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

The leaden sky, like a huge old canvas, hung helplessly overhead, without a single cloud pattern, only an infinite sense of oppression.

The air was filled with the mixed smell of old books and rust, a pungent odor of death and decay that Lin Zheng was so familiar with that he felt a sense of despair. The smell was like a forgotten library slowly rotting away in the dampness.

He took heavy steps, his legs feeling like lead, each step exhausting his strength. The sound of his shoes scraping against the ground was amplified, then quickly faded into silence, as if the space itself was sucking away all life.

Before me lay a city, with towering buildings standing side by side, stretching out in a twisted manner, yet lacking the grandeur of skyscrapers, possessing only a morbid stillness.

This was the familiar American street scene he once knew, the streets he had traversed day and night, now only a lifeless skeleton remained, every brick and tile bearing the mark of unreality.

There was no sign of life, no crowds, not even a breeze dared to visit. The streets were deserted, the silence so profound it hurt your eardrums, as if the whole world had stopped breathing at that moment.

Each building carries a subtle distortion; the windows are not regular squares, but rather strange rhombuses or irregular polygons. Their edges are not straight lines, but stretch upwards and outwards with an unnatural arc, as if they were being kneaded at will by some invisible force.

Their edges are stretched, like overused and deformed rubber, or like rough, unpolished ridges, reflecting a sickly, leaden-gray light. Inside, they are pitch black, as deep as an endless black hole.

The brick and tile textures on the wall are blurred, like paint about to dissolve, losing their original solidity. The gaps that should have been clearly visible are now ambiguous, as if they could collapse at any moment, yet they support the twisted structure with a strange resilience.

The glass windows reflected a sickly leaden gray, large patches of plaster had peeled off the walls, revealing rusty steel bars underneath, making them look like abandoned waste that had been left for years. Yet, there was a deliberate sense of artificiality, as if it were designed to create a specific scene of decay.

The city's fabric exudes an air of antiquity and artificiality, as if forgotten by time in some corner, or fixed in eternal decay by some invisible force. Every detail screams out one fact: nothing here is real.

The air froze, sound was swallowed up, and the city was a frozen painting, making it difficult to breathe. Every heartbeat was heavy and clear, echoing in the deathly silence, which only intensified Lin Zheng's fear and anxiety.

Lin Zheng knew that this was not a physical entity, but merely a projection of his memories, distorted and controlled by an external force—an elaborate trap designed to imprison him forever in this spiritual wasteland.

His "intuition" began to work, an ability to see through the essence of things. Though suppressed, it stubbornly tried to analyze everything before him, like an eye struggling in the fog, trying to penetrate false appearances.

He "saw" invisible fluctuations, like semi-transparent data streams, shimmering with faint light, weaving through every corner of the city. They were like an impenetrable spider web, completely enveloping him.

These data streams silently scan and record all his movements and micro-expressions, following him like a shadow. They are like countless invisible and cold eyes, analyzing every subtle fluctuation of his emotions and searching for the most vulnerable breakthrough.

That fluctuation didn't belong to him; it was monitoring, scanning, and analyzing his mental state and psychological defenses—an all-pervasive digital prison. Every point of light seemed to pierce directly into his mind, bringing waves of faint but unsettling stings.

It is waiting to seize his weakness, attempting to completely dismantle his will, make him lose himself in this distorted reality, and ultimately become a slave to this dream, a puppet without self-awareness.

Lin Zheng tried to recall the suppressed memories deep within his heart, attempting to confirm his identity and origins. His hands unconsciously clenched into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms, trying to anchor himself with this faint pain.

He wanted to find the person named "Lin Zheng" and to find his former mission and responsibility, but every attempt was like groping in the dark, and every touch only grasped nothingness.

But a thin mist shrouded the depths of his mind, blurring important information. Names, the past, allies—everything dissolved in the mist. It wasn't just blurring; it was more like a deliberate erasure, as if fragments of memory were brutally torn apart and thrown into the endless void.

His once-proud "dream anatomy" is now dulled, unable to cut through the fog. Trapped in his own altered dream, the powerful sense of control that ability brought him has vanished, leaving only helplessness and a deep sense of defeat.

