The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Chapter 116 Using Death as a Key to Reshape Cognition

The faint light of dawn barely pierced the inky sky.

The city, washed by the rain, was tinged with a damp, cold gray-white.

Lin Zheng sat by the window of his apartment.

Outside the window, tall buildings stand silently.

Each window pane is like an empty eyelid.

Overlooking this street forgotten by time.

He didn't sleep all night.

His eyes were filled with fine red veins.

A mixture of sourness and stinging.

It reminded him of his long and agonizing past.

He raised his hand.

The index and middle fingers unconsciously overlapped.

Slow and light tapping on the knees.

a bit.

Another one.

The rhythm is even and monotonous.

That was the sound of a sewing needle piercing the fabric.

Weak but persistent.

It was because his body was under high mental stress.

An instinctive reaction to the daily grind.

The air was filled with the stale smell of tobacco and the lingering dampness from last night's downpour.

Mixed with the bitter aftertaste of the instant coffee he brewed last night.

This murky smell.

It's sticky and lingering.

Like a thin film.

It enveloped this small space.

It isolated him from the seemingly normal morning outside the window.

He lowered his head.

He looked at a photograph in his hand.

The photo is quite old.

Slightly yellowish.

He was a young homeless man.

His face was thin.

Yet it carried a hint of stubbornness that had not yet been completely swallowed by despair.

He died in an alley in the city center.

The official ruling was an overdose of drugs.

Accidental death.

The details in the photo are not clear.

But you can see his armpits covered in needle marks.

And cheap glass bottles scattered around.

Lin Zheng once personally "assembled" him.

That young homeless man.

It was just one of the countless cold "materials" in his hands.

In Lin Zheng's numb memories of the past.

He is a standard "junk".

An "object" that uses its disabled body to earn a meager salary.

But now.

This photo.

And the life he represents, abandoned by the world.

It took on a new meaning in his eyes.

This person, whom he had once mechanically disposed of and filed as "drug overdose," has now become a silent witness.

Lin Zheng could even recall the fatigue marks on the homeless man's arm caused by long-term injections, and the morbidly dark appearance of the tissue beneath the skin, all from the autopsy. He had once thought it was simply the trajectory of a life's self-destruction.

But now, he begins to wonder: Was it really self-destruction? Or was it some unknown force that pushed him into the abyss of despair, only to cover everything up with a simple label?

Those "pinholes" may be seen as symbols of indulgence by others, but in his eyes, they may be a kind of heart-wrenching cry, evidence of being coerced and exploited.

He felt a chill run down his spine: every ruling he had trusted in the past, every "discovery," might just be a carefully crafted link in a system of lies.

Unwittingly, he became an accomplice to the lies.

This subversion of self-perception was far more profound and cruel than any corpse he had ever encountered.

He did not turn on the computer.

I did not search for any more "official" documents.

They also didn't bother to look back at their own childhood photos and academic certificates.

Because he knew.

Those cold, hard documents.

Those exquisite images.

Those precise and unambiguous "evidence".

It's all a lie.

A perfect solution.

An undeniable, colossal lie.

This understanding.

Let him be exhausted.

A strange sense of clarity arose within me.

His brain was like a machine that had been violently restarted.

What he needs to do is completely tear off that veil of hypocrisy, not try to mend it.

No longer seeking reconciliation with "reality".

Instead, it attempts to address the root cause.

Deconstructing "reality" itself.

His gaze shifted from the photograph.

It landed in the corner of the room.

The toolbox that had been with him for many years.

The surface of the metal box is covered in rust.

Several dents of varying depths.

It recounts its experience of being treated roughly.

The box was half open.

The tools inside are neatly arranged.

Scalpel.

Suture needle.

Hemostats.

Each piece gleamed with a cold light.

He walked over.

He picked up the one he knew best.

A long, thin scalpel.

That scalpel was not only his tool, but also an extension of his existence.

It has slashed open the skin countless times, penetrating deep into the flesh to understand the secrets of death.

Now, what he wants to use it to cut open is the festering sore beneath the glamorous exterior of this world.

This knife is more powerful than any words.

Words can be misinterpreted, embellished, or even completely erased. But the truth touched by the knife's edge cannot be faked.

Each wipe, each feeling of the blade's sharpness, was a self-affirmation, a resolute affirmation of his inner resolve. He recalled a saying: "The significance of a blade lies in the obstacles it can cut through. But more importantly, it lies in whether you have the courage to face the truth revealed after being cut open."

