Chapter 1: 00848

Shanghai, Qingfu Prison.

In a nondescript office, the acrid scent of tobacco permeated the air.

A young man with a calm demeanor and striking good looks sat in a chair. He wore an orange prison vest and sported a perfectly smooth, round, shaved head. His posture was relaxed, leaning slightly against the chair back while his feet alternated between pushing against the ground, causing the chair to creak rhythmically.

The young man’s name was Ren Ye, inmate #00848 at this prison. He spent his days undergoing reform in the general ward.

Across the clean and tidy desk sat a scruffy middle-aged man with a cigarette clutched in his right hand. Rubbing his eyes with his left hand, he asked, “You’ve been in here for over three years now?”

“Three years, three months, and five days,” Ren Ye nodded.

“Oh, right. I’m Huang Wei.” The scruffy man wore an old leather jacket, his voice low and lethargic, exuding an air of fatigue.

“Ugh…”

Cough, cough—ptooey!

After speaking, Huang Wei took a deep drag from his cigarette and coughed several times before spitting a mouthful of yellow phlegm. Unable to find a trash bin, he spat into an empty cigarette pack, crushed it with his hand, and tossed it onto the desk.

Ren Ye silently observed him, his face expressionless, but his mind whirring with thoughts. Was this man a supervisor? A psychologist? A stationed inspector?

With such coarse habits, none of those options seemed likely.

Huang Wei, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, took another deep drag and asked, “How much longer until you’re out?”

“Counting the reduced sentence, two years, eight months, and twenty-five days.”

“Hmm. Any regrets?” Huang Wei asked casually, as though discussing the weather.

Ren Ye chuckled lightly.

“You were young and impulsive,” Huang Wei said, pointing at Ren Ye with little courtesy. “I’ve read your file. Such a waste.”

“Being young is when you get the chance to make mistakes. Six years inside, and I’ll still be Ren Ye when I get out—nothing will have changed,” Ren Ye replied, his tone light. “Besides, it’s not bad here. My cellmates are skilled craftsmen—musicians, singers, you name it. It’s been quite entertaining.”

Huang Wei’s purplish complexion cracked into a rare smile.

More than three years ago, Ren Ye had just started working on anti-fraud operations along the border. During the transfer of suspects, two individuals attempted a violent escape. Ren Ye shot them dead—seven bullets in total, leaving both suspects with their skulls shattered.

Just a week earlier, one of Ren Ye’s closest colleagues had been dismembered and buried alive by the same suspects in a foreign country. To this day, only his arms and torso had been recovered.

The colleague had been an only child, recently married, with a wife eight months pregnant at the time of his death.

Since the murder took place overseas, collecting evidence was exceedingly difficult. The two suspects killed by Ren Ye were only officially charged with fraud and money laundering—crimes that likely wouldn’t have led to a death sentence.

Ren Ye’s unit tried their best to defend him, employing numerous strategies. However, the case’s crux lay in the fact that Ren Ye had fired seven shots, completely destroying the suspects’ heads.

In the end, Ren Ye was sentenced to six years and ten months in prison.

Was he remorseful?

On the surface, Ren Ye appeared carefree, even flippant, but deep down, he had asked himself that question countless times. Transitioning from a respected figure to a condemned killer rejected by society was undeniably difficult—not just for others, but especially for himself.

From this perspective, regret seemed inevitable. Yet life’s irony lies in the fact that many regrettable decisions, even if given a second chance, would still play out the same way.

This contradiction weighed heavily on Ren Ye, though he rarely voiced it.

Huang Wei stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, immediately pulling out a new pack and lighting another without pause. “I work for a special unit.”

“I figured as much,” Ren Ye said with a nod.

“What I’m about to tell you may be hard to digest, comprehend, or even believe. It could leave you feeling shocked and confused,” Huang Wei said seriously, cigarette in hand. “But I trust your background is solid enough to handle it.”

Ren Ye frowned slightly. “Shocked and confused? I don’t follow.”

“Let me tell you two stories first,” Huang Wei said.

“Is it going to take long? I have to operate a sewing machine for work points tomorrow,” Ren Ye quipped.

Ignoring the comment, Huang Wei carefully organized his thoughts before speaking. “In 1973, there was an incident involving a so-called ‘reborn person.’ A family surnamed Jiang in the south had a son, who was about three years old at the time. Let’s call him Xiao Jiang.

“One day, the boy suddenly told his parents, ‘I’m not actually your son. I’m the son of another family in Danzhou. Over ten years ago, I was killed in a gang fight, and now I’ve reincarnated into your family. I want to go back and see my previous parents.’

“At first, the Jiang family didn’t believe him, thinking he might be possessed or something. But the boy kept repeating stories from his past life, pestering them every day. Eventually, when he was six years old, they took him to Danzhou.”

What was this—science fiction?

Some kind of folk legend?

The scruffy middle-aged man didn’t seem like someone skilled at storytelling. Perhaps he worked in some esoteric field.

What was his goal? Ren Ye’s suspicions grew.

