Pei Ran took the cake bag from the delivery guy. "Thanks," she said, already trying to close the door.
The guy stuck his foot in the door. "The vendor wanted me to check—this was the wrong order, right? You're not gonna leave a bad review, are you?"
Pei Ran replied, "No."
Why would she? The pizza was delicious.
The matcha cake and iced cola were excellent too. Full and content, Pei Ran finally tapped the city maintenance hotline number from her wristband's reminder app to report the broken heating.
The call connected faster than she expected.
A rich, soothing baritone answered, filled with apologetic warmth after hearing her report.
"I've logged your issue in the system. A technician will be dispatched shortly. However, due to the strike, there may be a delay…"
The voice was low and gentle, oozing patience.
It was, of course, just an AI.
Or to use the fashionable term: a Municipal Services AI Agent. These agents were designed to handle citizen complaints across multiple threads, fielding thousands of calls simultaneously—far more efficient than any human.
Its voice had an almost magnetic quality, the kind of deep timbre that seemed to rumble from the chest. The tone was borderline seductive.
Pei Ran suddenly got it—this was what those novels meant by "low-pitched heartthrob voices."
The voice was probably optimized for female users, specifically to calm people down during frustrating service calls, reducing the chances of them yelling at someone.
Allegedly, the AIs also managed technician schedules.
Pei Ran vaguely remembered a news interview—some disgruntled technician ranting about these AIs being "cold-blooded metalheads that drive people to work like slaves."
If a worker arrived a few minutes late to a repair site, the AI would send a message like:
[Based on current traffic data, you were expected to arrive at the repair site within 12 minutes. You took 13 minutes and 50 seconds. 10 performance points deducted this month.]
You had to wonder—did it still use that seductive baritone for those cold-blooded notifications?
The AIs were ruthless. More inflexible than the strictest boss. Workers all said: Who the hell thought putting humans under AI management was a good idea? Insanity.
But these AI agents were cheap, efficient, and increasingly indispensable. They were quietly infiltrating every sector, taking over the city—eventually, the entire Federation.
The AI agent was still speaking in her ear:
"I can offer a few suggestions to help you stay warm while heating is unavailable—for example, drinking hot beverages, using thick curtains and door drapes to reduce heat loss…"
"No, thank you," Pei Ran interrupted and hung up.
Sure. Drink more hot water. These AIs must think humans are idiots.
After clearing the remaining to-do items left by the body's original owner, Pei Ran scrolled down and saw a strange memo:
[JTN35!!!!!!!]
Five exclamation marks—one more than the heating request.
If she fossilized a million years from now, her tongue would probably be frozen mid-word for "heating"… and "JTN35."
But her memory was too fragmented. Whatever "JTN35" was—important enough to warrant five exclamations—Pei Ran had no idea.
She opened the search browser on her wristband and looked up "JTN35." Nothing.
She kept tapping around and stumbled into a treasure trove.
In this world, you could order any food online.
And everything was unlimited.
Canned meat, compressed biscuits, nutrient-rich drink powders—things that cost a fortune on the black market in the bunker world—were all easily accessible.
There was even a specialty store selling emergency rations designed for disaster scenarios, with canned goods that had a shelf life of over fifty years.
Buy as much as you want. Just place the order.
Pei Ran stared at the adorable tins, trying to breathe evenly.
But she was unemployed. Her bank balance only went one way—down. She couldn't afford to splurge.
So she restrained herself, carefully selected a few essentials, and placed the order.
Just after confirming the payment, the lighting in the room shifted.
Pei Ran sat up in bed. The neon signs on the building across the street had gone dark. The virtual billboards had vanished too.
She reached out and flipped the desk lamp switch.
Nothing. The power was out.
And it wasn't just this building. The blackout stretched as far as the eye could see. Every tower in view had gone dark—sunken into the grey evening gloom.
Thank god the water still worked.
Pei Ran fetched every container she could find and filled them all.
It got even colder at night. Pei Ran huddled under the covers, using the wristband's screen light to inspect her newly acquired mechanical arm.
It was attached at the shoulder, seamlessly blending into her skin.
There was a tiny, elegant logo on the elbow: three nested equilateral triangles, decreasing in size. Probably the brand.
Missing limbs were common in the bunker world. Pei Ran had all her original parts before—but she'd always mentally prepared to lose one or two.
After the dimensional jump, she'd traded a flesh arm for a metal one. But it moved so naturally, felt so responsive, that she couldn't even complain.
She was honestly grateful.
Not sure if it needed oiling, though.
She flexed the black mechanical fingers and glanced at the cup on the nightstand. She picked it up casually.
Then squeezed.
The double-walled metal thermos immediately crumpled.
Pei Ran: "…"
She set the mangled cup down, silently clenched her fist, and punched downward.
CLANG.
The cup flattened into a sad, shiny disc.
The nightstand, made of wood, didn't survive the impact. It cracked with a loud snap.
A dog next door started barking. Then a neighbor shouted:
"Who the hell's smashing stuff at night?! Renovating your ancestors' graves?! Some of us are trying to sleep!"
Pei Ran kept quiet.
She silently pulled up the virtual screen and searched for the logo on her mechanical arm.
Nothing.
In this world, cybernetic prosthetics were everywhere. There were countless models online, from bargain bin to luxury.
The realism was astonishing—skin textures, pores, even arm hairs—all perfectly replicated. They looked exactly like real limbs.
Some brands leaned into flair, keeping the metal surface exposed and painting it with flashy chromatic coatings that shimmered under different lighting.
But no matter how much she scrolled, Pei Ran couldn't find anything like her model.
And none of the brands advertised "strength powerful enough to kill a man with one punch."
She soon understood why.
The Federation's Cybernetic Prosthetic Safety Regulations clearly stated:
"No mechanical prosthetic may possess functions exceeding the normal physical capacity of a human limb."
Pei Ran looked over at the flattened thermos.
Definitely not within human range.
This mechanical arm was probably illegal. Who knew where the body's previous owner had gotten it.
There was something off about her past. A strange green glow would flash in her mind sometimes—faint but persistent.
Pei Ran closed her eyes.
This time, she saw it. Or rather, felt like she did. The green glow was dormant, buried deep inside her.
No matter how she called to it, it didn't stir. Like it was fast asleep.
It slept so peacefully… Pei Ran yawned too.
The night deepened. Safe inside a warm apartment, on a comfortable bed, with no enemies to ambush her—Pei Ran had never felt so secure.
She drifted off in minutes.
She only woke when her stomach growled.
Outside, daylight poured through the window. Pei Ran tapped her wristband. A virtual screen appeared. The clock read:
1:00 PM.
And there was a new notification. No text. Just an image.
Black letters on a white background, stark and severe like a death notice. It read:
ATTENTION: ALL CITIZENS OF THE FEDERATION
FROM THIS MOMENT ON, DO NOT SPEAK. DO NOT SEND WRITTEN MESSAGES TO OTHERS.
ONLY IMAGE-BASED COMMUNICATION IS SAFE.
REPEATING: ONLY IMAGE COMMUNICATION IS SAFE.
THE SILENCE IS ABOUT TO BEGIN.