He couldn't even recall his own name, or the reason for his resistance. This realization struck him like a bolt of lightning, bringing only a chilling coldness. He began to doubt his own existence, or whether he was merely a shell infused with a false consciousness within an illusion.

This lack of self-awareness terrified him more than any physical harm. He feared he would completely forget who he was, becoming an empty shell. It felt like a piece of a life puzzle was being maliciously removed from its core, leaving only an incomplete appearance.

It felt as if a part of him had been erased by an eraser, the very foundation of his existence forcibly wiped away. Whenever he tried to recall, the eraser seemed to carry a cold and ruthless power, repeatedly wiping away at the canvas of his consciousness, making the images even more blurred until they disappeared.

Lin Zheng's "intuition" told him that even the dreams constructed by Professor Finch could not completely erase the inherent logic of memories. He had traveled through countless dreams and understood the deep-seated rules of dream operation; even fabricated reality must follow a certain internal order.

Every system, no matter how complex, has flaws, especially when hastily or maliciously constructed. Moreover, this is a fragment of his own memory, those deeply buried, unpolished details, which may be Professor Finch's blind spot.

This illusory space contains exploitable "structural weaknesses," lurking in logical breaks and information conflicts, waiting to be captured. They are like rickety doors, covered up but not completely closed.

Professor Finch, the name barely surfaced in his mind, a blurry silhouette, familiar yet distant, but the heaviness brought by the name itself made him realize that this was by no means an ordinary enemy, but a crucial adversary in his life.

He knew the name was crucial, but he couldn't immediately connect it to its full meaning, like a book with a few pages burned off—he could see the cover and table of contents, but couldn't read the most important chapters.

He instinctively called out the names of Arthur Morgan and Dr. Evelyn Reed, but his voices faded into the silent city, leaving only an endless emptiness that swallowed up all his hope.

This was a futile attempt, and it also exposed his deep-seated dependence on and longing for his companions, an almost pathological yearning that clung tightly to his collapsing spirit like vines.

He felt an unprecedented loneliness and panic, like an abandoned child in a distorted world. This loneliness was so heavy that he felt his bones creaking as if they were about to be crushed.

This loneliness is different from the emptiness in the void before; it is more deceptive because everything on the surface tries to make him believe "this is real," while he clearly knows that it is all just a carefully arranged lie.

This feeling suffocated him. Being betrayed by a familiar environment was more chilling than being swallowed by pure unfamiliarity. It was like an invisible knife, severing his connection with the past and the real world inch by inch.

Not only was he physically imprisoned, but his mind and memories were also hunted and altered by Professor Finch, posing a fundamental threat to his existence. Once his memories were completely erased, he would no longer be himself, but rather clay that Professor Finch could mold at will.

He stood on the edge of the city, looking around for any detail that could prove his existence, or any opportunity for rebellion, even if it was just an untimely fallen leaf or a tiny, inappropriate crack.

He searched, hoping to find a sliver of truth within these false appearances, to find even the slightest bit of chaos outside of Professor Finch's control, as a clue to break free from his constraints.

But all he saw was a distorted street scene, dilapidated windows, and a chilling silence under a leaden sky; every direction seemed to lead to a dead end of deeper despair.

The entire city is like a giant monument, commemorating his fading memories and self; every building is like an elegy erected for his loss.

This city, built from fragments of his memories, now resembles a merciless cage, imprisoning him and slowly eroding his last will to resist, peeling away his layers until only an empty shell remains.

Lin Zheng struggled to piece together his thoughts from the fragments, trying to sort out his ideas and figure out why he was here and why he had been caught up in this endless nightmare. Every step of the process was accompanied by intense dizziness and migraines, as if his brain was resisting the pain of being dug out.

Every bit of progress was accompanied by intense mental exhaustion, and every attempt to touch upon real memories was like putting one's hand into a furnace, bringing only burning pain.

A cold, invisible force, like a venomous snake, coiled deep within his consciousness. It was not an external invasion, but rather rose from the very bottom of his mind, carrying a chilling sense of familiarity.

That power planted a command in his mind to force him to forget his most important memories. The vicious program ran silently, eroding the core of his cognition, like a piece of parasitic, rotting flesh gradually festering from the inside.

