The End of the Blue Mist (Part 1)

Lin Ser's Perspective:

I push open the laboratory door, and a wave of heat hits me like a punch to the face. I narrow my eyes; sweat immediately forms on my forehead, my wool sweater sticking to my back like a damp, cold shackle. Ceylon follows behind me, click-clack, like a faithful shadow. I stop, looking around—pipes like blood vessels, orange-red light seeping through the cracks, the air hot as a melting pot. But the machines are silent now, the roar gone, only the sound of dripping water remains, pitter-patter, like a kitchen sink, like Simon's whispers.

Ivy stands by the table, clutching a burnt paper, her back to the door, as if guarding something. Her sweater is soaked through, her gray-blue hair sticking to her forehead like a tangled mess. I take a deep breath, the hot air burning into my lungs, and calmly say: "Ivy, what are you doing here?" My voice is steady, like when I'm calibrating machines in the lab. I need to control the situation, can't let her act rashly.

She turns around, her eyes red as if she's been crying, but she doesn't deny it. She holds up the paper, saying softly: "Look at this, Lin Ser. His handwriting." I walk over, my steps as steady as if walking on a grid, take the paper from her, my fingertips touching her hand, hot as coal. The paper reads: "Spice is the core, melting point activates memory, Ceylon is the container." I stare at "Ceylon," my mind feeling like it's been struck, but I remain composed. I need to think clearly, what Simon is trying to do, why he stuffed his memories into this pile of metal.

"He's not dead," I say, my tone cold as ice, "he's in Ceylon." I turn to look at it, standing by the door, its screen dark, as if asleep. I need to decode that audio clip, need to find the key. My reason tells me this is a technical problem; I can solve it. But a voice in my heart, like a needle, pricks painfully—if he really is here, what should I do?

Ivy's Perspective:

When Lin Ser pushes open the door, I'm clutching that paper, my hand shaking like it might fall off. I don't turn around, but I know it's her; Ceylon's click-clack sounds like it's hitting my forehead. I turn to see her standing there, her wool sweater wet as a rag, the circles under her eyes as blue as fog. She asks what I'm doing, her voice calm as a knife. I hate her like this, as if she can calculate everything, as if Simon hasn't hurt her deep enough.

I hand her the paper, saying softly: "Look at this, his handwriting." I watch her take it, her fingertips touching my hand, like ice hitting fire. I wait for her to break down, but she doesn't. She says: "He's not dead, he's in Ceylon." Her tone is cold as if reporting the weather; I almost laugh. She's gone mad, but she's not disorderly; she's like a machine, more machine-like than Ceylon.

I lean against the table, sweat dripping down, hot as tears. I need to be rational, can't let her plunge in headfirst. I say: "Lin Ser, listen to me, something's not right here. The spice has burned, the machine has stopped, what he left behind is like poison." I point to the locked box in the corner, "There's something else there, but I didn't open it, I'm afraid." My voice shakes, but I stand straight, gritting my teeth. I must stop her, can't let her burn herself to death here.

I'm not afraid she'll go mad; I'm afraid she'll find him, afraid he's really here, afraid he chose her, not me. I know this thought is stupid, but I can't help it. I need to stay calm, think clearly, but the heat is like fire, burning my brain into chaos.

Nolan's Perspective:

When I arrive at the laboratory, the door is already open, fog and heat colliding, steam swirling like a fight. I stand in the doorway, my leather jacket wet as a sponge, still clutching an unlit cigarette. Inside, Lin Ser and Ivy face each other like two trapped beasts, Ceylon standing to one side, its screen dark, like a mute spectator. I cough, my throat dry as if I'd swallowed sand, and walk into the heat, my boots clicking on the floor.

Lin Ser clutches a piece of paper, her eyes cold as ice; Ivy leans against the table, her eyes red as a rabbit's. I glance around—the pipes still hot, orange-red light dimmed, the air cooling down like burned ash. I say: "What are you two doing here? Looking to die?" My voice is deep, like scolding in a workshop. I need to steady them, can't let this place explode.

Lin Ser looks up at me, saying: "He's in Ceylon." She points at that pile of metal, her tone like reading an invoice. I frown, looking at Ivy; she nods, pointing to the box in the corner, saying: "There's something else there." I walk over, squat down; the box is locked, carved with "Memory 07," the metal hot as if fresh from the forge. I touch the lock, my fingers burning red, but I don't make a sound.

I need to think clearly. Simon said Ceylon had his shadow, but he didn't say what kind of shadow. The spice has burned, the machine has stopped, this place is like a grave. I stand up, saying softly: "Lin Ser, don't rush to open anything. We need to figure this out, or we'll all be dragged in." I'm as calm as if fixing a machine, but deep down it feels like a stone is pressing on me. Simon, that bastard, has dragged all three of us into his ghost.