117: Chapter 118 My Neighbor Isn't Him Anymore

On the commentary stand, Isabelle switched the first round of biometric data reports from the Cyber Federation to the center of the public screen.

"Ninety-nine point two percent coverage, 113,600 data points, zero anomalies."

Her speaking pace was steady, like a mentor who had just finished reviewing a perfect test paper.

"The Blue Side established an absolute information advantage in their jurisdiction by the fifth hour after the match began."

The green lights on the public screen merged into a sea of light; every flicker proclaimed the indestructibility of order.

"We've analyzed before that in this scenario called 'Xenos Infiltration,' the accuracy and speed of information acquisition are the keys to victory or defeat."

She used a data pen to circle a spot on the green sea.

"The Blue Side's AI system has now entered the second stage of active monitoring mode. Any individual deviating from the normal baseline by two standard deviations will be immediately locked onto. This means the infiltrators no longer have any room to move in the West District."

Bullet comments scrolled along the edges of the public screen, most in agreement.

"The Cyber Federation's system is perfect for catching spies. It even monitors heart rate and body temperature in real-time. How can monsters pretend?"

"A total tech-crushing match. The Red Side hasn't even installed a decent surveillance camera yet."

"There's no suspense left in this match. Unless the Red Side pulls out some black tech, they're just waiting to die."

Karen sat on the right. He didn't look at the screen full of green lights; his bionic eye was locked on another screen—the temporary command room of the Imperial jurisdiction's East District.

The door to the command room was open, and a woman stood at the entrance.

She was about forty years old, wearing issued gray overalls, her hair tied back haphazardly with some strands stuck to her forehead by sweat. She stood very stiffly, her hands twisted together in front of her, fingers interlaced so tightly that her knuckles were a sickly pale.

Sergeant Hark sat behind the desk, his power armor still on, holding that black carbon pen.

"Name, address." Hark didn't look up at her, the tip of his pen hovering over the notebook.

"Martha, East District Corridor 4, Room B-112," the woman's voice trembled. It wasn't loud, but it was clear in the room where only the hum of the air circulation system could be heard. "Sir, I'm here... I want to report someone."

Hark stopped writing and looked up.

His gaze swept over the woman's twisted hands for a second, then looked at her face. Her complexion was sallow, and her pupils were darting around aimlessly—typical physical signs of fear.

"Who? What did they do?" he asked directly. There was no process for emotional comfort; the word 'counseling' did not exist in an Imperial soldier's dictionary.

"My neighbor, Gary from Room B-113," the woman swallowed, her throat making a slight gurgling sound. "He... he isn't him anymore."

Hark's eyes narrowed slightly.

This kind of statement would be classified as mental instability or a prank in any conventional public security incident. The Cyber Federation's AI processing program didn't even have a natural language recognition interface for "he isn't him anymore."

"Be specific," Hark said. "How is he not himself? Did his appearance change? Did he mutate? Or did he say something unusual to you?"

"Neither. His appearance is the same, and his voice is the same."

The woman shook her head urgently, her fingers twisting even tighter.

"But he just isn't him, sir. I've lived next door to him for three years. The walls are so thin. Every morning for three years at 6:30, I could hear him using that old electric kettle to boil water for tea. That kettle has a loose connection; every time it's plugged in, there's a tiny 'sizzle' of current."

She stopped to catch her breath, her eyes fixed on the notebook on Hark's desk.

"Yesterday morning at 6:30, there was no sound. This morning, there was none either."

Hark leaned back in his chair.

"Maybe his electric kettle is broken," he said, his tone flat. "Or maybe he's switched to drinking cold water these past few days."

"I bumped into him when I went out to work this morning."

The woman seemed not to hear Hark's words; she continued on her own, her speaking speed increasing.

"He had just opened his door to take out the trash. He greeted me and smiled, exactly like usual. But I took one look at him and I knew that wasn't Gary."

"How did you know?" Hark's voice rose slightly, suppressing the woman's spiraling pace.

The woman looked at Hark.

"When he smiled," she said, her voice suddenly becoming extremely low, as if she were saying something forbidden, "when he smiled, his teeth were wrong."

Hark didn't speak.

He stood up and closed the notebook. This movement was quite large for someone wearing power armor; the chair scraped against the floor, letting out a piercing screech. The woman was startled and stepped back half a pace, bumping into the doorframe.

"Take me to see him," Hark said.

East District Corridor 4, Room B-113.

Hark walked in front, with the woman following ten paces behind. He didn't knock, nor did he let the woman knock.

He pressed his gauntlet directly against the door—not to break it down, but to knock three times on the metal panel with his power-armored fingers.

These three knocks were much louder than a normal knock; the dull thuds echoed throughout the corridor.

The door opened after about five seconds.

A man stood behind the door, in his thirties, of medium build, wearing a faded blue pullover. His expression was one of confusion mixed with a bit of wary alertness from being disturbed—a very common reaction for an ordinary person facing a military patrol.

