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

Chapter 129 A Two-Sided Choice: The Infiltrator's Balance and Infiltration of the High Wall

The New Arkham district always presents a highly industrialized tranquility late at night, a tranquility that does not stem from peace, but from the absolute suppression of noise by extreme order.

The neon lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, filtered by the special coated glass, lost their original glaring heat, casting several neatly shaped, muted rectangular patches of light onto the thick, dark gray wool carpet inside. These spots of light swayed faintly with the drifting clouds high above, like the breath of some dying creature.

Those office building clusters representing the highest power on the East Coast appeared solemn and lifeless in the drizzle, behind every lit window, where algorithmic calculations that could determine the fate of tens of thousands of people were likely taking place.

Isabella Rossi stood quietly in the shadows, her tactical terminal resting on a corner of a desk made of aerospace-grade carbon fiber, pulsating with a cold green light at an extremely regular frequency, a frequency so fast it was unsettling.

This small device, disguised as a commercial tablet, was secretly modified by the Internal Security Bureau's technical division. Its underlying protocol bypassed all known civilian network nodes and was directly mounted on the company's core backbone network via microwave relay.

The encrypted signal that popped up on the screen was only a few bytes long, but it felt like a heavy lead weight pressing on her heart. Every line of jumping binary code was silently dismantling the administrative dignity maintained within this office building, exposing the bloody logic hidden behind the glass and steel bars.

As my fingertips lightly touched the cold screen surface, the "wake-up" signal from the underground warehouse was like a fine needle piercing into a precision gear, causing the normally smoothly running gear to emit a teeth-grinding friction sound.

Theodore Sterling's will permeated the entire building, even extending to the lifespan of every filter in the air circulation system. He was not only her mentor but also the operator of this colossal machine, and now, this operator was clearly planning to clean up some worn-out parts.

According to the company's "Efficiency Redundancy Management Regulations" established thirty years ago, any employee assessed as having "uncertain loyalty due to long-term fieldwork" will automatically enter a pre-set psychological audit process. This is a maze with no exit; those who enter either become absolutely obedient puppets or are completely eliminated.

The administrative briefing three hours earlier had explicitly mentioned a non-public investigation into the recent operating costs of the Reality Stabilization Department. The briefing was worded extremely euphemistically, but every word was a subtle attack on the boundaries of her authority and responsibilities.

This means she is no longer an enforcer of order, but a bad asset waiting to be optimized. In this highly elitist workplace ecosystem, mediocrity is a sin, while excellence with rebellious potential is a capital offense.

The company's air conditioning ducts emitted a very faint hissing sound due to the high pressure difference, which sounded like some kind of giant beast lurking deep inside the building, breathing out air with an electronic odor.

In the power dynamics of the East Coast metropolitan area, only absolute usefulness can earn you a legitimate seat in the cloud-based office space. When you lose your value, gravity will pull you towards the crime-ridden, corrupt slums at an unprecedented speed.

The fact that Lin Zheng was detained and his very existence had become a hot potato. Professor Finch's asset stripping in that place, which was defined as a "fantasy laboratory," was not only stripping Lin Zheng of his consciousness, but also the company's absolute right to define the future.

The lab consumes the equivalent of a small town's total electricity per hour, which is labeled as "social governance prototype testing costs" in the internal audit report. Such enormous expenditures must be linked to corresponding outputs; under the microscope of capital, every joule of energy must be converted into a corresponding level of dominance.

However, Finch's reports have stalled in the past week, as if he were performing some kind of reckless alchemy, attempting to extract some kind of toxin beyond matter from fragments of the human soul.

The beacon sent by Ava Sterling represented the darkest divisions within the Sterling family. As Theodore's daughter, she knew better than anyone that the empire was on the verge of collapse.

In this corporate structure that claims to maximize national happiness, every misallocation of resources within a family is the only crack through which the lower levels can undermine the foundation of the upper levels. Isabella knows that she is now that lever; though fragile, if positioned correctly, she can unleash a tsunami.

This calculation is devoid of any emotion; it's purely a probabilistic selection process based on maximizing self-interest. In the eyes of these heirs to power, a high-ranking agent like Isabella is nothing more than a variable in probability theory.

On the edge of Emerald Dream City, a dream built by capital, individual will is like a piece of paper washed away by acid rain under an overpass, humble and helpless, until it is swept into some key eddies.

The initial hesitation vanished under the red self-checking light of the monitor. Isabella took a deep breath and straightened the collar of her black suit. She knew that from this moment on, she would no longer work for anyone; she would fight only for her own survival.

Every move she made now had to conform to the survival instincts of a top agent facing a system crash. She turned off her terminal, tiptoed out of the office, and avoided all infrared-sensing areas.

At 2 a.m. in the company corridor, motion-activated high color rendering index fluorescent lights gradually turn on with each step and then quickly turn off behind you. This sense of delay makes you feel as if you are walking through a time rift.

