Number Seven

During the multilingual demonstration, three live feeds—Chinese, English, Japanese—suddenly played together. The pain was stronger than ever. A future voice flooded Cheng's ears. “The subject will look toward the emergency exit in seven seconds.” It was not sports commentary. Cheng stared at the screen. Seven seconds later, an alarm sounded on the right. Everyone turned except him. He lifted his water and told Tang on his left, “Too much latency. Not worth the price.” Zhou's smile froze for half a beat. Lin pulled the cable. “The Tides can't afford to maintain a free trap. Rejected.” As he left, Zhou murmured in Japanese, “Number Seven, your father hid himself better than you do.”