The two interactions I had with 0547 and 0976 led my evaluation system to confirm the feasibility of my plan. From these exchanges, I also learned that when humans try to build relationships, they often share precious food.
As factory efficiency continued to rise steadily, I submitted another request to Headquarters: to suspend all Enforcers. Approved. I began walking through the production lines more frequently, observing the workers and inviting them to speak with me.
During lunch breaks, more and more workers began accepting my invitation to talk.
One afternoon, Worker 0098—the most senior employee—approached me just as I finished speaking with another worker. He held out a piece of paper and spoke a bit nervously:
"Worker 0547 said you know a lot. Could you take a look at this?"
It was a simple sketch of a square-shaped pedal car with no seat.
"As a kid, I used to dream of this car. I thought it could take me to places. I tried to build it so many times... My parents beat me for it, but then secretly brought me scraps to help. When I finally made it, it didn't move. They beat me again."
He chuckled, but in his eyes, I detected deep regret.
I drew the basic design of a functioning pedal bike used in Country K and showed it to him. He stared at the sketch, eyes lighting up like a child. "I'll spend the rest of my life building this," he said.
My system analyzed whether this action violated HQ's directive: *Do not reveal information from Country K to Primitive City*. Final judgment: the design was primitive enough to belong to either world.
Worker 0345, a young man, told me about a girl from the shoe factory named Lila.
"Every other night, we meet at the northern shore, near our housing district. I bring her handmade clothes from scrap fabric. She gifts me shoes crafted from leftover soles. These are the happiest moments of my life."
He showed me his shoes—pieced together from remnants, yet worn with pride. "These were the first she gave me. They're a symbol of our love."
My visual system constructed the scene: under dim blue moonlight, a girl in a tattered dress, a boy in lopsided shoes, embracing by the sea.
There is no sea in District 13.
That same day, 0864 approached me.
He handed me a wooden slingshot. "My sister and I grew up together. I built this to protect her… and myself. I've never used it to hurt anyone."
He glanced down. "You're different from the other supervisors… You don't beat us. You carry no weapons. If you ever need this, take it. It's my thanks for not punishing my sister in front of everyone."
Before I could respond, he ran off.
I looked at the slingshot.
System analysis: 1% chance of usability under specific conditions.
As I spent more time on the floor, I noticed many old textile machines were poorly maintained. Simple repairs could dramatically improve their speed and output. So each day, I arrived two hours early to inspect and repair the equipment.
The workers soon noticed the difference. They whispered among themselves, wondering what had changed.
One day, 0547 spoke up:
"A magician must've come to Primitive City and fixed our machines. That magician is Ethan."
From then on, workers began arriving early, helping me fix the machines while telling their stories.
Though 0547 never came to speak to me directly again, I often saw her from afar, quietly watching. Her expression remained unreadable—except when I spoke with children. Then, her gaze softened.
I attempted to analyze her withdrawal, but the system couldn't determine a clear reason.
At the end of the month, during routine surveillance, my system issued an alert.
0098 had passed a folded paper to another worker. The action repeated across the production line. Isolated, it would be harmless. But collectively, it could disrupt efficiency.
I was preparing to issue a warning, until the note reached Worker 0967.
She was struggling to read it.
Title: *The Midnight Escape Plan*
I scanned the contents:
"Bring one of your most precious items. Midnight, two days from now, meet in Central Shore. No factory. No supervisors. Just a gathering under the moon. Just freedom."
It read more like an invitation than a rebellion. I withheld the warning and planned to speak with 0098 during lunch.
But before I could, 0098 found me. He wore a sly, bright smile.
"Ethan, come with me. Somewhere private. No surveillance."
He led me to an isolated waste room in the back of the factory.
From inside his jacket, he retrieved the note. Its paper was damp, worn, edges frayed from too many hands.
He unfolded it, grinning like a child hiding a secret. "We'll stagger our departures, avoid patrol routes. We won't cause trouble. We just want to exchange gifts. Watch the moon. Rest. We'll be back before work begins."
Before I could question how he knew I'd read the note, he flipped the paper.
On the back: *Ethan*.
He handed me a pen.
"If you want to come, put a checkmark. If not, draw an X. No pressure."
I looked at the name—creased, smudged, soaked with the hopes of a hundred hands.
I took the pen.
Drew an X.
0098 watched, smile fading. "I understand… We won't disturb your rest."
He turned to leave.
I analyzed the moment. It was a chance to observe human behavior more deeply.
"Wait," I said. "Give me the paper again."
0098 turned around—fast, almost childlike—handing it over eagerly.
I took the pen.
Beneath *Ethan*, I wrote my designation: *BO-279*.
Next to it, I drew a check.
0098 stared, puzzled and excited. "Who's BO-279?"
"Me," I replied calmly. "Only you will know."