On the minimalist gray wall is a miniature copy of the founding law, the cold legal statutes taking on an unreal metallic texture under the light, each word proclaiming the legitimacy of power.

Every manager at the Dream Builder level has signed a lifetime non-compete agreement before these words. It's not just a legal document, but a contract of servitude etched into their very bones through biometric technology.

The executive elevator descended smoothly, the walls of the car reflecting Isabella Rossi's exceptionally pale face, a result of lack of rest. Her eyes were bloodshot, but her gaze was unusually calm, like a bottomless, icy pool.

Her identification card bore the emblem of the Ministry of Reality Stability, featuring an embossed security feature. This emblem had been her pass to various high-end venues, representing the nation's strongest defense force.

But this is merely a fragile scepter that can cross most physical barriers when necessary, but can be instantly and remotely erased in the event of high-level power struggles. If Theodore so desires, she could be the first person on the wanted list in the next second.

The elevator doors slid open silently, the only way to the information management hub. The air here was much colder than on the top floor, because all the excess heat was used to cool the massive server array.

Land prices in New Arkham never shrank, even during the financial crisis. Money flows beneath every inch of land, and every breath is filtered through an expensive system.

Beneath just one square meter of land here lies a redundant fiber optic cable sufficient to provide medical care for 50,000 people. This cable isn't for ordinary citizens; it's to ensure that every high-frequency transaction is a fraction of a second faster than the competition.

The low-ranking clerical staff member in the duty room was trapped in a deep hallucination caused by long-term use of opioid painkillers. He tilted his head, a strange smile on his lips, and waved his arms at a blank monitor.

At the company's lowest levels, this is a tacitly accepted "employee benefit," designed to offset the rebellious tendencies brought about by high-intensity labor with cheap pleasure. This emasculated pleasure is the most effective lubricant for maintaining stability at the company's grassroots level.

Instead of waking the security guard who was lost in his dream, she went straight to the standalone terminal responsible for project compliance checks. This terminal was directly connected to the company's underlying firewall and had extremely high access privileges.

The crisp sound of fingernails tapping on the table echoed in the spacious archives, which felt particularly oppressive due to the electronic noise reduction system. This rhythm allowed her to simulate various possible solutions in her mind.

Every command she entered into the system was crossing the company's red lines regarding project permissions. Every keystroke was like defusing a minefield; the slightest mistake could result in her personal biometric ID being permanently banned.

When the access request pointed to "Finch Labs," the blood-red access denied icon unsurprisingly popped up in the center of the screen. That icon wasn't just denying access; it was more like a threat, carrying a strong warning.

"Due to the involvement of the Supreme National Interest Protection Act, the audit authority for this project has been elevated to the direct jurisdiction of the CEO's office. Any unauthorized probing activities will be automatically recorded and reported to the Internal Security Department."

The crimson warning light reflected in her dark eyes, revealing a cold, hard truth: being shut out by the system. Isabella realized that Professor Finch had turned himself into a malignant tumor within the company, and Theodore had chosen this method of treatment.

Under the current bureaucratic structure, Theodore Sterling wields real power over everything from budget approvals to personnel appointments and dismissals.

He was like a greedy chess player, trying to protect the tumor while simultaneously turning its energy into a weapon to attack others.

Even a screw that has been optimized out must undergo this complex process before it can be removed.

This highly ritualistic death procedure is the company's final, cruel form of respect for its employees.

This hierarchical control was not only physical, but also a desperate, administrative lock-in. Without the corresponding key, she couldn't even find out which way the door to Finch's laboratory opened.

At six in the morning on the east coast, a gray sea fog shrouded the tops of the buildings in the financial district. These giant buildings, with only their pointed tops visible in the thick fog, resembled isolated islands floating in the air.

On the viaduct that runs through New Arkham, early-shift sleepwalkers huddle in the hard seats of the Maglev train. Their faces are all the same, with a bluish tinge from being constantly exposed to blue backlighting.

Each of them carried several performance reports in their briefcases that proved they were still valuable to the American Dream; these reports were not only their livelihoods but also their only source of reassurance in the social order.

Isabella ordered an unsweetened espresso in the common lounge downstairs in the office building. This was the only outlier place in the building, originally set up to accommodate suppliers who didn't meet the employee standards.

The burnt smell of inferior coffee beans clashed horribly with the expensive, custom-made fragrance that perpetually circulated in the high-rise office. Ironically, this pungent odor revitalized her somewhat numb mind.

The junior researcher sat at the other end of the bench, clutching a gray, sealed bag bearing the Finch Labs logo. His fingers rubbed the bag incessantly, making a rustling sound, like a symptom of some kind of neurosis.

This young man, due to prolonged exposure to a strong electromagnetic environment and under immense mental pressure, exhibited a morbid twitching at the corner of his eye. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes revealed a hollowness born of excessive fright.

