凌晨三点,南城旧区的一栋砖红色老楼中,李乘风侧躺在铁制床架上,身下薄薄的被褥已经被磨得起毛.他的眼睛紧闭,呼吸绵长,仿佛熟睡.但在那寂静的外表下,大脑正以极高的速率运转着,一遍又一遍地推演三天后的行动方案.
墙角老旧挂钟"哒哒"作响,与外头电线杆上传来的猫叫混成一片,构成了他熟悉又厌恶的深夜背景音.他睁开眼,瞳孔幽深得像是从不见光的井底.
"七十二小时整."他低声道.
李乘风起身,翻开床头一个上了三道锁的旧木箱,取出一张反复摊开已泛黄的城区地图.图上红线交错,箭头与数字密布,宛如战场布阵图.在图的中央,浓墨标注着一个黑色圆圈:东城金融大厦.
那是一个他不想回忆,却必须面对的地方.
三年前,一场"无声火灾"吞没了整栋大楼,无报警声,无明火,只有一道金色的符文在顶层浮现,像一颗坠落人间的星辰.他当时在三十层走廊清理残料,那道符文横空浮现,下一秒,便烙进了他的意识.
随后,他陷入一场持续七十二小时的深层昏迷.
醒来之后,世界彻底不同了.
他能听见微弱的电流声在地板下流动,能感知电梯里残留的某种"情绪波动".他的体温忽高忽低,掌心能放出细微热光.他不再畏惧严寒,甚至能用指尖点亮废弃车库里的感应灯.
他知道,那晚,那道符文,改变了他.
他开始悄悄记录变化,绘制灵纹,模仿古籍中残破的修行法门.他知道自己觉醒了,但没告诉任何人.
直到那场"拜访"到来.
三天后,两个面无表情的男人出现在他打工的小饭馆后巷.他们穿着黑灰制服,手持一种发着蓝光的检测仪器,递给他一张无字金属卡片,只问了一句话:
"你在大厦,看到了什么?"
他沉默,只是摇头.
对方盯着他三秒,然后离开.没威胁,没警告,却让他从此一无所有.
第二天,工地停工,包工头失踪.他被匿名举报"蓄意破坏设备",在毫无证据下,被关进少年管教所.
一年半后,他出来了,但家人没了,住所没了,身份也被注销.
"你们想让我安静,我偏不."
他用三年时间隐藏自己,日里靠打零工混口饭吃,夜里钻研那道符文带来的残识.
那些印记如今在他脑海里像呼吸般自然.他甚至能用意念点燃一张纸,用脚步扰乱城市摄像头的盲区.
他知道——符文不只是异变,而是开启通道的钥匙.
他打开手机,一款定制倒计时应用正精准跳动:71:59:42
"三天后,他们会再次聚集."
"而这次,不会再有人把我从棋盘上抹去."
他站起身,走到窗边,凝视那片灯火辉煌的金融区,那座熟悉又陌生的巨楼如同沉睡的魔神.
"我要你们一个个清醒地看着我,把你们曾经强加于我的,一件一件还回来."
3 a.m. in a brick-red tenement deep in South City's slums, Li Chengfeng lay on a thin mattress atop an iron bedframe. The room was silent, save for the ticking of an old wall clock and the distant howls of stray cats echoing off the alley walls. To the outside world, he was fast asleep. But within, his mind worked like a storm engine, endlessly calculating every contingency of the plan set to unfold in seventy-two hours.
He opened his eyes. The pupils were bottomless, reflecting no light.
"Seventy-two hours remaining," he whispered.
Li rose and unlocked a battered wooden chest beneath his bed. Inside, folded with surgical precision, was a yellowing map of the inner city. Red lines crisscrossed the layout like a general's battlefield strategy. At the map's center, encircled in thick black ink: East City Financial Tower.
That place was a scar.
Three years ago, a fire that made no sound or smoke consumed the tower. No sirens. No news. But on the roof—he saw it: a golden rune, descending like a fallen star.
He had been cleaning the 30th-floor corridor when the symbol appeared in midair. It didn't burn or blind—it simply etched itself into his mind.
Then came unconsciousness.
For seventy-two hours, he was unreachable. When he woke, the world had shifted.
He could hear electric pulses running beneath floorboards. Elevators seemed to hum with residual emotions. His body began reacting in strange ways—emitting heat, resisting cold, activating dead electronics with a touch.
He knew—something inside him had changed.
He began documenting the patterns, tracing the symbol again and again, attempting crude energy flows like the ones he'd glimpsed in esoteric scrolls. He told no one. He trusted no one.
Until they came.
Three days later, two men appeared in the alley behind the kitchen where he washed dishes. They wore charcoal uniforms with faint symbols embroidered at the shoulders, and held devices that glowed with a blue shimmer. One handed him a smooth metal card—blank—and asked a single question:
"What did you see that night?"
He said nothing. Just shook his head.
They stared at him for three seconds. Then left.
No threats. No warnings. But the consequences came swiftly.
The very next day, his worksite shut down. The contractor vanished. An anonymous report accused him of sabotage. With no defense, he was sentenced to juvenile detention.
When he emerged over a year later, everything was gone—his family, his ID, even his name in some records.
"You wanted me quiet? Watch me scream."
For three years, he disappeared into the background. Worked odd jobs by day, meditated and researched by night.
The symbol—the rune—was no longer just a memory. It was breathing inside him.
He could spark flame from fingertips. Disrupt surveillance cameras just by walking under them. Move unseen when it mattered most.
The rune, he realized, was not a mutation. It was a **key**.
He opened his phone. On a custom-built countdown timer, numbers pulsed like a heartbeat: 71:59:42.
"They'll be back in three days."
"But I'm not a pawn this time."
He stood, walked to the window, and gazed out over the glittering skyline. The East City Financial Tower loomed in the distance—still tall, still sleeping.
He whispered:
"I want every last one of you to see me rise. And I will make you pay—for everything you buried."