I Want to Save Them

The silence on the other end of the phone was like a boundless black hole, swallowing Kong Xiang's barely audible "Boss..." and the choice that lingered on his tongue. He knew that those two words were a call, a confirmation, and a ritual of surrendering himself completely. What followed would be decisive, irreversible.

In the receiver, only Lin Feng's steady and patient breathing could be heard, subtle yet clear despite the vast distance and encrypted lines, like a steady metronome marking time in the darkness.

Kong Xiang didn't continue immediately. He needed those brief, final seconds of confirmation. He closed his eyes, not to escape the darkness, but to make the images in his mind clearer.

On a chilly Halloween night, those three little faces, purple with cold, staring intently at the hamburgers, and the almost animalistic swallowing sounds as they wolfed them down—that wasn't a distant news photo. It was the cold shiver from the children's bodies that he could feel with his fingertips as he handed them the food.

Rose, a Black woman, broke down in a hug in the rainy night, the salty smell of rain and tears mingling with her own. Her words, "I need to earn bail for my son," revealed all the weariness and despair of a mother. The taillights of her dilapidated car, as she drove away, blurred into two trembling red dots in the rain, like candles flickering in the wind.

When the stainless steel drawer in the morgue was pulled open, a rush of cold, pungent odor, a mixture of disinfectant and a faint smell of decay, instantly filled the air. And the brief descriptions on the labels: "Unknown, male, approximately 40-50 years old, frozen to death under XX Bridge." "Unknown, female, Latina, approximately 25 years old, overdose."... Who were they? Whose sons, fathers, daughters, mothers? How did they slip into that cold drawer? What were they thinking in their final moments?

And then there were the scrolling comments on the screen during the live stream. The initial skepticism, followed by shock, the prolonged "..." and "I'm so upset," and later, comments like "This is what my neighbor went through," "My dad's company is like this too," and "Thank you for speaking out"... Behind those unfamiliar IDs were vibrant people who were touched, resonated with, and perhaps even began to think because of his story. His faint voice, like a pebble thrown into a stagnant pond, did indeed create ripples, even if those ripples may eventually disappear, they existed.

He initially streamed simply to "recover his sanity," to avoid being swallowed by the darkness he witnessed, and to find a safe haven to vent the things that were suffocating him. But unknowingly, this "safe haven" connected countless people. The stories told, the cruel logic exposed, seemed... no longer just his personal mental burden. They became a kind of "record," a kind of "witness," and even, for those in the same or similar predicaments, a vague, distant but undeniably present "voice."

If "Prisoner A" were to disappear right now, as if it had never existed, what would happen to these stories, these concepts that countless people have seen, discussed, and even started quoting? They would be quickly forgotten, submerged in the next wave of online buzz. The eyes that were watching him would turn elsewhere. The rain in Seattle would continue to fall, the morgue would welcome new "Gundams," Auntie Rose might still be struggling to pay her son's bail, and in the community, next Halloween, perhaps other children would be knocking on a door in the freezing rain, their eyes blankly searching for food.

He could escape. Escape back to the safety of his homeland, escape back to a peaceful life. But he couldn't escape the memories, couldn't escape those images, couldn't escape the ever-growing voice deep within his heart: You saw it, you knew it, you even let more people see it. And then, you just turned and left?

This is not heroism, nor is it self-indulgence. It is a simpler, and more ruthless, realization: once you see the whole picture of something, once you intervene in its process, even just as an observer and narrator, you can no longer comfortably pretend that it has nothing to do with you and return to that state of "not seeing".

He was afraid, of course he was afraid. Afraid of being caught, afraid of disappearing, afraid of dying. But he seemed even more afraid of spending the rest of his life in hypothetical scenarios and self-reproach, wondering "what if I had..." He was afraid of becoming the kind of person he described, who clearly saw how the system crushed individuals, but chose to turn away out of fear, and ultimately became part of the silent majority as well.

Lin Feng on the other end of the phone remained patiently waiting. There was no urging, no coaxing. This absolute silence, in turn, gave Kong Xiang the space to finally sort out and confirm his own feelings.

He took another deep breath. This time, the cold, damp air of the Seattle night entered his lungs, bringing not pain and fear, but a strange, chilling clarity. Like when facing those "Gundams" in the morgue, he had to forcibly suppress his emotions, replacing them with absolute, professional calm. Only this time, he calmly examined the choices within his own heart.

He spoke into the receiver, the black device that represented his only connection to his powerful backing, in a voice more stable, clearer, and deeper than before, stating his decision:

"Boss..."

He paused, as if trying to imprint each word into the air, onto his own soul:

I want to save them.

