Log 05
Residual Ash
The sound of the explosion split the night in two.
As I rushed down the stairs of Bayshore Police Station, the distant horizon was lit by a bloom of pink light—like someone had thrown a dream into a fire. The location of the Forensic Center was unmistakable: glass, steel beams, laboratory white walls—all shattered in an instant into fragments of meaning. The wind moved quickly, blowing the broken language into ash. As I ran, I thought: this city is far too good at burning truth into dust.
The communications channel was filled with shouts and alarms.
“All units be advised! Explosion at the Forensic Center. Possible secondary detonation. Establish perimeter—”
I cut in.
“MCS en route. Chee Yan, Mun Tseng—your positions.”
Half a second of silence, then Chee Yan’s breathless voice:
“I’m at the rear slope of Building A! Mun Tseng’s in the second-floor sampling room of the main building—she’s trapped!”
I clenched my teeth and turned to Cheung Man Man.
“You drive. Fastest route.”
She nodded. The Land Rover New Defender growled awake, like a beast opening its mouth in the dark. We ran two red lights and shot up the ramp toward the Forensic Center. The wind forced its way through the window seams, not fresh—mixed with the sweetness of burning plastic, fabric, and human skin oils.
The sugar coating of death.
When we arrived, half the main building had collapsed. The floor slabs leaned at an angle against the support columns. The fire suppression system had only partially activated, flames crawling through the ventilation ducts along the ceiling.
Outside the perimeter, uniformed officers were evacuating people. Inside, the special operations team sealed the entrance, their commands cold.
We flashed our credentials and pushed through.
This wasn’t bravado.
It was necessary.
“You take the north stairwell,” I told Man Man.
“I’ll take the east wing. She’s on the second floor.”
“Watch for secondary explosions.”
“I know.”
I pulled on a mask, raised my shield, and stepped into the fire.
The burning building felt like a massive lung—each breath thick with dust. I climbed the east stairwell. Glass shards coated the steps, screaming beneath every footstep. The second-floor landing was jammed by a collapsed steel beam, leaving only a narrow gap.
I braced my shield against it, slid along the wall, and swept my flashlight forward.
Through the smoke, two silhouettes appeared.
One taller. One shorter.
The shorter figure was coughing.
I recognized the voice immediately.
“Chee Yan.”
His sleeves were scorched black, blood splattered on his shoulder, yet he was still forcing a metal door open.
On the other side was the blast-proof door of the sampling room. The explosion had warped the door rails; the sealant had melted like an open wound.
He heard me and turned, eyes burning with only one thought.
“Mun Tseng is inside!”
I pressed my ear against the door crack.
“Lee Mun Tseng. Respond if you hear me.”
Inside—silence.
Then two knocks.
Short. Short.
She was alive.
I stepped back, quickly examining the frame.
“It won’t pull open. We cut it.”
Chee Yan shoved his tool bag toward me.
“The saw’s here, but the battery—”
“Don’t need it.”
I pulled off my coat, exposing my forearms, gathering force.
Bajiquan power—stick, crash, burst, strike.
Not meant to break steel doors.
But force doesn’t care about schools.
Shield as wedge.
Shoulder as hammer.
Footwork chained together.
Three strikes.
First: testing force.
Second: shifting structure.
Third: shaking the rail loose enough to crack open a finger-width gap.
“Again!” Chee Yan shouted.
He grabbed a fire extinguisher and swung it like a hammer.
He was a karate man—straight force, relentless.
I redirected his line of power into the frame’s weak angle.
Fourth strike.
The seal burst.
Hot air screamed outward.
I kicked the door gap open and slipped inside.
The sampling room smoke was different.
White fog.
Jasmine and sandalwood.
Sweet. Sharp.
This wasn’t fire smoke.
This was E-IX dust lifted again by the blast.
My lungs wanted to cough.
I suppressed it, breathing shallowly.
Mun Tseng was against the wall.
Her goggles cracked. Mask half hanging.
She saw me—and smiled faintly.
“You’re two minutes late.”
I crouched in front of her, checking pupils and breathing.
She was conscious, but her pulse showed early arrhythmia.
“Can you stand?”
“I can.”
As she spoke, a burning wire snapped to the floor, flames crawling across it.
I grabbed her wrist, lifting her half-dragging toward the door.
Outside, Chee Yan had already laid a fire blanket as a slide ramp.
We wrapped together and slid toward the stairwell.
Behind us, the sampling room detonated again.
The shockwave chased us like a hand grabbing for the back of our necks.
Chee Yan turned and lifted a fallen steel beam with his bare hands, holding just enough space for us to pass.
His muscles trembled violently.
Fear was there.
But something stronger crushed it down.
A single thought.
She must not die.
We burst down the final stairwell.
Cold air filled my lungs.
Only then did I allow myself to cough.
Mun Tseng tore off her mask and bent over, breathing hard. Firelight reflected in her eyes.
Chee Yan wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hands still shaking.
“You okay? I thought—”
She lifted her eyes.
There was fire.
There was water.
There was the hard resolve of survival.
She reached up and held the back of his neck, pressing her forehead against his.
“Thank you.”
Chee Yan froze like he’d been struck by lightning.
I turned away.
Two seconds was enough.
Sometimes two seconds decides everything.
Rescue teams took over the scene.
Medics tested for carbon monoxide and toxin exposure.
Mun Tseng refused the ambulance.
“I’m staying.”
Chee Yan stayed beside her.
