I must be out of my mind.
Not even in his most delusional dreams had Lucas Reed ever imagined that one day he'd be sitting at the United Nations General Assembly podium—wearing a wrinkled shirt, equally wrinkled pants, layered with a bulletproof vest and a life jacket, flanked by two slabs of ballistic glass—facing rows upon rows of anxious, panicked, thrilled, hopeful faces of every skin tone imaginable, each one radiating the full spectrum of human emotion.
I must be out of my mind.
Lucas Reed bowed his head, pressing hard against the dull ache in his skull, trying to snap himself out of this surreal nightmare.
This absurd dream was just as bizarre as the one he'd had five hours ago in some old house hundreds of kilometers away. Maybe even more bizarre.
Rumor has it—though who knows if it's true—that when home renovation managers pitch wooden doors to customers, aside from touting their aesthetics, eco-friendliness, and health benefits, their biggest selling point is the soft, pleasant sound they make when knocked on.
But whether it's a metal door, a wooden one, or even a cheap plastic door that no decent market would dare sell, if someone's been knocking for five minutes straight with no response, there's a certain "environmental hazard" called "losing patience" that turns the gentle tap tap tap... into a much less pleasant bang bang bang...
And eventually, into the downright hostile THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!
It worked.
Half a minute later, the door creaked open to reveal a young man still yawning.
No one's ever thrilled to be woken up mid-nap. Even mid-yawn, the young man's face clearly showed irritation and impatience.
But not even a second passed before his expression changed completely. The moment he saw who was at the door, the yawn, the annoyance, the impatience—all vanished. His sleepy eyes snapped wide open.
Totally understandable. Not everyone wakes up from a nap to find two stern-faced police officers and two even sterner-looking soldiers standing outside their door.
"Lucas Reed?"
No "What took you so long to answer?" No "Sorry to bother you." Just a quick glance and a casual step forward from the officer in front—his right foot naturally wedging itself between the doorframe and the door.
"Y-yeah…" The young man instinctively stepped back, his left hand awkwardly tugging at his wrinkled pants.
"You moved here on April 13, 2020?"
"Yes…" Confirmed: Lucas Reed, moved in April 13, 2020. He swallowed hard.
"Graduated from Maple Ridge Elementary? Got into a fight in fourth grade over a verbal spat, injured your left eyebrow? A 7mm scar?"
"What… Yes… Yes…"
A schoolyard scuffle from over a decade ago? They're investigating that now? Or maybe the old wound finally flared up? Lucas Reed was baffled. His hands left his pants and started fussing with his equally wrinkled shirt, trying in vain to smooth it out.
The officer didn't seem to notice Lucas's panic. He stared at Lucas's eyebrow for a long moment, then looked down at a stack of papers—crumpled beyond recognition—and fired off a barrage of questions.
Some were easy: past jobs, school history, resignations. Lucas could only respond with a string of "Yes," "Yeah," "I think so."
Others were trickier—questions about scars and marks from fights, outdoor work, chores, or just natural wear and tear.
Like: "Is there a 5mm crescent-shaped scar on the first knuckle of your left ring finger? Two black dots on the back of your right forearm, 13cm from the elbow, with radii of 0.3mm and 0.2mm?"
Lucas Reed couldn't possibly remember all that.
No normal person could.
Luckily, the officer and the soldier who had quietly joined him didn't seem to care much about Lucas's answers. They simply followed the descriptions on their papers, meticulously inspecting Lucas's body.
What the hell is going on? Do cops really need to verify identity this thoroughly? Wait—arrest? Why am I being arrested? No—why should I be arrested?
That realization hit Lucas like a slap. He was furious. Even more infuriating was how the officer treated him like a circus monkey—asking him to roll up his pant leg again and again, tilt his head this way and that.
Finally, when the officer asked for the seventh or eighth time, "Raise your left hand. Higher. A little higher," Lucas snapped.
This young man, who hadn't understood a single thing since opening the door…
This young man, who hadn't had a chance to say a single word…
This young man, whose dignity, rights, and property had all been ignored…
When he heard that same annoying, condescending, grating voice say "Raise your left hand. Higher," for the umpteenth time—
He raised it.
Just a little.
Not "a little higher."
Just enough to cooperate. Just enough to show he was pissed.
And that subtle gesture didn't waste any time. The inspection continued swiftly. In three to five minutes, Lucas's hands, arms, and legs had been thoroughly examined. The officer flipped to the last page of his file and finally asked for one last bit of cooperation:
"Mr. Reed, please lift your shirt. There's one final mark."
