The Silence was about to begin.
Pei Ran stared at those words.
What did that even mean?
She glanced at the sender.
There was nothing—completely blank.
Pei Ran flipped back through the messages. All the other texts had senders, or at least a phone number. But this one? Just an empty space where the sender should be. It was strange. Too strange.
She got out of bed, walked to the window, and leaned out for a look.
Outside the tower, a few hovercars zipped by. From the twenty-first floor, the street below was a web of activity—pedestrians coming and going.
Someone was walking a dog. Another person, holding a black trash bag, exited the building and waved in greeting before tossing the bag onto an already mountainous heap of garbage.
Sounds floated up. Clear and distinct. People chatting casually, saying hello to each other.
No one had stopped speaking.
There wasn't the slightest trace of tension. Everything looked… normal.
So what exactly did this "Silence Begins" warning mean?
Pei Ran scoured her mind, but in the fog of fractured memories, she found nothing useful.
She tapped on her wristband to look it up—but the network, which had been working fine last night, was suddenly down.
Pei Ran paused, thinking it over.
She'd read some ancient-era novels once—there was a kind of scam described in them. Scammers would send absurd messages like "Law enforcement is on the way to execute you by firing squad," or "The case you're involved in is a classified national emergency. Do NOT inform family or friends."
It was an intelligence filter. A bait text designed to weed out skeptics. Once they found someone naïve enough to bite, they'd strike. No matter how elaborate the ploy, it always ended in the same thing: extortion.
Maybe this "Silence Warning" was something like that.
Then again, based on her past experience, there was another possibility.
In the bunker world, every human settlement had to run evacuation drills once a month—simulating a breach of the underground fortress.
Once the alarm sounded, everyone had to relocate immediately to the nearest safe zone. And once there, the most important rule was: absolute silence.
Not a single sound allowed.
That was why children raised in the bunkers learned not to cry.
Drills lasted for hours. Only once the alert cleared could they come back out.
This felt eerily similar.
Maybe it really was a drill of some kind.
Grrrrrrgle.
Her stomach growled again.
Drill or not, the first priority was food.
She checked the original owner's to-do list.
[Wednesday: Beef Noodles Day]
Apparently, the previous Pei Ran had a fixed meal plan for each day of the week. Yesterday's pizza had been pretty good—but now, without internet, she couldn't order beef noodles.
She sat there, frustrated—until a thought struck her.
She opened the contact list. She'd seen it yesterday: "Phantom Wing Tower Building B, Ground Floor Noodle Shop."
The previous owner had messaged them dozens of times:
"One beef noodle, Phantom Wing Tower A02115, thanks."
"One beef noodle, A02115, no cilantro, thanks."
"One beef noodle, charge it to my account, thanks."
"Beef noodles."
"The usual."
The more she ordered, the simpler the messages had become. The shop owner had even stopped replying with words—just sent back a sticker that said "Got it."
Pei Ran copied the method.
She was about to paste the usual order when she remembered that strange warning:
Please do not speak. Please do not send any text to others. Only image-based communication is safe.
If this really was some kind of drill—
Even if everyone downstairs was still chatting like normal—
She should take it seriously.
Drills were meant to instill good habits early.
In the bunker world, everyone who had ignored drills ended up dead.
So she didn't send a text. Instead, she tapped the restaurant's profile picture.
It was a photo of a steaming bowl of beef noodles, neatly labeled with a price—28 yuan per bowl, rich broth, generous beef. Fair and honest.
Pei Ran carefully cropped the bowl of noodles from the photo.
She tilted her head, studying the image. Her eyes landed on the finely chopped green leaves floating in the soup.
In her mind, a sharp, unpleasant taste surged up.
Cilantro.
She couldn't remember what good food tasted like anymore. But disgusting flavors—those stuck around.
She could not allow that vile herb to taint a perfectly good bowl of noodles.
Maybe the owner remembered her no-cilantro preference.
But what if he didn't?
What if he just saw the image and reflexively added it?
No.
She wouldn't risk it.
