The cramped room held a swaying hanging lamp.
Hastur sat in the barren interrogation chamber, staring intently at the room’s sole decoration—if he truly possessed anything resembling human eyes—
A palm-sized square window embedded in the wall.
“Name?”
A human voice filtered into the interrogation room, muffled by the intervening wall.
“Hastur.”
“Employee number #￥@.”
“1051.”
“Species?”
“NH-13: Non-Human Division.”
“Please report…” The human voice grew pained, as if enduring some torment. “Why… did you suddenly destroy the entire H-1 District and attack your own teammates… turning them into chunks of living meat impaled on the ruins of H-1 District?”
Fear.
Hastur detected it in the human separated from him by a single wall: neurons shifting rapidly from glutamate to GABA.
Adrenaline, thyroid-stimulating hormone… a cocktail of hormones mingled with a racing heartbeat, weaving together into the signal known as “fear.”
The hanging lamp swayed once more, emitting a creak.
The hem of Hastur’s yellow hooded robe fluttered silently, rippling like waves. In the deep lead-gray room, under the flickering light, it took on a lifeless grayish-white hue.
Like an octopus with its central nervous system destroyed—a dead, faded corpse drifting in the seawater.
He continued to “stare” at the small window, utterly still. He found this “fear” emotion entirely unnecessary.
Though the previous interrogators had all mysteriously fainted after his first response, Hastur considered his demeanor consistently amicable.
He never initiated attacks unless provoked by enemies or obstructed by others.
The accommodating Hastur emitted a garbled murmur, sounding like some alien creature approximating human speech with its bizarre voice:
“It was beautiful. I wanted to do it.”
“…”
Silence gripped the other side of the wall for several seconds, followed by an eruption of heated argument.
“Beautiful?! Turning people into… cough! Into writhing lumps of sludge, skewered on rebar like kebabs, and you call that ‘beautiful’?”
“Director Aibo, you shouldn’t linger here too long. The mental pollution from 1051 has already begun deforming your skull and jaw. And regarding this incident, we must consider that 1051 never attacks without reason… Could there be something wrong with his teammates?”
“Lv Zhucao—cough cough cough! Where’s Lv Zhucao?! As 1051’s Regulator, shouldn’t he be here for this accountability session?!”
Where there were countless humans, there were countless agendas.
Entangled interests came first, compelling them to briefly endure the harm of mental pollution.
They hissed curses and traded barbs in lowered voices, oblivious that the company’s expensively built barrier wall could no longer contain the monster in the interrogation room.
Hastur watched them through the wall, like a vulture fixing its golden eagle eyes on a huddled clutch of yolks—frail and ignorant, writhing in their underdeveloped, gossamer-thin translucent shells.
But just before the pitiless raptor raised its razor talons to shred that fragile shell, a young male voice cut into the murmurs, laced with weariness:
“Friends—friends. Enough. Sorry I’m late.”
“I just got the notice and rushed to pick up Hastur’s medical report. Their response: Hastur’s sudden unprovoked rampage, destruction of the company’s H-1 District, and attack on his teammates were all normal reactions.”
“？？” Director Aibo snapped. “Lv Zhucao, are you hearing yourself? What nonsense is that?”
Director Aibo’s tone sharpened. “You’re 1051’s Regulator, and this is how you ‘regulate’? Unconditionally shielding him? Damn it! The higher-ups can’t possibly approve handling 1051 this way, can they?! What spell did you cast on them?”
Lv Zhucao felt no offense, his voice transmitting calmly through the wall, carrying a unique, soothing charisma:
“Yes. The Boss approved it.”
“1051’s body integrates massive gene fragments from diverse organisms. The Research Center believes Hastur has entered maturity, triggering an animal-like nesting instinct—which is why he ‘remodeled’ the entire H-1 District into a lair.”
“As for his teammates…”
“They were bought off. The higher-ups sent a task force to investigate. Best we stay out of it.”
The vulture averted its gaze, its milky eyelids briefly brushing those deep golden orbs.
Hastur tilted his head slightly, listening to this meaningless interlude resolved in a few glib words by his arriving guardian, spouting official platitudes.
The crowd outside the interrogation room grumbled in low voices, reluctantly dispersed by “orders from above.”
The guardian pushed open the door, bringing with him the distinctive scent of aged oil painting.
—He immediately felt something akin to human “pleasure.”
After all, as an aficionado of art and literature, he particularly favored chaotic or deranged paintings and dramatic scripts.
This familiar whiff of paint signified his guardian had brought a “gift” today.
Gift.