Still simmering, Lucas complied.
He lifted his shirt gently.
Pure instinct.
Maybe he'd slept in a weird position, maybe the blanket zipper or shirt button had dug into him. His stomach felt a little sore, so he instinctively avoided the tender spot.
Because his head was down and his senses dulled, Lucas didn't notice the sudden change in the four men's expressions. From the moment he lifted his shirt, the two officers and two soldiers—who had been stone-faced until now—were visibly stunned.
Following their gaze, Lucas looked down.
No black dots. No scars. No bruises. Nothing like the marks they'd been checking.
Just a small, round indentation about 5mm wide and 10mm deep—
Also known as a belly button.
Aside from the skin being a bit duller than when he was eighteen, it was a perfectly ordinary young man's abdomen.
But…
Weird. Lucas stared at his stomach. Weird. That's the sore spot. Why isn't there even a red mark?
He reached out with his right hand and gently pressed it.
Then came a chorus of sharp gasps.
"What are you doing!" "Hands off!" "Stop!" "Don't touch it!"
Lucas did the only thing he could think of: he raised both hands.
A textbook surrender pose.
That's how intense those shouts were.
No one laughed. It was as if Lucas's raised hands could fire bullets, or maybe there was an invisible assassin lurking in the hallway. The four men alternated between staring at Lucas, scanning the surroundings, and eyeing each other. After a long moment, seeing no signs of danger, they finally relaxed.
"From now on, don't move…" The officer's face had gone pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. Realizing his instruction was too vague, he added, "Just act normal. Keep your movements small."
"Y-yes…"
Do I look that dangerous? Is it the shirt with no pockets that could hide a gun? Or do they think I've got a knife tucked in my belly button?
When they shouted, Lucas thought he was about to be shot on the spot. His mind went blank, legs nearly gave out. Even now, with the officer's voice softened, his whole body was stiff, tongue tied.
"Alright, you can put your hands down. What's wrong with your stomach? Does it hurt? What does it feel like?" One of the soldiers standing beside Lucas noticed how stiffly he lowered his hands. He raised his own hand, as if to pat Lucas's shoulder for reassurance, but then hesitated—something stopped him. He pulled back.
Lucas didn't notice. He just answered honestly, "Uh, it's a little sore. Maybe I slept weird. Feels like… like…"
"Like you tripped over a tree branch and landed on a round stone. Not really painful, just a bit of a bump?"
"Wait…" Lucas blinked in disbelief.
That description was disturbingly accurate.
Because that was exactly how his dream ended at noon.
Earlier that day, Lucas had a bizarre dream.
He was suddenly in a countryside straight out of a Western period film—blue skies, white clouds, endless rolling hills. Green grass, a babbling stream, tall trees rustling in the breeze.
Strangely, in this picturesque scene, Lucas wasn't riding a horse or flirting with a blonde farm girl. Instead, he was gripping some unfamiliar tool, standing in a patch of plants he didn't recognize, alongside two strangers…
Sweaty, grimy, sore all over—apparently doing some kind of farm work he'd never heard of.
Even stranger, he couldn't understand a word anyone said. His companions chatted with each other and occasionally spoke to him, but it was all gibberish. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing.
After fumbling around for a while, Lucas gave up, walked out of the field, and lay down on the grass to rest.
Then, who knows how much time passed—one of the strangers came over and started talking to him. Maybe because Lucas hadn't responded, the man suddenly got angry and began swinging his tool around.
Lucas panicked, tried to walk away quickly, but tripped over a tree branch and fell onto a round stone. It wasn't painful, just a jolt.
That's when his phone rang and woke him up. He silenced it, tried to go back to sleep, but his head felt foggy. He lay there for a while, half-awake, until the banging on the door finally got him up.
That was the dream. And the soldier's description matched it perfectly.
Lucas's stunned expression didn't go unnoticed. One of the older officers standing in the hallway coughed and turned to the soldier beside him. "No need to ask any more questions, right? This place… isn't suitable."
"No need," the soldier replied, shaking his head. "You know how it is. With something like this, it's not just me who's uneasy. Being thorough isn't a mistake."
He raised the phone he'd been holding behind his back and quickly dialed. "Yes… confirmed… yes… yes."
After hanging up, he nodded at the officer with graying hair. "For now, it's still your jurisdiction. You take it from here."