She opened the image editor.
It had powerful tools—she could add text, doodle, whatever.
She could just write "No cilantro" on the image. After all, the strange warning message had used text-on-images too.
But Pei Ran hesitated.
If text was banned… why did image text get a pass?
This world's drill protocols seemed kind of sloppy.
No. She needed higher standards for herself.
Pei Ran didn't add any text.
Instead, she drew a big red X over the cilantro.
Then she saved the image.
After another moment of thought, she reopened the file and added a second image of the same noodles—side by side.
One bowl wasn't going to cut it.
Two bowls. Beef noodles ×2.
She sent the image set.
A few seconds later, the shop owner replied with the usual sticker: "Got it."
Pei Ran relaxed, waiting patiently for the delivery.
The shop was just across the plaza in Building B, but no one came.
Time passed. Finally, someone knocked—thump, thump.
Pei Ran walked to the door and peeked through the peephole.
There was a man outside—middle-aged, slightly distorted by the lens. Big belly. Argyle sweater with a puffy vest. Holding a leash attached to a large black dog.
The dog sniffed at a cardboard box left by the door.
This didn't look like the delivery guy—definitely not the one in uniform from yesterday. This had to be that cranky neighbor from last night.
Pei Ran stayed silent.
The man waited a few seconds. No answer. He grew annoyed.
He raised his fist and pounded on the door.
"Hey, anyone home? I live next door. I just wanted to ask—"
He never finished.
His face froze. His open mouth stuck mid-sentence.
Then—BOOM. A dull explosion.
Chunks of flesh splattered the peephole.
Blood and meat smeared the lens, then slid down slowly.
Through the blood-smeared glass, Pei Ran saw only a red haze.
The man was gone.
All that remained were wet, pulpy bits sprayed across the hallway—on the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
He had exploded. There was no other word for it.
The dog yelped—a guttural, pained howl.
It hadn't exploded, but its tail and half a leg were missing.
It didn't stick around.
Dragging the shredded leash, it limped off in terror.
Pei Ran stood motionless, staring into the peephole.
She had seen death. Plenty of it. But not like this.
Not in a world that looked this safe.
Not a death this sudden. This total.
She backed away quickly, putting distance between herself and the door.
Steady. Think.
She hadn't seen any attacker.
She scanned her memory.
This apartment was at the end of a hallway—she had full visibility from the peephole. The corridor was completely empty. No shadows. No hiding spots. The walls were smooth. No windows. No sniper nests.
No snipers. That meant internal detonation.
Something had gone off inside him.
Torn him to bits.
Pei Ran reopened the message.
The image said:
Do not speak.
Do not speak.
Before he exploded, the man had been talking.
He'd gotten just a few words out.
Then—BOOM.
A noise outside. Subtle, but wrong.
Pei Ran rushed to the window again.
The hovercars were gone.
The roads between towers, once busy, were deserted.
Too empty.
On the sidewalk below, she spotted someone.
A person wearing a white scarf and a black-and-white knit hat, frozen in place like a statue.
Two meters from them—
A bright, red splatter bloomed on the pavement.
Across the street, a building guard stepped out, wearing a navy uniform.
He spotted something—hurried across the road, flicked open his wristband, pulled up a virtual screen.
Calling for help?
The one in the hat didn't move. Too shocked, maybe.
The guard rushed closer.
Pei Ran willed him silently: Don't talk. Don't talk.
But he couldn't hear her thoughts.
Sound carried upward. She heard him say:
"What's going on…? I can't get through to the security bureau… not even the city hotline…"
BOOM.
The guard vanished in a wet burst.
Blood misted across the street.
Pei Ran scanned the surrounding towers. Nothing.
Her gaze returned to the sidewalk.
The hat-wearer had finally lost it. They screamed—raw and high-pitched, inhuman:
"Aaaah—aaaAAAH—"
Pei Ran silently counted.
One. Two. Three.
BOOM.
The screaming stopped.
Another crimson flower bloomed on the pavement.
Everyone who spoke… exploded.