The yellow robe hem rippled faintly, and another instinctual throb surged within Hastur’s body, as if refuting his categorization of paintings.
But when he considered asking, “Not a gift—what is it then?” the throb vanished abruptly, as if it had never been.
Strange. Very strange.
This instinct-sourced pulsation had never occurred in his previous twenty-three years of “human” life, yet it had triggered frequently of late.
As if a seed deep within him was stirring back to life, struggling against a heavy seal.
“Shall we go?”
The door, nearly one with the wall, received a knock.
The guardian codenamed “Lv Zhucao” leaned against the frame, playfully tapping an irregular rhythm on the panel with his knuckles.
Lv Zhucao was not tall, clad in the company’s standard black military uniform.
Rushed from haste, the garment hung slightly disheveled, its streamlined light strips glowing in the company’s signature low-saturation blue-white along the seams.
Atop his head sat the usual black helmet warding off mental pollution—a rare item, not even every interrogator merited one—his left hand clutching a painting and a bright blue gift box:
“Finally built your lair, and you don’t want to stay in this interrogation room?”
“…”
Ever the inquisitive sort, Hastur logged the “gift” conundrum away, gliding silently from the room like a socially awkward octopus, short of skittering along the wall.
—He wasn’t truly antisocial, merely disinclined to chatter.
A minute prior, Hastur might have preferred lingering in the interrogation room, savoring the human drama of fear and desire unfolding beyond the wall.
But with the stage cleared and the room reverted to sterile quiet, it held no value for Hastur, who craved only “chaos.”
“I brought you a second gift.”
The guardian shoved the painting into Hastur’s grasp, freeing his hands. Leading Hastur back to H-1 District, he peeled off his leather gloves, revealing a silver cybernetic body, wrestling clumsily with the ribbons on the other gift box:
“A holographic helmet!”
Lv Zhucao held it aloft like presenting Simba, beaming proudly:
“When my nesting desire peaked in maturity, I vented it the same way. Better out than in. I used holographic games back then… even triggered an atavism reaction in one of my bloodlines. Give it a shot?”
Atavism reaction?
It sounded like a path to power.
Hastur’s yellow robe spread silently in the darkness, the seed within peeking forth once more, gnawing at the frozen soil suppressing it.
Lv Zhucao halted before the H-1 District ruins, seemingly forcing his gaze from the malformed meat chunks pierced on thick rebar.
This Regulator knew the task force stood little chance of rescuing these traitors. Hastur wouldn’t permit anyone dismantling his lair:
“…I made a special trip to R&D to amp up this helmet’s immersion. They boasted that gaming with it feels indistinguishable from reality…”
“See any games that catch your eye? I can crank it to max difficulty.”
Hastur cared little where he vented; only the repeatedly battered company real estate and Finance Department might object.
Lv Zhucao proffered the helmet: “Try it? I remember your old thirst for knowledge rivaled this nesting urge—company finances suffered for it. I figure you’d dig exploring the holographic net, that vast unknown frontier?”
—Alright, Lv Zhucao succeeded. Hastur’s interest stirred: “Recommend?”
Lv Zhucao perked up:
“Take a look at this Cyber Orphanage Simulator… It’s the company’s latest release—no other holographic game on the market comes close in realism, freedom, or sheer difficulty. If you have any other needs later, I can go to the development team and have them whip something up for you on the spot. I think it’ll satisfy your nesting desire to the fullest.”
Lv Zhucao added, “In your spare time from work.”
~~~ Yes. In your spare time from work.
That was the company for you. Employees had to work even during the pivotal moments of their lives, even when their bodies weren’t up to it. Any form of emotional release had to come after work was done—no exceptions, not even for the boss himself.
Given the reality of “the higher-ups living even more like dogs than us” and “constantly footing the bill for our combat losses every few days,” Hastur had a high tolerance for the occasional overtime and the no-leave policy.
After hearing Lv Zhucao’s words, the only thing on his mind was that he didn’t actually see his newfound instinct as mere “nesting desire”—or at least, not just that. But he wasn’t one for explanations or chit-chat. “Fine.”
“I—huh?” A flicker of surprise crossed Lv Zhucao’s face, as if he hadn’t expected such ready compliance from Hastur.
He leaned in immediately, excitement and relief lighting up his features as he tried to capitalize on the positive momentum and chat some more.
The hem of the yellow robe fluttered over, blocking Lv Zhucao solidly outside the H-1 District. “Leave my lair.”