The officer nodded, stepped forward, and pulled out his badge. "Mr. Lucas Reed, cooperating with law enforcement is every citizen's duty. We're investigating a major case and need your assistance. Please gather your belongings and come with us."
Major case? Lucas Reed had zero interest in "coming with us."
Maybe it was nerves, but his lips trembled. He meant to say, "What crime did I commit?" but what came out was: "Did my thing commit a crime?"
No one laughed.
From the stairwell came another voice: "Oh yeah, your thing committed a crime. A big one. Suspected of kidnapping the entire human race. How's that for a fresh new charge?"
The voice came from a young officer standing at the top of the stairs.
He nodded at Lucas Reed, pulled out his badge and a folded document, and handed them to the four men still eyeing Lucas like he might explode at any moment.
"Don't look at me like that… I got the same scrambled orders you did. Here."
The four remained wary. The older soldier frowned and took the document, scanning the short lines for nearly half a minute before passing it to the graying officer.
While they read, the young officer took off his cap, revealing a head drenched in sweat. He fanned himself with it, clearly exhausted.
"Mr. Reed, I'm sure you've got a million questions, but let me go first…"
"Let's start simple. Name's Jacob Ryan Thompson. First time meeting, we should probably shake hands or something…" He gestured for Lucas to lower his extended hand. "But from now on, any unnecessary physical contact with you is… sensitive. Look on the bright side—we just saved ourselves a formality."
"Sensitive" was a loaded word. Lucas felt a chill. "Am I under arrest?"
"Arrested? Hey—what gave you that idea? Did they show you a warrant?"
Before Lucas could answer, Jacob waved dismissively and turned to the graying officer. "So, can I proceed now?"
"You already started without my permission, didn't you?" The officer's tone was sharp. "Jacob Thompson. I've heard of you. A lot of people have. I don't know why they sent you. But since you're here, let me give you some advice: be careful. This isn't one of your shout-from-the-sidewalk gigs. If anything goes wrong, it won't just be a couple of dead hostages you've never met."
"Chief Whitmore, come on. You act like not scowling equals recklessness." Jacob didn't even glance at the officer's sour expression. He stuffed the badge and document back into his pocket and turned to Lucas. "Alright, we'll talk more later. Time's tight. Let's get moving."
Moving?
Lucas hesitated. "My keys are on the nightstand." His wallet, phone, and half-eaten trail mix came to mind. A pang of loss hit him.
"Keys?" Jacob laughed loudly and pointed at the four stern men. "Forget the keys. Not just you—none of them are stepping foot back in that room."
As if to prove Jacob's point, Chief Whitmore glared at him again, walked to the hallway window, and waved. A rush of footsteps followed, and eight more officers and soldiers filled the narrow corridor.
"You guard this door," Whitmore said, tracing an invisible line around Lucas's apartment. "Unless you have dual authorization from me and your commanding officer, no one—not even you—is to cross this threshold. Anyone who ignores this…"
He looked at the older soldier, who nodded grimly. "Will be met with any necessary force."
"Yes, sir!" "Understood!"
"Understood? What are you guaranteeing that with?" the soldier barked. "Still standing around? Until reinforcements arrive, I don't care if you have to pile your corpses against this door—no one gets through!"
Before Lucas could process that, someone tugged him forward. He was already outside his apartment. Behind him, the eight newcomers had sealed the doorway so tightly not even a glance could slip through.
"See?" Jacob shrugged. "Nothing to worry about. Your stuff's not going anywhere."
Lucas looked anything but reassured. Flanked by Jacob and Whitmore, he was escorted down the stairs and into the backseat of a police cruiser. The door slammed shut.
Just like that, Lucas Reed was inside a mobile prison.
"Nice upgrade. Got some fancy toys in here." Jacob reached behind the seat and pulled out a box filled with sleek electronics. He rummaged through it and handed an earpiece to Whitmore.
"Let's keep chatting…" Jacob put on his own earpiece, adjusted a small device, and stuck a throat mic to his neck. He nodded, satisfied. "Where were we?"
"I'm under arrest?" Lucas asked again, this time more carefully.
"I'll ask for you…" Jacob leaned forward and nodded at Whitmore. "Did you guys officially arrest him?"
Whitmore grunted and shook his head.