Ash drifted across the open ground like snow.
Every grain carried black scars.
I launched the drone with Man Man.
The aerial scan mapped collapse angles, explosion center, and flame spread.
The data appeared on my tablet.
The blast center wasn’t the main lab.
It was the corridor storage room.
More precisely—
inside a metal drum.
Not an accident.
A planted charge.
“Who could move something into storage?” Min Min asked.
“Anyone with clearance,” I said.
“Or someone who can order others to swipe in.”
Before I could expand the search, the tactical commander approached.
His voice was metallic.
“Captain Loke, hand over your operation records and equipment. Internal Affairs investigation.”
I looked at his badge.
Then the Internal Affairs vehicle behind him.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
“Reason?”
“Anonymous report. MCS involved in illegal experimentation connected to the explosion.”
Anonymous.
Everyone knew it wasn’t.
“We’ll cooperate,” I said calmly.
I handed over radio and drive.
But slipped a high-capacity micro card into my sleeve seam.
Not a trick.
Just habit.
Always leave a gap to breathe.
The questioning happened in a temporary tent.
Questions came like factory machinery.
Movements.
Contacts.
Motives.
Each question tried to squeeze possibility into fact.
Truth always chokes first in smoke.
I knew I was playing a chess game.
First move: keep the team together.
Second move: find answers before answers find us.
“Do you want assistance,” I finally asked,
“or a scapegoat?”
My voice wasn’t loud.
But two officers outside stopped walking.
The commander looked at me—and chose silence.
I understood.
Above him: career.
Below him: conscience.
Most choose the first.
I only have the second left.
A short whistle sounded outside.
I knew that whistle.
Lee Wai Hing.
He slipped through behind a fire hose, avoiding cameras.
Covered in ash.
“Got a light?” he joked, lighting a cigarette but not smoking.
Two informants gave me the same name.
Less than thirty minutes apart.
“Who?”
“Morpheus.”
He pronounced the Greek.
“Project MORPHEUS. Not a rumor. A network.”
Hospitals.
Labs.
Private clinics.
Sleep pods owned by security firms.
All connected.
One core word.
Control.
“The Commissioner?”
Wai Hing flicked ash.
“Not just involved.”
“He made it policy.”
“Evidence?”
“Video.”
He slipped a tiny chip into my palm.
“From a security company server.”
“You won’t want to watch it here.”
I hid the chip.
Later, in the station garage, we watched it.
A small operating room.
A patient wearing a neural ring.
Date stamp: two months ago.
Dr. Lau Zi Him.
And another man in a suit.
Broad shoulders.
A faint scar on the neck.
I didn’t need the face.
That scar came from a gang crackdown ten years ago.
I was there.
So was he.
Commissioner Lau Kwok Fan.
His lips moved in the video.
I could read them.
“Increase… the dosage.”
Lau Zi Him hesitated.
Then raised the value.
The patient’s brainwaves surged violently.
The screen flickered.
Then—
an empty bed.
Chee Yan gasped.
“Where’s the subject?”
“Removed,” Man Man whispered.
“Or dead before recording stopped.”
File name: M-9-Δ
Delta test.
Deviation tests often mean bodies.
“This isn’t research,” I said.
“This is conditioning.”
Mun Tseng nodded hoarsely.
“Teaching people to obey… starting from dreams.”
“Next step?” Wai Hing asked.
I looked toward the garage exit.
The corridor lights flickered.
Time.
“We split.”
I traced two routes in the air.
“Man Man and I track Morpheus finances and equipment.”
“Wai Hing, follow the informant chain.”
“Chee Yan and Mun Tseng—recover every byte from those SSDs.”
“Chee Yan,” I added.
“Change your door locks.”
He blinked.
“I was planning to…”
“I’ll stay with you,” Mun Tseng said.
The word stay sounded natural.
And firm.
What fire welds together doesn’t break easily.
Operation codename: Night Helm.
Report every four hours.
No locations.
Only progress.
If someone goes silent for thirty minutes—
others take over their line.
“What if we’re ordered to stop?” Wai Hing asked.
“Then we pretend we didn’t hear.”
I opened the rear door.
Night wind rushed in.
“We’re not rebelling.”
“We’re just staying awake.”
Later, in an industrial zone warehouse, we found them.
Three silver sleep pods.
Like open coffins.
The control screen read:
M-9 / Δ — Compliance Protocol
Waiting subject.
Waiting for someone to lie down.
To complete the dream loop.
I almost laughed.
I don’t believe in fate.
But I believe this:
The person they’re waiting for—
will never be me.
Before leaving, I received a message.
From Mun Tseng.
Home.
Next message:
Data recovery started.
A photo of an opened SSD.
Chee Yan’s soldering iron.
Then another message.
We’re together now.
With a small smile emoji.
I paused for half a second.
Then replied.
Congratulations. Don’t sleep too deeply tonight.
She replied:
Don’t worry. I’m the most awake I’ve ever been.
I put the phone away and looked at the city.
The lights looked like the sea.
A faint trace of jasmine drifted in the wind.
The dream still existed.
But so did we.
“Let’s go,” I told Man Man.
“Time to find deeper bones.”
The engine started.
The headlights cut open the night.
In my mind, one word held my direction like a needle.
MORPHEUS.
Ash does not speak by itself.
To make it speak,
you must grind your own heart finer than ash.
And I was ready—
with fists,
with eyes,
with every breath left in me—
to peel the dream away
layer by layer.