39: Taboo words in psychological reports

The fog hadn't fully dissipated, and the hum of the fluorescent tubes was louder than usual. Cheng Mo stood before the testing table, his right hand still resting on the edge of the liquid nitrogen tank, his fingertips numb. Cold air crawled up his legs, but he didn't move. Echoing in his mind was the system notification—"Icebound King." He hadn't set it, and it wasn't an Easter egg buried by Chen Hao. It had popped up on its own.

It was as if someone had given him a gentle push from behind.

That was when Lin Wanqing walked in. She didn't turn on the main lights, only twisting the knob on the dimmable desk lamp in the corner of the testing area. The warm yellow light cut across diagonally, casting a soft shadow over her face. She wore her usual deep gray hoodie, the hands of the mechanical watch on her wrist ticking steadily. In her left hand, she clutched a file, the cover printed with "leap platform nightmare Initial Phase Psychological Feedback Report: Internal Revised Edition."

She walked over to Cheng Mo and placed the document gently on the table. The edges of the paper were already somewhat curled, as if it had been flipped through many times.

"I've finished organizing it," she said, her voice neither high nor low, just enough to pierce through the damp cold in the air. "Data summary of thirty-seven core testers with over forty consecutive hours online."

Cheng Mo looked down at the document. He didn't reach for it. His gaze fell on the conclusion column on the first page, where a line of bold text was particularly jarring:

[Long-term players will experience symptoms of reality dissociation]

He tapped his right knuckles twice on the tabletop, the rhythm steady, as if testing the rebound of a keyboard. Then, he pulled out a pen from his hoodie pocket—a metal mechanical pencil with worn-off paint and a tip that had long been uneven. He drew a line under "reality dissociation symptoms" and then pulled down a jagged horizontal line, like a cliff on a map.

Then, he wrote a note.

His handwriting was sharp, every stroke leaving an indentation: "This is exactly the key to breaking the Information Cocoon."

Lin Wanqing didn't speak. She stared at that line of text for a full five seconds. Then she flipped to the next page and pointed at a section of data: 17 players experienced disorientation, time perception delay, and brief identity confusion in reality. One of them, when opening the door for a delivery person at 3:00 AM, called himself "Challenger T37," while another attempted to use the in-game jumping rhythm to control elevator buttons.

"This isn't experimental data," she said. "It's clinical records."

Cheng Mo looked up at her. The dark circles under her eyes were deep, as if traced with charcoal. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but he didn't succeed. "Do you know how long ordinary people spend scrolling through short videos every day? Seven hours and twenty-three minutes. They don't call it dissociation; they call it relaxing."

"But they know they're scrolling." Lin Wanqing's voice remained flat, but her speech slowed by half a beat. "These players are starting to doubt whether reality is also a game they haven't cleared yet."

Cheng Mo didn't respond. He twirled his pen—once, twice—the tip scratching against the paper. On the third time, the tip suddenly snagged; he applied more force, and with a snap, it broke.

Both of them fell silent for a moment.

Lin Wanqing stared at the broken pen tip as if looking at some kind of omen. Then she raised her hand and pulled off the silver stud from her left ear.

The metal gave a soft clink as it hit the concrete floor, rolling half a circle before stopping by Cheng Mo's shoe.

She didn't bend down to pick it up.

"You call this a key?" she spoke, her voice lower than before but heavier. "But they've already started to forget who they are."

She took a half-step forward, standing directly under the light, the purple tips of her hair shimmering with a hint of dark red. "And what about you? You sleep four hours a day, use a game controller to open cans, and treat players' insults as naturally as breathing... Are you sure you're still standing in reality?"

Cheng Mo didn't move.

He sat with his back straight and his hands on the edge of the table, as if waiting for a system to finish loading. His eyes remained open, his pupils appearing exceptionally dark and deep in the dim light. There was no flinching or rebuttal; he just looked at her like that.

But she saw it.

At the very bottom of his gaze, there was an empty space. It wasn't exhaustion or madness, but a kind of lucid descent—he knew where this road led, but he had already stepped onto it and even dismantled the bridge behind him.

Lin Wanqing's throat moved slightly, but she didn't speak again.

She just stood there, her left hand hovering by her ear, empty. The mechanical watch ticked away, the sound so clear it seemed to come from another room.

Cheng Mo finally spoke, his voice raspy. "You think I'm hurting them?"

"I think you're hurting yourself," she said. "And you've known it for a long time."

He laughed—a real laugh this time—his lips pulling back to reveal half a canine tooth. "So? You want me to change the mechanics? Lower the difficulty? Add a tutorial for newcomers that says 'Welcome to the world of pain, please fasten your seatbelts'?"

"At least let them remember the way back."

"But they never even set out." He shook his head. "They've been trapped for a long time. Clocking in, watching videos, eating takeout, sleeping—they do it a hundred times over without finding it strange. I'm just making them realize—hey, this thing has a pause button."

"So you let them fall to their deaths seventeen times on the pause button?"

"Seventeen times isn't enough," he said. "It needs to be a hundred times. A thousand. Until they stop asking why they failed and start asking—can I change the rules?"

Lin Wanqing looked at him and suddenly felt tired.

It wasn't physical; it was the kind of powerlessness that seeped out from the marrow of her bones. She had seen too many similar patients: children addicted to casual games, calm on the surface, but their inner selves already regressed into containers that passively received commands. She joined this studio because she believed extreme experiences could awaken the numb. But she hadn't expected the executor himself to be disintegrating.

"Have you ever tested your own brainwaves?" she asked.

"Not interested."

"Have you ever recorded your cognitive bias after working for more than thirty-six consecutive hours?"

"Unnecessary."

"Then on what basis do you judge that you can still be the referee?"

Cheng Mo was silent for a few seconds. Then he reached out and picked up an empty drink can from the corner of the table—a Coke, its pull tab already pried off by a controller. He placed it in his palm and squeezed gently; the can collapsed with a muffled thud.

"Look at this can," he said. "It was originally filled with liquid, the pressure stable. Once opened, the gas rushes out, but it doesn't collapse immediately. It maintains its shape for a while, even if it's been empty for a long time."

He looked up at her. "That's what I am now."

Lin Wanqing didn't move.

She knew this wasn't a metaphor or an evasion. It was a confession.

He knew he was running dry, yet he chose to keep running until the system forced a shutdown.

She suddenly bent down and picked up the earring from the floor. The metal was cold and stained with a bit of dust. She didn't put it back on, just clenched it in her palm.

"Next time," she said, "don't celebrate with liquid nitrogen."

Cheng Mo nodded.

"Dry ice works too."

She didn't laugh.

As she turned to leave, she stopped, without looking back. "If you really want to tear open the cocoon... don't just rely on smashing it. Leave a gap so people can breathe."

The sound of footsteps faded away, leaving him alone in the testing area.

The mist continued to flow slowly, swirling around arcade machines, cables, and trash cans overflowing with empty cans. The fluorescent tubes still hummed, and the temperature slowly rose. The report lay open on the table, the note he had written exceptionally clear under the light:

"This is exactly the key to breaking the Information Cocoon."

Cheng Mo stared at it for a long time.

Then he reached out and pushed the entire page aside, revealing a blank chart underneath. He picked up another pen and began to write.

The title was: [New Mechanism Draft | Cognitive Shock Threshold Optimization]

The pen tip moved across the paper, making a scratching sound.

Faint footsteps came from the hallway outside, approaching from afar and then slowly fading away.

He didn't look up.