"See? You're not under arrest." Jacob pulled out a cigarette pack, glanced at Lucas and the sealed windows, then tucked it away. "But if you feel arrested, that's fine too…"
Whitmore grunted again. Jacob smirked. "What? Isn't it true? Forced confinement—what else would you call this?"
"Why? What did I do?"
Lucas's voice was tight. He'd accepted the reality of being detained.
"Didn't I tell you? Suspected of kidnapping. The entire human race. Of course, that's just my guess… What's with that look? Think I'm joking?" Jacob scoffed. "You think I'm the only one who believes it? Ask them."
Lucas turned to the others in the car, eyes pleading. His expression was so pitiful even a starving tiger might feel sorry for him.
No one answered.
The older soldier in the front seat nodded solemnly. Whitmore's face was stone cold. He let out a heavy sigh.
"I… I…"
Who did I piss off?
The charge was absurd. Lucas didn't believe it for a second—no sane person would.
But one thing was clear: this wasn't a prank. He hadn't committed some petty crime. The silence in the car, the grim faces, the tension—it all screamed seriousness.
Even the driver was unnerving. Lucas had never seen someone drive like this. Hands glued to the wheel, eyes laser-focused, no scratching, adjusting, blinking—nothing. He didn't even speed. On a six-lane road, he kept a perfect 20–40 mph pace, never ran a red light, always passed through on green.
It was… unsettling.
And the others? Terrifying.
Any time a car passed or approached, the two officers beside Lucas would grip his arms. The soldier in front would fix his gaze on the other vehicle, hand hovering near his weapon.
Lucas felt like a cartel kingpin or a high-value witness about to be assassinated.
He racked his brain. What could he possibly have done to deserve this?
Adult videos on his hard drive? Peer-to-peer sharing that spread viruses and caused economic damage?
Controversial online posts? Misinterpreted and used to incite riots?
Shady accounting at work? Led to unsafe materials, public hazards?
He mentally listed every mistake he'd ever made, exaggerated their consequences, imagined the worst-case scenarios—and still couldn't explain this.
As the cruiser rolled on, Lucas's panic deepened.
He couldn't move freely. His view was blocked. But he recognized the streets—he was a local, after all.
They passed the police station. Lucas's breathing quickened. But the car didn't stop.
A few turns later, he saw the courthouse. His legs trembled, but he felt a bit relieved. Even if he'd committed a serious crime, surely he wouldn't be jailed yet.
Then they passed the prison. Lucas wasn't worried anymore.
Because something even stranger was happening.
As they passed each landmark, the convoy grew.
After the police station, more cars joined from behind. After the courthouse, motorcycles appeared in front. After the prison, two bulky vehicles joined in.
The convoy kept growing—more vehicles, more types. Police cars, motorcycles, fire trucks…
No matter how he looked at it, Lucas couldn't believe this bizarre parade was escorting him to be executed.
Despite trying to reassure himself, Lucas's fear only grew. He stopped talking. The car fell silent.
Soon, the convoy left the city. With escorts ahead and behind, the ride was smooth. The first slowdown came about forty minutes later.
The road hadn't changed, but a long barrier had been set up down the center.
On either side of the barrier, soldiers stood back-to-back every meter. Lucas's lane was clear, but the opposite lane was packed with cars. He saw a van and a truck being pulled over and redirected to the back of the line.
The convoy slowed gradually and stopped at a highway entrance.
Inside the cruiser, everyone remained tense. The engine stayed on.
The entrance was eerily empty. A few unidentified personnel directed most of the vehicles to turn around. Only a handful of police and soldiers remained, performing strange tasks around the area.
After a long wait, a middle-aged man approached the cruiser and saluted the older soldier.
"Report: all clear. Awaiting orders."
The soldier saluted back, pressed his earpiece, listened, then pointed forward.
"Alright. Keep driving."
Where are they taking me? Who did I offend?
Until now, Lucas had felt pressure and confusion. But the realization that he was being taken far from home filled him with dread.
"I… I…"
He didn't know what to say or do. Panic surged. He jerked upright and somehow broke free from the officers' grip.
"What's going on!" "Sit down!" "What are you doing!" "Grab him!" "Careful! Careful!"
If the earlier shouts at his apartment were
If the earlier shouts at his apartment had been stern, these five were downright explosive—pure panic, raw urgency, voices stretched to their limits.
The commotion inside the cruiser instantly drew the attention of the soldiers and officers stationed at the highway entrance.
In a split second, Lucas saw dozens of people sprinting toward the vehicle.
