ganglion the needle tip was piercing. With each breath, he could feel that restless energy surging through his blood, as if urging him to do something.
But he can't move. At least not now.
Ye Mo took a deep breath, slowing his breathing. He turned around, his gaze passing through the dimly lit living room and landing on an inconspicuous corner deep inside the room. There was a hidden door disguised as an ordinary wardrobe door, behind which lay all his belongings—or rather, all the confidence he had as " Mr. X ".
He walked over and pressed his finger on a hidden groove on the inside of the wardrobe. With a slight mechanical click, the wardrobe doors slid open to the sides, revealing neatly arranged metal boxes and tactical equipment inside.
A faint smell of engine oil and leather filled the air.
This is Ye Mo's safe house, and also his arsenal. Here, there is no S.H.I.E.L.D.. surveillance, no Avengers meddling, only him and those cold, hard metal objects.
He opened the topmost old metal box. The edges of the box were a little rusty, but the inside was very well maintained. Inside, several specially treated composite fiber bulletproof vests were neatly stacked. The color was dark gray, almost black, which could absorb light to the maximum extent at night and avoid reflections that would reveal one's position. Next to it was a pair of highly mobile tactical boots with thickened soles and reinforced toes, specifically designed for dealing with complex terrain and close combat.
Ye Mo picked up a bulletproof vest; it felt cold and heavy. This wasn't ordinary Kevlar; it contained nano-repair fluid ingredients he had extracted from fragments of Mutants abilities. While it wouldn't make him invulnerable like Wolverine, it could at least block one or two stray bullets in a critical moment, or automatically tighten to absorb impact.
He began to put on his clothes.
His movements were practiced and fluid. First, he put on a close-fitting base layer, then a bulletproof vest, and finally an outer combat jacket. Each garment was carefully arranged, fastened, and zipped up to the top. He deliberately avoided any clothing with obvious branding, even cutting off and smoothing out the logos on the cuffs. He wanted to be a ghost disappearing into the shadows, not a hero standing in the spotlight.
The moment he put on the tactical gloves, the sensation on his fingertips brought him a sense of security. The roughness of the leather against his skin reminded him of the weight of reality.
Just then, that wave from Africa resounded in my mind once again.
This time, it wasn't a stinging pain, but a cold, focused intensity. Like a drawn sword, its blade gleaming sharply.
Ye Mo walked to the mirror. The person in the mirror had sharp eyes, a taut jawline, and a black combat uniform that hugged his tall, straight body. He looked at himself in the mirror, a faint smile curving his lips. This smile wasn't one of smugness, but rather a confirmation.
That bastard Ulysses Klaue is tearing the barrier apart on the Wakanda border.
What does Vibranium flowing into the black market mean? It means more weapons, more wars, and more innocent deaths. Ye Mo doesn't want to be a savior, but he also doesn't want his own doorstep to catch fire. If he can't even take this small risk, he'll forever remain a bystander hiding in the shadows. And this goes against the " Mr. X " creed that's gradually taking shape deep within him.
He told himself that this was not for heroism, but to maintain a fragile balance.
Ye Mo's fingers tapped lightly on the armor plate of his chest, producing a dull thud. This rhythm slightly relaxed his previously tense shoulders, replacing them with an unyielding resolve. He knew this battle would be difficult; there might be Hydra behind Klaue, or even the involvement of other forces. But he was willing to take the risk, because it was the only way to truly control the situation.
After getting dressed, Ye Mo pushed open the hidden door and walked out of the equipment room.
In the central rest area of the base, the lights were dim. Usually, only a few people were active here; they were Ye Mo's core assistants and technical personnel who had long followed him. There were veteran technicians in charge of logistics, former mercenaries in charge of security, and a few young men skilled in hacking. Most of them were taciturn, their faces bearing the fatigue left by years of staying up all night, but their eyes had a unique light in them.
When Ye Mo appeared in full tactical gear, the previously noisy atmosphere instantly froze.
No one spoke.
The veteran technician's wrench hovered in mid-air, the young hacker's fingers hovered above the keyboard, and the security personnel instinctively straightened their backs. All eyes were focused on Ye Mo, a gaze that mixed with awe, worry, and expectation.
Ye Mo did not give a speech. He disliked that kind of empty rhetoric. He simply glanced around at the people present. There was no commanding authority in his eyes, only a sincere sense of entrustment.
He pointed to a simple map on the wall that showed the Africa border. The map was covered with red arrows and markings, which were the smuggling routes he had previously deduced.
Then, he made a simple gesture.
Make a fist, lightly tap your chest, then point towards the door.
This is an action that needs no translation. It means, "I am going into danger, and I am willing to share the burden with you all."
The silence lasted for several seconds.
Then, the veteran technician silently put down the wrench in his hand. He stood up, walked to the medical cabinet next to him, and began to quickly check the emergency medical kit. Bandages, hemostatic powder, antibiotics, one by one, were stuffed into the backpack, his movements swift and precise.
Another security guard stepped forward and handed Ye Mo a calibrated high-frequency vibrating knife. The blade was slender and its edge gleamed coldly in the dim light. He didn't speak, but simply handed the handle to Ye Mo, his eyes resolute.
The young hackers also got busy. Some picked up encrypted communicators and started adjusting the frequency bands; others took out laptops, with code scrolling rapidly on the screens, seemingly building the final network cover for this operation.
No one asked where they were going, nor why. They knew that once Ye Mo put on this outfit, it meant the real battle had begun. And they chose to stand behind him.
Ye Mo nodded.
A faint smile touched his lips. Gone was the previous cynicism; only gratitude remained. At this moment, he was no longer alone. This bond had become his strongest support on his journey forward.
He took the high-frequency vibrating knife and inserted it into the scabbard on his thigh. The handle fit snugly against his thigh, providing both stability and comfort.
Ye Mo turned and walked towards the exit.
His steps were steady, each one firmly planted on solid ground. He didn't look back, because he knew there was a group of people watching over him, supporting him.
The lights at the end of the corridor flickered, illuminating his retreating figure. His black combat uniform appeared and disappeared in the light and shadow, like a burning flame or a crack in an abyss.
He reached out and grasped the doorknob.
The coolness of the metal seeped through the gloves, bringing him back to his senses.
Outside the door, an unknown storm rages.
Inside the door lies a warm harbor.
Ye Mo gripped the doorknob tighter, his knuckles turning white.