Chapter 2: Earn money while sleeping

I. Cemetery clues and pinhole marks

The morning fog in the Queens cemetery was as thick as a drowning dream, and the tombstones were looming in the fog, like a group of silent ghosts. Niu Aihua squatted in front of Zhou Ming's tombstone, her fingertips sweeping across the inscription on the granite: "Outstanding materials scientist, died at the age of 53". There were a few drops of dried blue paint on the edge of the tombstone, as if it was hastily painted. She frowned and took out the remains of the spray can in the evidence bag - the steel stamp "S-7U-42C" on the bottom of the can matched the paint marks. She stood up, stepped into the mud with her boots, and whispered: "Who is seeing you off?"

Jeffers walked from a distance, holding a tablet in his hand, and almost fell when he stepped over the puddle. He panted and said, "This is the seventh tombstone to be graffitied this month. Manhattan, Brooklyn, Bronx, all elites - doctors, mathematicians, fund managers, all died within two weeks." He tapped the screen and pulled up a table, "I checked their hands. Zhou Ming's report just came in. There is a pinhole on his right hand, and the skin around it is shrunk, with 'SU' engraved on it. The same is true for the other six."

Niu Aihua took the tablet and enlarged the photo of Zhou Ming's hand. The pinhole is as small as a mosquito bite, and the skin around it is wrinkled into a blurred "SU", as if it was branded with high temperature. She narrowed her eyes: "Poison needle?"

"Maybe." Jeffers shrugged, "But the autopsy said that the sleeping pills were taken orally, and this pinhole is more like a mark. Seven dead people, the method is the same, it's too coincidental."

She was silent for a moment, and her brother's appearance before his disappearance flashed in her mind. When he left that day, there was also a red dot on his wrist. When she asked, he smiled and said, "It's a souvenir from the experiment." She clenched her fist and whispered, "Check the recent activities of these deceased people. I want to know where they got the injections."

Jeffers nodded, "I'll go dig up the data. Be careful. This is a weird thing."

2. Joint meeting of forensic doctors and chip discovery

In the police station conference room, the air was filled with the mixed smell of disinfectant and coffee. The forensic doctors sat around a long table, and the projector projected the autopsy photos of the seven deceased people. The bodies on the screen were pale and stiff. The chief medical examiner pushed his glasses and said in a low voice: "All the deceased were found with microchips under the skin of the right ring finger. The diameter is 0.7 mm, the material is medical titanium alloy, and the surface is engraved with codes." He clicked the mouse, and a set of data popped up on the screen: "SU-C17, SU-C42, SU-C68... These numbers match the employee system of the sun umbrella company."

Niu Aihua stared at the screen with a frown: "What's in the chip?"

The medical examiner shook his head: "Most of the data has been cleared, leaving only the timestamp and location information. The last activation was concentrated between 42 and 60 days before death."

"What about the location?" Jeffers asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

"They are all Sun Umbrella headquarters buildings." The forensic doctor turned to the next page of projection, "The specific floor is unknown, the signal shielding is too strong, like a black box."

Niu Aihua clenched her fists and repeated in a low voice: "Sun Umbrella." Her brother's letter emerged in her mind: "The seventh floor is a black hole, don't get close." She took a deep breath and whispered: "What are these chips used for?"

The forensic doctor hesitated for a moment: "Maybe it's tracking, or recording certain physiological data. But it was cleared too thoroughly, and there is no way to reverse it."

Jeffers frowned: "Seven highly educated people, the same mark, the same company, this is not a coincidence."

3. The twists and turns of applying for a search warrant

Back in the office, Niu Aihua sorted out the chip evidence and Zhou Ming's bank statements-he received a transfer of $100,000 three months before his death, and the source was marked as "consulting fees." She submitted an application for a search warrant, but it was rejected by the judge on the grounds of "corporate privacy rights." Sun Umbrella's lawyer stated: "We respect the judiciary, but unauthorized investigations damage legitimate rights and interests." The tone was hard, like an iron wall.

Jeffers slammed the table and cursed: "What are they hiding? Do these guys have a backer?"

Niu Aihua calmed down and whispered: "The more they hide, the bigger the problem. They are afraid that we will dig deeper." She stared at the bill, "One hundred thousand yuan, what did Zhou Ming sell?"

Jeffers took the bill: "Consulting fee? This amount is not like an ordinary project, it looks like hush money."

She nodded: "We have to find another way."

Fourth, investigate the activities of the deceased

First stop: Zhou Ming's apartment

An old red brick building in Brooklyn, the door lock has fresh pry marks, as if someone broke in and didn't cover it up. Niu Aihua pushed the door in, the air was humid and musty. Academic journals were stacked on the coffee table in the living room. The cover of the latest issue was printed with "Sun Umbrella Foundation Sleep Seminar". The date was three months ago. There was a handwritten note in the corner: "Invitation from Area C, interview on the seventh floor."