"Officer?" The man's gaze swept over Hark's power armor and stopped on the insignia on his chest. "Is there something wrong?"

His voice was normal, no change in pitch, no trembling.

Hark looked at his face.

"Routine registration check," Hark said. "Name?"

"Gary T-098."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Over three years. I've lived here since the Colony was built." The man answered smoothly, his eyes not wavering.

Hark took a small step forward, the toe of his power armor boot less than ten centimeters from the man's slippers. He lowered his head, staring at the man's mouth through the gaps in his visor.

"Not at work today?"

"Shift break, morning shift tomorrow." The man smiled, a hint of fawning in his expression.

He smiled.

Hark's gaze was deadlocked on his lips.

The teeth were revealed.

Two rows, upper and lower, slightly yellowed. The left canine was a bit longer than the right, and the gums were slightly receding. Ordinary human teeth with years of life's wear and tear.

No anomalies whatsoever. No change in alignment, no mutated fangs, no extra structures.

Completely normal.

"Alright, sorry to bother you." Hark stepped back.

The smile on the man's face became a bit more sincere. "It's fine, officer. Just doing your job."

The door closed.

Hark turned around and saw the woman ten paces away, shrinking into the shadows at the end of the corridor like a frightened mouse.

He walked over.

"His teeth are fine," Hark whispered as he passed her. "You were mistaken."

He didn't wait for her to answer and continued walking.

Back in the command room, he reopened the notebook and capped the carbon pen on its end.

He turned to a new page and wrote "Gary T-098."

Then he drew a dash after the name and followed it with four characters:

Potential Xenos.

After writing it, he stared at those words for a while, the tip of his pen pausing on the notebook, leaving a small black dot.

He had no tools, no scanners, no equipment to extract DNA for comparison.

He had just seen the man with his own eyes; from his pupils to his breathing rate to his teeth, he had found nothing that didn't belong to a human.

But he wrote those words.

Because a woman who had listened to the sound of boiling water next door for three years said that person wasn't right.

Because she was so terrified her fingers were shaking.

In the logic of the Imperial Truth, when you can't find evidence to prove someone is a Xenos, if someone swears on their life that they're off, then treat them as a Xenos first.

Evidence is something for after the arrest. Before the arrest, it's better to kill by mistake than to let one go.

He didn't need data to support his suspicion. Suspicion itself was enough.

He opened a drawer and took out a communication terminal.

It wasn't a civilian device connected to the Colony's public network, but an encrypted frequency for the Imperial garrison.

He typed a short message and sent it up.

"Suspected infiltrator discovered in Room B-113, Corridor 4, East District. Requesting preventive isolation."

On the public screen of the livestream, this message was displayed in full.

Isabelle's voice chimed in at the right moment, a slight curve at the corner of her mouth as if she might have laughed if her professional standards as a commentator hadn't forbidden it.

"The Red Side's Commander just requested isolation measures for a resident whose physical signs are completely normal, based on another resident's baseless 'feeling'."

She pushed her monocle, a cold light flashing across the lens.

"This is a typical blind action during a period of spreading panic. No biological sign comparison, no logical chain of support—just subjective speculation like 'his teeth were wrong when he smiled'."

The reaction in the bullet comments was even more intense this time, a mix of ellipses and question marks filling the screen.

"Is this the original style's way of handling things? Catching aliens based on an old lady's report?"

"LMAO, 'teeth were wrong.' Did he go to the other side to get a tooth pulled?"

"With this approach, the Colony will blow up sooner or later. Catch a few wrong people and the lower classes will riot."

"Human rights are completely gone. Forced isolation without even a scan."

Amidst the mockery, Karen suddenly spoke.

He leaned forward slightly, his bionic eye's red light locking onto the page in the notebook where Hark had written.

"That woman lived there for three years," Karen's voice sounded like rusted tracks grinding against stone.

"She heard the sizzle of that kettle being plugged in next door every day for three years. She didn't hear it yesterday or today. But there are no records of malfunctions in the Colony's power system for these three days."

Isabelle turned to look at him.

"What does that prove? Maybe the person just didn't want to drink water."

"A fixed habit formed by a person living there for three years changed for two consecutive days without any external cause," Karen said.

"And when he smiled, a neighbor who had seen his smile for three years felt his teeth were wrong. Even though his teeth looked normal to us through the visual enhancement system."

Karen leaned back into his chair, the metal interface dimming into the shadows.

"On the battlefield, if a veteran tells you that the shape of a mound on the opposite side is different from yesterday, you'd better not take instruments to measure the water content of that mound. You'd better just fire a shell at it."

He offered no further explanation.

In the Colony, time silently slid toward the early hours of the next day. Night lights elongated the shadows of every object in the corridors, and the continuous hum of the ventilation ducts echoed in this man-made hell, masking every faint, unusual noise that might leak into the air.

Sergeant Hark tossed the carbon pen onto the desk, leaving it uncapped.