He felt a panic from the depths of his soul, as if he were rapidly losing something vital, the very elements that defined him as "Lin Zheng," like an invisible and enormous vortex, slowly siphoning away the foundation of his existence.

These things are all closely related to his life, his name, and even the reasons for his rebellion. Once erased, he will be reduced to a mindless walking corpse, an empty shell with only a body and no soul, at the mercy of others.

What had he forgotten? His real name, his abilities, his hatred for Professor Finch, or perhaps the person he had promised to protect? Every possible option made him tremble, every possibility piercing his heart like a sharp knife.

Why did Professor Finch want him to forget? The purpose of erasing his memory must have been to gain complete control, to turn him into a helpless tool, a flawless pawn, on his dream chessboard, helplessly moving towards the predetermined ending.

His body trembled uncontrollably in his hazy consciousness. This was an outward manifestation of extreme mental terror, a silent lament for "self-dissipation," with every cell screaming in resistance to this erasure.

He felt an unprecedented despair, yet within this despair, a last spark of resistance ignited, for he knew that once he forgot, that would be true death, a annihilation of existence more thorough than the demise of the physical body.

Just when he thought he was about to be swallowed up by this illusory reality, he suddenly stopped, his body tensed instantly, and all his senses were awakened by the sudden, intense stimulation.

In a corner of a dilapidated building, through a half-open window, he glimpsed a familiar figure—a ghost that shouldn't have been there, a presence that had left a deep imprint on his memory.

Jerome's face, which he had pieced together countless times, was now staring intently at him, his eyes like congealed blood, carrying a truth that pierced through all illusion.

That face belonged to a homeless man from the depths of his memory, his body bearing countless marks of brutal beatings. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, and his eyes deep-set, yet his gaze was filled with unyielding resentment.

Jerome's eyes held no emotion, only endless stillness and resentment, as if silently beckoning him and warning him. The stillness in his eyes was as deep as an abyss, as if it contained the pain of all the abandoned, yet it burned with a hatred that could incinerate everything.

Lin Zheng felt a chill rise up his spine. Jerome's presence was like a cold wedge inserted deep into the dream, instantly piercing the surface of the illusion and shattering Professor Finch's carefully woven lie.

Why did this homeless man, who should have appeared on the cold dissection table in the "Gundam" assembly area of ​​the port, appear in the depths of his altered dream? His appearance itself is the greatest provocation to logic and the loudest rebuttal to falsehood.

Jerome's very existence is the greatest mockery of this fake city. He is an unforgettable "part," a true reflection of the despair of the lower class. He carries the most cruel and real moments in Lin Zheng's memory, but now he has become a kind of alternative hope.

His appearance was a discordant noise, shattering Professor Finch's carefully constructed "silence" trap. This noise was so clear and so real that it instantly dismantled all the false peace surrounding Lin Zheng.

Lin Zheng's "intuition" trembled under suppression, vaguely indicating that Jerome did not appear out of thin air, his appearance was not random, but a symbol that was stimulated and guided, a signal that was activated deep in his memory.

He may be a "structural weakness" deep within the dream, a memory rift that can be exploited, the most real and stubborn fragment that Professor Finch failed to completely erase when constructing this cage.

Jerome's lifeless gaze seemed to tell a story that didn't belong to this false world, a truth that only the dead could tell. It was like a mirror, reflecting the suppressed questions and fears deep within Lin Zheng's heart.

Lin Zheng knew that this was not an illusion, but a signal that a deeper, more core memory had been activated, a call for truth and redemption triggered in the most critical moment.

He had to follow the signal, even if it might plunge him into deeper madness, because in this mad illusion, only madness could counter Professor Finch's twisted nature.

Because here, only madness leads to the truth, only the dead can guide the way, and Jerome's cold and resentful eyes became the only lifeline he grasped in this void.

Because here, only madness leads to the truth, only the dead can guide the way, and Jerome's cold and resentful eyes became the only lifeline he grasped in this void.

Jerome's eyes are the only clear anchor point, the only reality, in this illusory city. Like a lighthouse, they pierce through layers of fog, guiding Lin Zheng toward an unknown yet full of possibilities for the future.