The neighbor's old lady stood at the door with crutches, her voice hoarse: "Professor Zhou has been very strange recently. He talked in his sleep at night, 'Don't turn off the lights on the seventh floor', as if possessed by a ghost. Last month, his hands were shaking badly. There was no smell of alcohol, but it seemed that he was scared."

"Where has he been?" Niu Aihua asked, her eyes sharp.

"Interview at the company." The old lady narrowed her eyes, "He brought back a red umbrella, and they said it was issued."

Jeffers opened the kitchen trash can and pulled out a crumpled business card with moldy edges. "S.U.C Consulting Group" was written on the front and the date was handwritten on the back - 42 days before Zhou Ming's death. Niu Aihua took it, scratched it with her fingernails, and whispered: "Sun Umbrella."

Second stop: Manhattan mansion

The deceased, Allen Cole, a fund manager, committed suicide by taking poison. The housekeeper opened the door, his eyes dodging: "He had insomnia a week before his death, and he kept scratching his right hand. He said it hurt like a needle prick, and he also said someone was staring at him in his dreams."

Niu Aihua walked into the study. There was a broken coffee cup on the table with "SU" engraved on the bottom of the cup. Next to the fragments was an invitation letter from the Sun Umbrella Foundation, with a group photo of Allen standing among a group of people in suits and leather shoes, with the Sun Umbrella headquarters building in the background. She picked up the fragment with tweezers and frowned: "It's them again."

Jeffers squatted down to check the carpet and found a drop of dried blood: "Did it flow from the pinhole?"

"Maybe." She opened the invitation letter and whispered: "Where did these people get the needles?" She stared at the group photo. The people in the photo smiled stiffly, like a group of puppets being controlled.

V. The appearance of the cleaner Lao Chen

That night, Niu Aihua sneaked into the back alley of the Sun Umbrella headquarters. The fog was as thick as cotton wool, and the alley was full of garbage. She met a cleaner wearing dark blue overalls and a mask. He bent down to pick up garbage, his movements were slow, as if he was crushed by the years. He muttered, "Don't ask me, I don't know anything."

Niu Aihua saw that the material of his pants was the same as the fiber on Zhou Ming's body, and asked coldly, "Do you know Zhou Ming?"

The cleaner was stunned for a moment, took off his mask, revealing a wrinkled face with drooping eyes, as if he had cried countless times. He sighed softly, "Little girl, don't worry about it, life is not worth seven days."

"How long have you been at the parasol?" She approached step by step, her tone not allowing rejection.

"Five years." Old Chen smiled bitterly, "Mopping the floor, watching people coming in and out of the seventh floor, it's called the 'distillation field'."

"What are you distilling?"

"Dreams." Old Chen lowered his voice, almost close to her ear, "Volunteers are tied to the cabin and their dreams are drained. Some live, some go crazy, and some die."

Niu Aihua frowned: "Why are you willing to go?"

"Money." Old Chen said hoarsely, "'Earn money while sleeping', seven days at a time, starting at 100,000. Scientists, doctors, financial elites, all come for the money. But who knew it would cost their lives?"

"How do you drain it?"

"Tubes are inserted into the brain, and the machine squeezes juice." Old Chen gestured, "Nothing happened on the first day, screaming on the second day, and crazy on the third day. Some can't wake up."

"Is this 'optimization potential'?"

"Bullshit potential!" Old Chen sneered, "For AI data. Dreams are raw materials that can break through limits. But the price is that the brain is drained and even the memory is gone."

"How do you know?"

"Cleaners, I see everything." Lao Chen whispered, "The slogan on the seventh floor: 'Earn money while sleeping, and create the future when you wake up.' But who has a future when they wake up?"

Niu Aihua was silent and whispered, "Thank you." She turned and left, and Lao Chen's voice followed her: "Don't go, you won't live for more than seven days."

VI. The threat began to emerge

At three o'clock in the morning, Niu Aihua returned to the apartment, opened the door and smelled turpentine, as if someone had just left. She frowned, and there were several notes on the table: "Don't check the seventh floor, your life is not worth seven days." There was a rough umbrella-shaped mark on the back of the paper. She picked it up, her fingertips trembling, and walked to the window. Three "S.U.C Logistics" trucks drove past the corner of the street, and the fluorescent words were dazzling.

Jeffers called urgently: "Before Zhou Ming fell into the water, there was a sun umbrella truck parked by the bridge. The system was locked when adjusting the data, warning of the "Corporate Privacy Law."

"Locked?" She frowned.

"Yes." Jeffers cursed, "They are hiding something."

She hung up, stared at the note, and whispered, "It can't be hidden." Outside the window, the drone's red light flashed, like a cold eye.