It was like their shoes had caught fire, or bullets were chasing them. Their movements varied—some ran, some lunged, some leapt—but the urgency was identical.
One soldier, barely out of his teens, tripped and slammed into the concrete. Blood smeared his palms, but he didn't stop. He scrambled forward, desperate to catch up. When he realized he'd fallen behind, his face twisted in regret and frustration. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Jacob Thompson! This is your idea of a job well done?" Chief Whitmore's white hair practically stood on end.
"My work style? Or your work ethic?" Jacob snapped back, tossing his cap aside and slamming the car door. He pulled out his phone. "Always talking about authorization and caution. Authorization, caution. You people cling to protocol like it's a life raft. Ever seen anything like this before? Ever had a rulebook for this? Screw your rules!"
The chaos subsided quickly. Inside and outside the cruiser, everyone's face was grim. No one spoke to Lucas—not that he needed any more warnings.
Back in the car, the two officers re-secured Lucas. The older soldier stepped out, made a call, and returned several minutes later. Jacob also finished a call and nodded to the driver.
"Alright. Keep moving."
This leg of the journey was shorter. After just a few minutes, the cruiser stopped again.
They had arrived at a new location, surrounded by a dozen black SUVs and dozens of armed soldiers.
One SUV pulled up beside them.
Another middle-aged soldier approached and saluted. "Director, Chief Whitmore. New orders."
The older soldier—apparently the "Director"—took the document, read it carefully, then handed it to Chief Whitmore, who did the same.
After reading, Whitmore looked up. "What's the plan for the next leg?"
"First, we switch vehicles. I'll explain on the way…" The soldier tapped his earpiece and opened the SUV door, revealing three heavily armed soldiers inside. "You know how tight the schedule is. And our time… is even tighter."
Whitmore nodded. He and Jacob flanked Lucas as they exited the cruiser.
Lucas climbed into the SUV. The windows were small and tinted. He couldn't see the driver, but the three soldiers inside looked younger and tense. As soon as Lucas sat down, they chambered their weapons. Jacob was the last to enter, slamming the door shut.
The SUV took off quickly, joining a new convoy. Lucas's vehicle was near the front.
This time, the convoy moved fast. Trees, buildings, hills blurred past the windows.
Jacob kept tapping his earpiece and murmuring into his throat mic. Finally, Lucas couldn't take it anymore.
"Jacob Thompson, I need to know—who did I offend?"
"What?" Jacob looked confused, then realized what Lucas meant. "Still stuck on that?"
"I just don't understand what's happening."
"Who would?" Jacob shrugged. "Hold on…"
He sniffed his cigarette—he'd done this several times now, never lighting it—and whispered into his mic.
This time, the response took longer. After about three minutes, Jacob's ear twitched. His furrowed brow relaxed.
"Alright, Mr. Reed…" Jacob turned to Lucas. "Technically, I'm not supposed to explain anything. And I don't know much myself. But given your… let's say immature reaction earlier, my orders just changed."
Lucas suspected Jacob had wanted to say "childish," but he didn't care. "Your orders?"
"Yeah. I was just here to chat. Keep you company."
"You're an interrogator?"
"There you go again. Overthinking." Jacob waved it off. "This is complicated enough. Let's not make it worse. From now on, take everything I say at face value."
"Okay. Go ahead."
"First, you didn't offend anyone. At least not in the way you think. Second, no one's trying to hurt you. At least, no one here dares to hurt you. Still confused?" Jacob saw Lucas nod blankly. "Let's try another angle."
"Look out the window. What do you see?"
What did he see? Four lanes. A median. Divided traffic. Asphalt. Nothing unusual.
The small, tinted window made it hard to see. Lucas stared for a while. Nothing stood out.
"Be patient." Jacob pointed outside.
Lucas leaned closer, scanning the road, the trees, the low buildings. After a long while, he suddenly sat up straight.
From the moment he started watching until he finally noticed—at least ten minutes—there hadn't been a single other vehicle on the highway. In either direction.
"Figured it out?" Jacob grinned. "This entire highway is reserved just for you."
The entire highway, reserved just for you.
Lucas Reed's jaw dropped.
"Still not getting it?" Jacob Thompson shook his head. "Mr. Reed, think about it differently. Are you a bodybuilder? A martial arts champ? Super agile? Fearless?"
Lucas didn't respond.
"If this were just about catching you…" Jacob gestured broadly. "Would we need this many vehicles? This many people?"