Previously, he had never deeply considered the meaning of this sentence; he thought he was always facing the truth.

Now he understood that what he had seen was merely the tip of the iceberg of the truth being allowed to be revealed. And at this moment, what he held was no longer just a scalpel; it was more like a sharp blade against nothingness, a powerful instrument to pierce through lies.

The blade is made of a specially made medical-grade alloy.

Over the years of use.

It still retains its extreme sharpness.

The tip of the knife is as thin as a cicada's wing.

A light touch on the fingertips.

You can then feel the sharpness that is enough to cut everything in two.

Lin Zheng used a wiping cloth.

He carefully wiped the blade.

From the handle to the tip.

Every inch was polished repeatedly.

There wasn't a single scratch or rust mark.

This knife.

They were inseparable.

More "familiar" than any face he could remember.

They are all more authentic.

The coldness of the blade.

Heavy and substantial.

And what it represents.

Cut through the disguise.

Its sharpness reaches straight to the core of flesh and blood.

It gave him a long-lost sense of peace.

An undeniable sense of reality.

The memories of the living can be deceiving.

The words of the living can be fabricated.

Those carefully constructed "pasts".

Like a giant fishing net.

They tried to trap him in a false ocean.

But what about the deceased?

Lin Zheng thought.

The flesh and blood of the dead.

Traces left by the deceased.

These are often things that cannot be faked.

The most original truth.

Arthur once said that.

"Seeing is not necessarily believing."

Lin Zheng pondered those words repeatedly.

In the present moment.

This statement has acquired a completely new and more destructive weight.

He used to be obsessed with "seeing is believing".

Searching for so-called "ironclad evidence".

However, they were drawn into a deeper vortex of lies.

Now he understood.

To find the flaws in a lie.

We cannot attack it head-on.

Instead, we should start from the edges.

From those abandoned by the world.

In the "forgotten" details.

Seek out the "roughness" that cannot be perfectly concealed.

He did it countless times.

Contact with those "waste products" discarded by society.

Their remains.

Stitching and splicing.

To form what he called "Gundam".

Those corpses.

Before being brought to him.

It has already been cleaned.

Cutting.

But deep within its wreckage.

It will still be retained.

Some indelible marks.

The stench of decay and the necrotic tissue—traces that would be repulsive to most people—were, in his eyes, the purest code.

The memories of the living are like grains of sand, worn down, weathered, and even deliberately shaped over time.

But the body of the deceased, every wound, every fracture, even every inch of decay, is like a precise map, pointing to its final fate. Those invisible violence, those concealed struggles, those struggles born of despair, all leave indelible marks on the flesh and blood.

He realized that he had only focused on the surface of the "cause of death" and "event reconstruction." He had ignored, or rather, been led to ignore, the deeper social information and traces of power oppression that the deceased carried.

A homeless man who has been repeatedly beaten may have had his ribs broken several times before he dies; an individual who appears to have committed suicide may have lingering fear in his eyes before death, rather than numbness. These are the unspeakable "vague whispers."

These are not simply "physical evidence"; they are stories, the last struggle of those deprived of their right to speak.

He had to learn to read these stories, to identify the noises filtered out by the mainstream narrative, and to capture those faint but real cries.

The trajectory of those scars.

A unique pattern of organizational corruption.

Even the most insignificant textures on the skin.

These are all silent languages.

More powerful than the testimony of any living person.

They are all more honest.

These are "vague whispers".

These are the truths that have been ruthlessly suppressed by power.

He needs to learn to listen.

Deconstruct it.

To discern the noise of lies within it.

His thoughts became incredibly clear.

A road covered in dust.

It stretched out before his eyes.

Lin Zheng picked up his old-fashioned flip phone with encryption.

The phone's surface is somewhat damaged.

There is a small crack on the edge of the screen.

That was during one of his moving operations.

The marks left by an accidental fall.

That crack.

Let him feel the physical presence of the phone.

Just like his rationality at this moment.

It is sturdy, yet bears an undeniable flaw.

He swiped the screen.

In the contact list.

The finger stopped on Arthur Morgan's name.

This name.

It represents experience.

It represents a deep, yet never-extinguished, spirit of skepticism.

It also represents.

Something that is in opposition to the world.

Unwavering belief.

