32: Tightrope dancing under legal scrutiny

At 6:17 AM, while the city was still yawning, the lights in Cheng Mo’s office were already as bright as a red-hot iron plate. He hadn’t opened the package that had just arrived in the delivery locker, nor had he touched the cold coffee on his desk. His phone sat silently to his left, screen down, but it vibrated every thirty seconds—a notification from the e-commerce platform refreshing the pre-sale data for the controllers.

He stared at the main screen.

The decision interface of the moral dilemma beta version was playing on a loop: on the left were ten blurred adult faces; on the right was a little girl in a red dress. The background audio was the sound of a heartbeat, gradually quickening. Five seconds before the countdown hit zero, the screen would tremble slightly, as if the system were holding its breath.

At 7:03 AM, the door was pushed open.

Wang Zhen walked in, dressed in a sharp suit, a Rolex chain peeking from his cuff. In his right hand, he carried a folder stamped with the words "Cultural Content Compliance Review." His steps were steady, and his lips wore that kind of smile used by someone who could still hand out business cards with a grin after three failed project negotiations in a conference room.

"President Cheng, morning."

Just as he was about to speak, Cheng Mo raised his hand and pressed the projection button.

"Director Wang," Cheng Mo’s voice wasn't loud, sounding as if he were introducing a newly released skin, "you’ve come at just the right time. I have a small clip here that I’d like you to provide a qualitative assessment for on the spot."

The large screen was instantly filled with the decision screen, the heartbeat sound played through the speakers in sync, its rhythm striking the eardrums with precision. Wang Zhen’s words caught in his throat, and his footsteps halted. He instinctively took half a step back before forcing himself to stand firm, adjusting his glasses.

"Which... game is this?"

"It hasn’t launched yet." Cheng Mo leaned back in his chair, his right fingertips lightly tapping the desk, three beats out of sync with the heartbeat. "Internal code name: moral dilemma. The gameplay is simple—you must choose a side."

"Sacrifice one child to save ten adults?" Wang Zhen frowned. "This kind of setup inherently carries ethical risks and clearly doesn't align with youth protection principles."

Cheng Mo didn't argue; he simply paused the screen at the moment the little girl turned her head, then replayed it.

Once, twice, three times.

The office lights were dimmed to the coldest setting, the white light pressing down on their faces, making even the shadows look sharp. The blue light from the screen reflected off Wang Zhen’s lenses like a constantly refreshing data stream. His right hand slowly moved away from the folder and rested on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning slightly white.

Cheng Mo asked softly, "Which one would you choose?"

Wang Zhen didn't answer.

His lips moved as if he were silently reciting some regulatory clause, but ultimately he only squeezed out a sentence: "This... this doesn't comply with the regulations."

"Regulations?" Cheng Mo smiled slightly, not out of mockery or pride, but more with the familiarity of a player seeing an NPC deliver a fixed line of dialogue. "But in reality, no one has ever given a standard answer. You say it violates regulations, but what about disaster relief in the real world? When resources are insufficient, who decides who lives?"

Wang Zhen's Adam's apple bobbed, and his left hand subconsciously reached for the inner pocket of his suit—there was a fountain pen there, but he didn't pull it out. He didn't dare let his gaze leave the screen entirely, as if afraid that if he blinked, the little girl in the red dress would disappear.

"We aren't simulating a disaster," his tone began to tighten, "we are creating psychological pressure, especially for minors—"

"So you've made a choice?" Cheng Mo interrupted. "To protect the child? But what if those ten adults included doctors, firefighters, and nuclear power plant operators? And what if the child themselves had an incurable terminal illness?"

As he spoke, he quietly turned on the hidden camera.

The lens was aimed directly at Wang Zhen’s left hand. That hand was now clearly shaking—not much, but enough to be captured by the high-definition sensor. His fingertips curled slightly, as if trying to grasp something, yet also as if resisting a touch.

"This isn't a question a game should discuss." Wang Zhen finally regained a bit of momentum, his voice rising. "You are commodifying moral dilemmas and inducing users into irrational emotional fluctuations! I have already submitted a formal review application; the platform will take down the relevant test content within twenty-four hours."

Cheng Mo nodded as if he had just heard an insignificant notification.

He turned off the projector, and the screen went black instantly. The heartbeat sound stopped abruptly.

Then, he pulled out a printed A3 sheet and pushed it to the center of the table.

"Global Ethical Game Regulation Comparison Table." He announced the title in a tone like he was reading off a menu. "Germany allows such mechanisms to exist, provided they offer a 'psychological buffer exit channel'; Japan requires developers to sign a letter of responsibility; the US FDA has even used similar programs for experimental auxiliary treatment of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

He paused and looked into Wang Zhen’s eyes. "Your hand shook just now, did you know that? A continuous tremor for 0.6 seconds at a frequency of 4.2 Hz—a typical cognitive overload reaction. Our players experience this every day. They curse, they smash their keyboards, they take screenshots at 3 AM to post and accuse you of being anti-human—but they’ll still click 'Try Again' the next day."

Wang Zhen didn't respond.

He stood there like a flagpole driven into concrete; the wind was still blowing, but the flag no longer moved.

"You say it doesn't comply with regulations." Cheng Mo stood up, walked around the desk to the water dispenser, and poured himself a cup of water, his movements slow as if waiting for a signal. "But regulations are meant to manage the known. What we are doing now is tearing a rift in the unknown to let people see what’s actually inside."

He took a sip and set the cup down.

"I haven't looked at the folder you brought, and I won't sign it. But if you truly care about 'compliance,' why not answer one question first—if this choice appeared on an exam at your child's school, how would you want them to answer? Based on rules, or based on feeling?"

Wang Zhen’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

He looked down at his still-trembling hand, suddenly clenched it into a fist, and shoved it into his pocket.

"I will have the review team provide a conclusion as soon as possible." He turned toward the door, his pace faster than when he entered, though slightly more stumbling. "Until then, please cease all forms of public testing."

The sound of the door closing was very soft.

Cheng Mo didn't see him out, nor did he look back.

He sat back in his chair and opened his computer; the screen still showed the raw code interface for moral dilemma. The branching logic was nested layer upon layer like a spiderweb, each thread connected to a different ending path.

His fingers lightly tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Once, twice.

The rhythm was exactly the same as when he was waiting for the delivery last night.

Outside the window, the daylight had fully broken. The breakfast stalls downstairs began frying dough sticks, the oily smoke drifting up with the wind, mingling with the sound of traffic and honking horns. The city was awake, busy with clocking in for work, traffic jams, fighting for parking spots, and dealing with the moods of bosses.

It was no different from the world in the game.

He reached out and took the package from the desk, tearing open the packaging.

Inside was an unassembled Arcade Button Module, complete with all parts and an installation diagram. He glanced at the back of the manual, where a line of small text was printed: "Suitable for high-feedback scenario interaction devices."

He didn't laugh, nor did he sigh.

He simply laid the parts out on the desk one by one, picked up a screwdriver, and began tightening the first mounting screw.

The sound of the screw entering the wooden board was very crisp.

Click, click, click.

Like some kind of countdown.