"But why… why such a massive operation?" Lucas asked, finally voicing the question that had been haunting him.
"Simple," Jacob said. "Because you're too easy to catch. That makes you incredibly hard to protect. That's why we're doing all this. This convoy, this entire highway—it's all to protect you."
"What? You don't believe me? Oh, you haven't seen anything yet." Jacob's grin turned almost cruel. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not some key witness in a major case. You're not worth that. Until today—no, until a few hours ago—your entire file barely filled a few pages. Anyone trying to arrest you would be wasting resources."
"A few hours ago?" Lucas latched onto the phrase.
"Exactly, Mr. Reed. That's the right line of thinking."
"But a few hours ago… I was asleep. Is this some kind of mistake?"
Jacob laughed. "Asleep? That's even better. The whole world knows you were asleep. They also know what you were dreaming."
"Jacob Thompson, you—"
Lucas was about to accuse Jacob of messing with him, but then turned to Chief Whitmore, hoping for a more rational answer.
Whitmore nodded slowly, his face grave. "He's not joking."
Have they all lost their minds? If it weren't for the sharp metallic smell in the SUV, Lucas would've thought he was still dreaming.
"This is too complicated to explain with words. Just rest for now. We're waiting on authorization." Jacob turned his attention to a box on his lap—another one he'd somehow produced from nowhere.
Lucas had a thousand questions, but strangely, talking to Jacob had calmed him. Even though nothing had been resolved, and his mind was spinning faster than ever, he felt… steadier.
The convoy sped on. Time passed.
Suddenly, a low rumble echoed through the sky. At first, it sounded like distant thunder. Then it grew louder—whoosh whoosh whoosh—until it became a full-blown thud thud thud overhead.
Dark shadows swept across the ground. Lucas looked up—and gasped.
Helicopters.
Nine of them.
Flying in formation with the convoy. Some surged ahead, others flanked the sides.
Lucas's mouth fell open again.
Nine helicopters… for him?
He'd never seen one up close before. And now, nine massive machines were soaring above him, powerful and intimidating.
He stared, stunned.
After a while, Jacob let out a satisfied "Ha!" and tapped a screen on his lap. "Wow, that was fast. Emergency Disaster Office just approved it. Luke, looks like your situation's even messier than we thought. Alright… here. Take a look. You'll understand."
Emergency? Disaster? Approval?
Lucas's heart pounded. Was he finally going to get answers?
He wiped his hands on his pants and took the screen from Jacob. Jacob tapped a few buttons, navigating through menus until a video began to play.
The footage wasn't professionally shot. The camera was distant, the image blurry. But the setting was clear: blue skies, white clouds, a winding river dividing forest and hills. Near the river, three farmers worked in a small field.
…And worked… and worked… and worked…
Five minutes passed. Nothing changed.
What was this? A pre-earthquake recording?
Lucas frowned and glanced at Jacob.
"No reaction?" Jacob looked surprised. "Ah, right… wrong angle."
He leaned over and zoomed in. The field filled the screen.
Despite the zoom, the image remained sharp. The tools, crops, even the sweat on the farmers' foreheads were crystal clear. Two looked exhausted. One looked confused.
Crystal clear.
Crystal clear.
Crystal clear.
It hit Lucas like a lightning bolt.
His hands trembled. He nearly dropped the screen.
This… this was his dream.
This was his dream.
This was his dream.
How was this possible?
It was like the SUV floor turned to ice, freezing him from the feet up. His tongue went numb. Sweat poured down his pale face.
Black tech… brain implants… thought surveillance… neural control…
Scenes from sci-fi movies flooded his mind. His forehead dripped with sweat, his jaw quivered uncontrollably.
"Calm down, Mr. Reed. Please, calm down!" Chief Whitmore leaned forward, wringing his hands, clearly wanting to grab Lucas's shoulders—but hesitated.
Smack!
Jacob clapped his hands loudly in front of Lucas's face. Lucas jolted, eyes refocusing.
"Understand now?"
"No. I don't!" Lucas stammered. "This can't be real! This is my dream! How could you… how could you possibly…"
"No, this is real!" Jacob's voice cut through Lucas's panic. "Even if you close your eyes for an hour, it's still real!"
"You were spying on me? Filming my dreams?"
"Don't flatter yourself!" Jacob scoffed. "You think we wanted to watch you sleep? You think this was filmed in your bedroom?"