Arthur was once a detective.

He knows better than anyone.

The ugliness that breeds in the dark corners of this city.

Clearer.

How power manipulates everything behind the scenes.

Turn black and white upside down.

Arthur might not understand.

What he encountered.

Such a grand and meticulously crafted lie.

But he understood despair.

Understand the feeling of being abandoned by the world.

I understand those things better.

Justice that has been distorted.

Lin Zheng needs him.

He needs someone who can see through the ways of the world.

A helper who can provide him with reliable sources of information.

Lin Zheng then thought of Evelyn Reed.

That meticulous forensic pathologist.

Her expertise complemented his.

It was the key to his search for certainty amidst chaos.

If one can say that one is able to "listen" to the voices of the dead.

Then Evelyn.

Then we can use scientific language.

Translate these "sounds" into...

A report that can be understood by the world.

He knew that he alone could not shake this enormous machine of lies.

He needs allies, people who are also excluded from the "normal" system but possess extraordinary insight.

Arthur, the old horse, his network of informants penetrated every ditch in the city. He knew where there were abandoned corners and buried stories. In Arthur's eyes, there were no "accidents," only coincidences that were "designed."

Evelyn's forensic knowledge, like a precise scale, could weigh the truth in the smallest clues. Her calmness and scientific approach provided the strongest support for his emotional intuition.

The three of them, like the most out-of-place remnants of the city, gained a unique ability to glimpse the truth. He would no longer be the lone wolf who only spoke with the dead; he needed a net, a net that could capture the flaws in lies from different dimensions.

This is not only a redemption for myself, but also a belated, and only, justice for all the dead buried by lies.

Her judgment.

Her rationality.

It was his shaky, crumbling ship.

Anchor points that allow for stable navigation amidst giant waves.

Lin Zheng took a deep breath.

His breath swirled in his chest.

It brought a heavy, dull pain.

He pressed the dial button.

Listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.

A long, hollow sound of waiting.

The waiting time seemed to stretch on indefinitely.

Each ticking sound.

It all felt like they were interrogating him.

Are we truly prepared?

Be prepared to face a deeper level of darkness.

Be prepared to overthrow it.

All the "truth" he once believed to be true.

The call was answered.

Arthur's deep, hoarse voice came from the other end.

Carrying the exhaustion of a night of heavy drinking.

And an instinctive wariness of the caller on the other end of the phone.

"Feed? Who?"

Lin Zheng held his phone.

The knuckles are somewhat white.

He made up his mind.

Transformed into each clear word and phrase.

"Arthur".

"I need a new set of materials."

His voice was steady.

She carried a look that didn't match her current tired appearance.

Cold and frigid.

"One that has been completely forgotten by the world."

"The deceased had no background information whatsoever."

he knows.

Arthur will understand.

He will understand the true meaning of the "materials" he mentioned.

I'll understand.

What he did at that moment.

What's behind this choice?

Immense courage and sorrow.

On the other end of the phone.

The silence lasted for a moment.

Lin Zheng did not urge him.

He knew Arthur was weighing his options.

Weigh the risks that this request represents.

And in his words.

That unquestionable resolve.

a long time.

Arthur's voice came again.

this time.

His voice was hoarse, tinged with a sigh.

"I see."

I'll get back to you later.

The conversation was brief.

Yet it carries a profound and unspoken understanding.

And the unknown road ahead.

A commitment to share responsibility.

Lin Zheng hung up the phone.

He casually tossed his phone onto the sofa.

It made a slight knocking sound.

He turned around.

He picked up the long, thin scalpel.

Tuck it into your waistband.

Make sure it's with you.

They maintained a close and tangible intimacy.

He put on his dusty work jacket.

The jacket complemented his thin frame.

It doesn't seem to match.

But it's like a layer of hard armor.

To shield him from the outside world.

All scrutinizing eyes.

He wasn't wearing the baseball cap he usually wore.

him at the moment.

No more hat brims are needed.

To block their view.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the apartment.

A blast of damp, cold air hit me.

The corridor was dimly lit.

That blurry shadow at the end.

It seems more profound than ever before.

he knows.

The road ahead is unknown.

Darkness and danger coexist.

But there was no turning back for him.

His journey of exploration.

It has only just been opened.

A curtain leading to indistinct whispers.

Every step.

All of these will be his dissection of the world.

A pursuit of the truth.