Huang Wei’s bloodshot eyes seemed lifeless, yet as he recounted the story, his gaze subtly tracked Ren Ye’s microexpressions. Unsurprisingly, Ren Ye’s skeptical look, as though he were observing a lunatic, was well within his expectations.

“…After arriving in Danzhou, under the boy’s guidance, the Jiang couple effortlessly found a specific household. The boy led the way without making a single mistake. Upon arriving, the boy recognized his father from his past life. At first, the man dismissed his claims as nonsense. However, every detail the boy mentioned about his past life matched the man’s knowledge perfectly.” Huang Wei recounted the story with utmost seriousness, his expression grave.

Ren Ye listened intently. “Ah, and then?”

“Then comes the second story,” Huang Wei replied, his voice magnetic, as if made for storytelling. “In January 1995, a scientific research station stationed in Antarctica observed a massive foggy cloud formation in the sky. Strangely, despite the presence of strong winds, the fog remained motionless, showing no signs of dispersing. Oddly enough, the fog resembled a circular gate. To investigate, they tied precision instruments to a balloon and floated it into the ‘fog gate’ for testing. When they retrieved the balloon after the designated time, they found the instruments displayed a date from 1965. Initially, they thought the instruments were faulty, so they repeated the experiment with various devices. Yet, every time, the instruments consistently showed the same date in 1965—down to the exact second.”

Ren Ye furrowed his brows, contemplating. “I think I’ve read about this in the news…”

“The news didn’t tell you that years later, when the fog reappeared, three people entered it and disappeared without a trace,” Huang Wei interrupted, his tone deadly serious.

Ren Ye stared blankly for a while before asking, “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Huang Wei replied matter-of-factly with a nod.

“I don’t get it. What’s the point of telling me these two stories?” Ren Ye asked, confused.

Silence filled the room, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Huang Wei locked eyes with Ren Ye. “I want you to understand: humanity knows far too little about the world, let alone the universe. Strange occurrences could be happening all around us at any given moment.”

Ren Ye quickly regained his composure, analyzing the situation internally.

A man who could meet him at 11 PM, grant him a private meeting with no staff present, and have enough authority to secure a confidential conversation likely wasn’t here to tell ghost stories.

“There’s an opportunity for you to leave this place,” Huang Wei said calmly. “The price is… you might die.”

The screeching sound of the chair dragging across the floor ceased. Ren Ye straightened his posture, raising an eyebrow. “Die?”

“To be precise, this isn’t an order or a chance to atone for your crimes. It’s a request,” Huang Wei explained earnestly.

Ren Ye smirked. “And who’s making this request?”

“I can’t disclose much before you sign certain documents,” Huang Wei replied after a pause, adding enigmatically, “As for who’s requesting—ordinary citizens, leaders, colleagues, maybe even me… In short, our nation is going through something challenging.”

Ren Ye stopped asking questions. Huang Wei lit another cigarette and waited patiently, giving Ren Ye time to think.

After a long silence, Ren Ye suddenly looked up. “Do you remember what I told you earlier?”

Huang Wei blinked in mild confusion. “What?”

“I have two years, eight months, and twenty-five days left until I’m released,” Ren Ye repeated precisely.

Huang Wei immediately understood. “I told you, this isn’t about atonement.”

“I know,” Ren Ye nodded slowly. “In the three years I’ve been here, my sister and father visit me every month. I have a family. During this time, they’ve suffered more than me, waiting for my release.”

“If you succeed, this opportunity could transform your life,” Huang Wei said, his gaze lifting at a forty-degree angle, searching for the right words. “A… a spectacular life you can’t even imagine.”

“You also said that’s only ‘if.’”

Silence again.

“…Alright, my job here is done.” After a while, Huang Wei abruptly stood up, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray, and called out decisively, “We’re done. Take him back.”

Moments later, a voice echoed from the hallway. “00848!”

Ren Ye instinctively stood, placing his hands at his sides, his posture straight. “Here!”

“Head to the exit. Prepare to return to your cell.”

“Yes.” Ren Ye responded.

Huang Wei picked up Ren Ye’s file from the table, brushed off the ash on his leg, and headed for the door.

Ren Ye turned and marched towards another exit, his arms raised, head bowed, hugging the wall as he squatted down—standard procedure.

It was a posture he’d ordered countless suspects to assume in the past.

The sound of footsteps echoed as Huang Wei reached the office door. He was about to leave but paused when he glimpsed Ren Ye crouched quietly through the mirror.

Turning abruptly, Huang Wei shouted, “Ren Ye!”

“Huh?”

Still crouching with his hands over his head, Ren Ye lifted his eyes without raising his head.

Under the harsh light, Huang Wei stood at the door, suddenly straightened his legs, and raised his arm in a crisp salute. “Officer Ren, good work.”

Ren Ye froze.

“Those two bastards deserved to die,” Huang Wei said, enunciating each word.

In just one sentence, the man crouched on the ground felt tears welling up, as the unyielding walls in his heart began to crumble. “What… what did you just call me?”

“Officer Ren.”

“Ah, that’s… unfamiliar,” Ren Ye nodded, then grinned.