A yellowed prescription slip fell out of his pocket. It was a common medication for acute stress disorder, in a shockingly high dose, enough to render an adult incapable of basic mobility within hours.

The conversation must be as precise as a surgeon's hemostat, with no unnecessary small talk, directly targeting the other person's most sensitive nerve endings.

"Professor Finch adjusted the current threshold of the experimental samples at 3 a.m. The audit team needs to confirm whether this complies with the asset integrity agreement. If not, you will bear primary responsibility." Isabella's voice was low, carrying a coldness characteristic of officials.

Due to long-term class oppression, the researcher involuntarily curled up slightly when he heard the words "audit team," a defensive conditioned reflex formed from long-term exposure to investigations by higher levels.

"The professor said it was necessary cognitive correction," he said, "I was just responsible for recording the data; I didn't participate in the decision-making." He hurriedly tried to shirk responsibility, his tone urgent and flustered.

"Where did those assessors who were supposed to be in charge of monitoring go?" Isabella pressed.

"They've all gone outside to collect their severance pay. The professor doesn't trust anyone but himself; he believes those bureaucrats are hindering human evolution." The researcher's tone was as flat as an instruction manual, every word carrying a formatted, mechanical quality.

This extreme, almost pathological fanaticism is a typical manifestation of long-term academic dictatorship. In such people's laboratories, all ethical standards are less important than a graph of experimental data.

The murky look in his eyes, a mixture of fear and adoration, was enough to prove that Finch's project had long since spiraled out of control. It wasn't just a technical failure, but a complete collapse of humanity.

This is not a scientific experiment, but a power abuse carried out atop a towering structure. Finch is using company resources to build himself a shrine free from all rules.

When the regulatory comments regarding Theodore Sterling were mentioned, a slight crack appeared on the researcher's lifeless face. He first looked around to make sure no surveillance cameras were pointed at them.

"Those guys sitting on the roof drinking brandy don't understand. They just want stable data and to keep the old balance going. But the professor wants a structural model for the new era." His voice carried a hint of pride that seemed to come from nowhere.

This unintentionally leaked complaint was like a silhouette piercing through a dark, high wall. It revealed a fatal truth:

An irreconcilable ideological divide has emerged between Finch and Theodore.

The elite faction represented by Theodore Sterling is fundamentally concerned with maintaining the stability of this advisory system. They need individuals like Lin Zheng as stable assets to support the operation of the dream world.

Fincher, a technocrat, is attempting to destroy the existing balance through extreme means and establish his own academic theocracy. He doesn't care about the stability of the company; he only cares about the success of his experiments, which could rewrite the definition of humanity.

These hidden cracks in high-level interest chains are often more destructive than external bombs, because internal explosions always begin at the very core of the structure.

A delicate, even hostile, factional distrust persisted between the two. This created an unhealable vulnerability in the otherwise invincible company system.

For Isabella, this was the only entry point showing signs of wear and tear within the seemingly impenetrable system. She didn't need to defeat the behemoth; she only needed to make its two heads fight.

After the researcher left in a hurry, a small residue with a chemical smell was left on the bench. Isabella rubbed some on her fingertip and smelled it.

It was a volatile solvent used in laboratories to process biological tissues, carrying a putrid, corpse-like stench. The smell sent a shiver down her spine, but more than anything, it brought a chilling excitement.

When she returned to the office, there was already a to-do reminder in the internal communication system, signed "Theodore's Office." This indicated that the other party had begun to notice her unusual behavior.

This is a summary of an internal assessment briefing on "Project Codename: Candlewick." The briefing's classification has been downgraded to a level she can read, which is clearly a bait thrown out by Theodore.

The text on the screen was clear, ruthless, and filled with growing discontent with Professor Finch; each paragraph implied that the experiment was jeopardizing the company's long-term fundamental interests.

"Finch's overly radical approach to biological modification experiments may affect the integrity of the main structure. His research path has deviated significantly from the original audit route. It is recommended to closely monitor his abnormal power consumption."

In this corporate jungle rife with lies and betrayals, this line of text became the only operational blueprint she could rely on.

She had to extract the information she needed from the sample named "Lin Zheng" before the two of them completely broke off relations.

At this moment, the scales had tipped completely. All professional ethics and loyalty were a thing of the past; now she was merely a desperate fugitive searching for her own way.

She opened a low-level code editor called "Ghost Link" and her fingers rapidly tapped on the empty cursor. This illegitimate protocol began to spread like a virus deep within the company's intranet.

This high-stakes gamble had no chips; her only chip was her intuition, which hadn't yet completely cooled within this insane system. She would use this code to forcefully open a wound leading to the truth at the heart of this so-called dream empire.

Acid rain outside the window began to pool on the glass, forming murky streaks that obscured the magnificent yet illusory view.

The dawn of New Arkham arrived amidst this fog, in an extremely oppressive manner.