The Eye of the Storm

In late autumn in Seattle, the sky is always a persistent, damp, leaden gray. The rain has stopped, but the clouds are low and thick, and the saturated moisture in the air makes every breath feel cool.

The meticulously manicured lawns in the community were still unnaturally green, and the leaves of the maple and oak trees had turned into brilliant reds and yellows, burning with a final burst of passion under the gray sky, yet unable to dispel the omnipresent chill.

Kong Xiang stood by the window of the second-floor bedroom of the house he was staying in, the curtains slightly drawn back. His gaze was not on the beautiful autumn colors, but fixed on the two-story detached house with its blue-gray exterior across the street, diagonally in front of him.

There, the curtains on the second floor were also drawn open a crack. But behind the crack, there was no one in sight, only occasionally, very occasionally, a blurry shadow would flash by very quickly, as if someone was standing behind the curtains, observing the outside world—including his house—in the most cautious way.

This isn't the first time.

Since the live broadcast of the "Kill Line" theory exploded like a depth charge, creating a tsunami on the internet and making it into international media such as the New York Times, Kong Xiang's life has undergone a subtle but certain change.

It started with an online uproar. His live stream recordings and clips were translated into multiple languages and spread wildly across various platforms.

"Kill Line" became a trending hashtag on Twitter and Reddit, with countless people quoting, discussing, criticizing, or defending it. His anonymous account saw a surge in followers, and his private messages were flooded with all sorts of messages: some thanked him for revealing the truth, some questioned the authenticity of his data, some asked him for help, some made the most vicious personal threats against him, and there were also interview or collaboration invitations from various media outlets, organizations, and even self-proclaimed "public welfare organizations."

He heeded Lin Feng's instructions, refusing to reply or interact, merely observing the storm he had stirred up. But this storm clearly wouldn't remain confined to the virtual world.

A few days ago, he began to notice that there were more "strangers" in the community.

It started with a middle-aged white man in a well-tailored suit, carrying a briefcase, knocking on doors and introducing himself as a volunteer from the "Community Safety Promotion Association," conducting a survey on "community belonging and neighborly watch." The questions were standard, but the man seemed particularly interested in his house, lingering at the door for a while, his gaze repeatedly trying to peer over Kong Xiang's shoulder into the house, and even casually asking off-topic questions like "When does the lease end?" and "Are the residents students or working professionals?" Kong Xiang brushed him off with a vague, prepared explanation about being a "visiting relative," but inwardly, alarm bells were ringing.

Next came two vehicles he hadn't seen before: a white Ford Transit van with the logo of some unknown "landscape" company on the side, and a dark gray Honda Accord, utterly unremarkable. They would drive slowly past the street in front of the house at irregular intervals, sometimes stopping diagonally across or at a corner. They wouldn't stay for long, but the frequency was rather high. The people inside couldn't see them clearly, but the deliberate feeling of them "passing by" sent a chill down Kong Xiang's spine.

Then there was the blue-gray house diagonally across the street. He remembered that the house had been vacant for a while, but recently someone had suddenly moved in. The people who moved in were very low-key; he hardly saw any moving company vehicles. Only one night, the lights on the second floor came on. Then, those peeping from behind the curtains began.

This morning, a young woman who appeared to be Latina was slowly walking along the sidewalk in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. This in itself wasn't unusual, but the Asian and Latino populations in this community are not high, and the woman was pushing an empty stroller (there were no baby supplies in the stroller, and the blanket seemed to be empty). She walked and stopped frequently, looking down at her phone from time to time, then looking up at the surrounding houses, especially lingering in front of his house for an unusually long time, and even taking out her phone to take a few pictures.

Individually, all of this might be explained as coincidence or normal changes within the community. But when combined, and occurring one after another after the "Kill Line" livestream garnered global attention, it is no longer a coincidence.

Kong Xiang felt a cold, real fear seeping into his skin and clinging to his bones, like the humidity of Seattle. This was not the virtual fear of being threatened by online trolls, but a signal from the physical world, directed at him personally, full of inquiry and potential malice.

Someone is watching him. And not just one side. They want to know who "Prisoner A" is, where he lives, and who's behind him. The methods of investigation are being upgraded, from initial probing contact to targeted surveillance and possible reconnaissance.

He recalled his boss Lin Feng's earlier warning and the initial protective measures K had arranged for him (changing residence, being wary of counter-surveillance). But the other party was clearly not an ordinary person; their patience and professionalism were increasing.