He jabbed at the screen. "Let me spell it out, Mr. Reed. At exactly 4:52:54 PM, May 29, 2024, anyone with eyes—day or night—could look up and see this scene in the sky. Got it? You're probably the two-billionth person to watch this video."
The whole world saw it? My dream… became a mirage?
Lucas's body went limp.
"And that's not all! Know how we found you?" Jacob skipped to the end of the video.
Lucas's dream-self stumbled, tripped over a branch, and fell onto a round stone. His face showed mild discomfort.
Then, without any fade-out or editing, the video abruptly cut to a bedroom.
Lucas Reed, lying on a crumpled bed, frowning slightly. His eyebrow scar, arm marks, leg blemishes—all visible through a half-drawn curtain.
"Dreaming is illegal now? Why not arrest mirages in the desert?"
"Dreaming isn't a crime," Jacob said, finally showing a hint of sympathy. "If it were just the whole world watching your dream, we'd still come find you—but not this fast, and not this intensely. Chief Whitmore…"
Jacob rewound the video slightly, pausing at the moment Lucas hit the stone.
He pointed at the spot on Lucas's abdomen.
Then lifted his own shirt.
A red mark. Same spot.
Chief Whitmore sighed, lifted his shirt.
Same mark.
Jacob turned to Lucas. "And now… gentlemen, I believe I have temporary authority. Please show Mr. Reed the evidence of his crime."
The three soldiers hesitated, then received silent approval through their throat mics. They set down their weapons, lifted their shirts—
Six-pack abs. Identical red marks.
"Understand now?" Jacob lowered his shirt. "So far, every person on Earth—man, woman, child, even newborns in hospitals, even freshly executed prisoners—has developed this mark. Same spot. Same shape."
"And you, Mr. Reed, are the only known source."
Lucas lifted his own shirt.
Same mark.
"That's why we came so fast. That's why we're so cautious," Chief Whitmore said. "Jacob's phrasing may be crude, but he's not wrong. Based on what we know, you've already caused injury to six billion people. And going forward… you've kidnapped humanity."
"But… but it's just a little red mark…" Lucas gestured weakly at his stomach. "How do you know it's me? How do you know it'll keep happening?"
"We don't," Jacob said. "No one knows the future. Do you? What would you do?"
"I…"
"Alright," Jacob interrupted. "We're at the airport. Time to get out."
Airport?
Lucas looked around. He hadn't noticed the SUV had stopped.
An airport? What airport?
He'd never heard of one nearby. But from the scenery, he could tell they were still on the highway—about five kilometers from home.
Then he saw it.
A massive aircraft parked across all six lanes. Its wings stretched over the median and guardrails.
A transport plane. On the highway.
"Mr. Reed, time is tight. Please…" The older soldier handed him a heavy jacket. "Put this on while we walk."
Lucas nearly dropped it. It was heavy.
As he walked toward the ramp at the back of the plane, he felt the weight dragging him down. His legs strained to keep up with the others.
The older soldier noticed Lucas's effort and nodded. "Hang in there. Coordinating a global no-fly zone is tough. We're on a tight schedule. And we need full protection. This is the lightest bulletproof vest available."
They boarded quickly. The ramp lifted. The engines roared. Lucas felt the acceleration as the plane took off.
Inside, rows of armed soldiers lined the cabin. Armored vehicles filled the aisle. At the front, a long metal table was cluttered with computers and strange devices
At the front of the cabin, a long metal table was cluttered with computers and unfamiliar equipment. Cables and wires sprawled across the floor like a messy spiderweb, with small devices piled on top.
The older soldier—the "Director"—Chief Whitmore, and a dozen others crowded around the table. Screens flickered, projectors glowed, indicator lights blinked. Their rapid, overlapping conversations filled the air with tension.
"Get some rest…" Jacob Thompson pressed his earpiece for a long time, trying to catch the incoming message through the roar of the engines. "Rest while you can. You're going to be very busy soon."
With that, Jacob's lips and throat began moving again—probably reporting updates or making new suggestions.
No one spoke to Lucas anymore.
He glanced around the cabin one last time, then closed his eyes.
Not much happened during the flight. Jacob reminded Lucas several times, "Don't fall asleep."
About half an hour in, a middle-aged soldier came over and strapped a life vest over Lucas's bulletproof jacket.
Around the one-hour mark, a fully armed soldier with a large parachute replaced the one sitting next to Lucas.
Two hours later, the plane landed at LaGuardia Airport.