It wasn't "I want to continue livestreaming," it wasn't "I want to reveal the truth," and it wasn't "I can't leave."

It means "I want to save them".

The word "rescue" carries immense weight. It transcends "recording" and "speaking out," pointing to more direct, difficult, and dangerous possible actions. It acknowledges the desperate situation of those on the Kill Line and demonstrates his determination to tie his own safety to the slightest possibility of changing that desperate situation.

This may seem naive, reckless, or even foolish. Faced with a massive system, an individual's power is insignificant. But this is the most genuine and intense impulse deep within him at this moment, after the scales of fear and responsibility have repeatedly swayed.

On the other end of the phone, Lin Feng's breathing seemed to pause very slightly before returning to normal. He did not immediately respond to Kong Xiang's almost "declaration," and silence lingered for two or three seconds on the encrypted line.

Then, Lin Feng's voice came, still steady, but Kong Xiang keenly sensed that beneath that steadiness, something seemed to have been ignited, or rather, confirmed. It wasn't surprise, but a knowing "as expected" and the accompanying, even more resolute decision.

"Since that's the case,"

Lin Feng's voice came through clearly and distinctly, each word carrying a calm strength:

"Then let me go crazy with you."

I'll go crazy with you.

There was no preaching, no dissuasion, not even a judgment on whether the choice was right or wrong. There was only simple agreement and a promise to fight side by side. These words, like a warm current, instantly broke through the last bit of loneliness and chill in Kong Xiang's heart caused by fear. He was not alone. His boss was on his side.

"I'll send people over first to protect your safety 24 hours a day." Lin Feng's pace quickened slightly, entering deployment mode, "In a few days..."

He paused slightly, as if making a crucial decision, and then spoke:

I'll go to United States myself.

"Boss, this..." Kong Xiang was shocked and almost lost his voice. He hadn't expected Lin Feng to make this decision. The United States was by no means a safe place for Lin Feng. His vast assets, his connection to Golden Sun, and his previous actions in China all meant that the risk would increase exponentially if he set foot in the United States. Kong Xiang's initial concern was that it might jeopardize his boss's business empire in China, but now, his boss was actually going to take the risk himself?

"Some things just have to be done by someone."

Lin Feng's voice interrupted his astonishment; it was calm, yet carried a power that pierced through all superficiality and illusion, reaching the very essence of things.

"I'm not saving United States."

He paused, letting the weight of his words fully settle:

"I saved my own kind."

They were saving their own kind.

It's not about a particular country, a certain system, or an abstract concept. It's about those concrete, living people struggling below the "Kill Line," those considered "eliminable units" by the system. It's about "people" who share the same life and dignity as the hungry children, the collapsing mothers, and the silent "Gundams" in Kong Xiang's eyes.

These words, like a bolt of lightning, cleaved through all the remaining confusion and entanglement in Kong Xiang's heart. They gave the impulse to "save them" a more solid and transcendent foundation. It was not for the sake of opposing a certain country, nor for the sake of a certain ideology, but simply because those who were being crushed and forgotten were "the same kind." It was the basic conscience and empathy that we, as human beings, cannot betray.

Kong Xiang gripped the phone, his throat felt constricted, and his eyes burned. He couldn't say anything, only managing a forceful, heavy "hmm" into the receiver. All his fear seemed to be temporarily suppressed by a grander, more tragic emotion at that moment.

He knew that from this moment on, the nature of the matter had completely changed. It was no longer his anonymous adventure, nor a small-scale public opinion ripple. The boss's personal involvement meant an escalation of power, and also a full-scale escalation of the storm.

But he no longer hesitated, nor did he regret it.

"Stay hidden and wait for my men to arrive. Maintain communication," Lin Feng gave his final instructions, his voice returning to its usual concise tone.

"Understood, boss." Kong Xiang's voice was steady and clear.

The call has ended.

Kong Xiang slowly put down the satellite phone, clutching it tightly in his hand as if holding some kind of keepsake. The room was still pitch black, but he sensed that something was different.

Outside the window, Seattle was shrouded in darkness, with rain clouds hanging low. A storm was gathering, growing stronger and more dangerous.

But he knew he was no longer a lone boat passively waiting to be swallowed by the storm.

He had an anchor, a captain to sail with him, and... a reason to fight.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked through the thin crack at the blue-gray house diagonally opposite. Behind the curtains on the second floor, there seemed to still be shadows moving.

This time, as Kong Xiang looked at that spot, the feeling surging within him was no longer simply fear.

There was also a cold, almost sharp calm.

And a faint, but undeniably present, glimmer of light.