In the afternoon, he risked going out to a nearby supermarket to buy necessities. He made simple disguises (hat, mask) and chose a different route than usual. In the supermarket parking lot, he saw the dark gray Honda Accord again, parked not too far from his parking space. There seemed to be someone in the car, but the windows were tinted, so he couldn't see clearly.

He forced himself to remain calm, quickly finished his shopping, and returned to his car. As he started the car, he saw in his rearview mirror that the Accord had also turned on its daytime running lights at almost the same time.

Instead of going straight home, he drove around the neighborhood a few times, using his familiarity with the terrain and a few sudden turns to barely shake off his pursuers. But as he nervously drove onto the street where he lived, he seemed to catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a curtain gap on the second floor of the blue-gray house diagonally opposite, which moved slightly the instant his car appeared.

Back home, after locking the door and drawing all the curtains, Kong Xiang leaned against the cold door, his heart pounding in his chest, his palms sweating profusely. The feeling of being slowly tightened in by an invisible net, like prey, was incredibly clear and intense.

The safe house was no longer absolutely safe. His anonymity was being peeled away layer by layer. Who was on the other side? The FBI? The CIA? A private investigation firm hired by a huge financial group whose interests he had touched? Or some local force? He didn't know, but any possibility was enough to bring him to his doom.

He couldn't wait any longer. The fear of being isolated and helpless, of having his door broken down at any moment, would destroy his nerves before any actual danger.

He rushed into the soundproofed live-streaming room and locked the door. The signal jamming was much better there. He didn't turn on the light, but sat down in the dark, his hands trembling, and picked up the multi-encrypted satellite phone used for emergency communications.

He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down, and then dialed the number that only existed in his memory.

After a brief pause, the call was answered. Lin Feng's calm and composed voice came from the other end. "It's me."

The moment he heard that voice, Kong Xiang's taut nerves nearly snapped. He bit his lower lip hard to keep from letting out a choked sob of fear. He cleared his throat forcefully and, in as steady a voice as possible, yet still trembling uncontrollably, said quickly:

"Boss, it's me. Something's happened in Seattle..."

"Many unfamiliar faces have appeared in the community, targeting me with inquiries and surveillance, and even following my vehicles. I suspect... it's not just one group. It seems like someone has rented the house across the street specifically to watch my area. I felt like I was being followed when I went out today."

He spoke quickly, reporting his unusual observations of the past few days as concisely as possible, and then uttered the most crucial sentence, his voice filled with barely suppressed panic:

"I feel... unsafe. Something's not right. They seem... getting closer."

On the other end of the phone, Lin Feng listened in silence. There was no interruption, no questioning, only an unsettling silence, as if the other person was processing the information in his words and assessing the seriousness of the situation.

A few seconds later, Lin Feng's voice came through, still steady, but Kong Xiang could detect a hint of seriousness beneath that calmness:

"Please provide the exact location, the characteristics of the surveillance personnel, and the vehicle information in detail."

Kong Xiang immediately recited the license plate number (partial), vehicle model, physical characteristics of the monitor (as detailed as possible), and the address and anomalies of the house diagonally opposite.

"Hmm." Lin Feng responded, then fell silent briefly, seemingly taking notes or thinking. Then he asked:

"What is your current location? What are the security measures in the safe house?"

Kong Xiang gave the address and explained that K had previously deployed some basic electronic alarms and door/window sensors, but had not arranged for any permanently stationed armed personnel.

"Stay there, don't go out. Draw the curtains, and keep communication open." Lin Feng's instructions were concise and clear. "I'll handle it."

"Boss..." Kong Xiang wanted to say something more, but it was more of a worry, a question about what to do, and a fear of what would happen next. But Lin Feng interrupted him.

"Stay calm. I'll contact you."

The call ended.

Hearing the busy tone from the receiver, Kong Xiang slowly put down the satellite phone and slumped into the cold chair. The room was pitch black, with only his own heavy, rapid breathing.

The boss found out. He said he would handle it.

This calmed him down a little, but his heart was still pounding and his ears were ringing. He looked out the window—though it was blocked by thick curtains—and felt as if countless gazes were piercing through the walls and curtains, fixed on the house and on him.

The storm is no longer just a tsunami in the public discourse. It has transformed into a tangible threat, like the low-hanging, rain-laden leaden clouds over Seattle, weighing heavily on his head, threatening to turn into a cold downpour at any moment and engulf him completely.

He hugged his arms tightly, curled up in the darkness, and for the first time felt so clearly that fame brought not only attention, but also potentially deadly danger.

And he was standing right in the eye of the storm.