Lv Zhucao, who had been quietly inching toward the lair in hopes of a quick room tour: “…”
~~~
Hastur had never played a holographic game before, but he had gone on missions into holographic networks to shred hacker spirit forms. Downloading a game was, honestly, no different from downloading some junk software.
He handled the installation quickly, hesitating only briefly when it came time to put on the helmet.
The holographic helmet required a brain-computer interface connection, and he obviously lacked human organs like a “skull” or “neurons.”
On top of that, he needed to stay vigilant to the outside world while immersing himself in the game.
After some thorough consideration, he split off two heads from his body.
One to keep watch, the other connecting seamlessly to the slender interfaces extending from the helmet, slipping effortlessly into the game—
Only to get stuck immediately at the character creation screen.
After ten grueling minutes of struggle, still before even entering the game proper, Hastur opened the complaint interface for the game’s GM. His reason:
The game’s aesthetics lacked diversity.
~~~ Why could he only create humans? Couldn’t he make himself? Wasn’t this racial discrimination?
The GM must have felt a profound shock and been left speechless.
After two full minutes of “typing…,” the battle-hardened GM delivered the perfect response:
【We can restore your character based on your original appearance. Please wait… Scan complete. Enjoy your game.】
The GM’s efficiency was astonishing, and they calmly, politely even deleted the extra head for him.
Hastur figured Lv Zhucao must have put in a good word with the company staff handling the game’s operations beforehand. Otherwise, with the company’s typical style, the GM would have just passed the buck on the complaint, spouting endless empty talk that amounted to nothing.
The interface in front of him gradually dimmed.
When it brightened again, a roar like a heavy motorcycle engine exploded in midair, growing louder as it approached.
Dazzling, garish neon lights stretched toward him like a river of stars unfurling from the distance.
The silhouette of a vast city snapped into sharp focus.
In the deep night, the city before him sprawled like a colossal beast crouched on the ocean floor.
Massive searchlight beams swept out from within the city, while hyper-saturated neon flickered in the darkness, like the luring bioluminescent lures of deep-sea predators swaying to draw in prey.
【Cyber Orphanage Simulator】
The title floated slowly into view in midair, fading after a few seconds to reveal:
【Here, machines and crumbling order exist side by side.
Neon pierces the smog, but it can’t illuminate the futures of the orphans wandering the alleyways.】
A black silhouette of a man tore across the screen in a wildly flamboyant pose, dominating most of the display.
He seemed to be leaning against a motorcycle, a heavy cannon propped casually on his shoulder.
Blue electricity crackled along the weapon’s harsh contours, etching two lines of italicized text:
【Luciano Dismer】
【Second-Generation Leader of the Dismer Gang】
Cannon fire boomed suddenly.
A taller figure appeared behind “Luciano Dismer,” head bowed, chest muscles straining against the black silhouette.
【？？？】
【Detonator of the Fourth World War】
The clack of mechanical parts cut off the gunfire.
A slender silhouette slipped into view, trailed by long shadows like spider legs, with what looked like a muzzle over the face area.
【Adam】
【Satan Wandering the Mortal Realm】
The rustle of turning pages…
“…” Hastur began tapping expressionlessly on anything within reach, like a cutscene skipper frantically left-clicking the mouse when there was no SKIP button, desperately trying to trigger “click anywhere to skip.”
First off, he hadn’t come here to look at humans.
Second, why deny players the freedom to skip the plot? Wasn’t this exploitation of citizens’ right to choose?
Where was the promised “highest freedom”?
He endured the fourth silhouette, labeled 【World-Destroying Deity】, and just as he turned to lodge another complaint, the game finally returned to an interactive interface:
【Starting from a plot of land littered with scrapped machinery, build your very own cyber orphanage!】
【Choose Identity: Unemployed Vagrant / Los Angeles Police Officer / Company Employee】
Hastur’s tapping limb overshot, jabbing straight into the “Unemployed Vagrant” option.
And so, when Hastur officially entered the game—harboring dissatisfaction over “why no option to skip plot,” “why no confirmation for major choices”—he opened his eyes.
~~~ Only his eyes.
Because the reliable GM, in deleting the extra head, had removed the one with full facial features meant for the brain-computer interface. They’d kept the one for vigilance: just a pair of muddy yellow eyes, the rest a void.
A classic company employee fumble.
Hastur accepted his colleague’s suffocating blunder with zero emotional fluctuation, just as the Finance Department would calmly accept his combat loss report.
His mind held only one pure, primal desire:
Build a lair!
Build a lair!!
Build a lair!!!
Impatience surged through him. A cool, pleasant night breeze brushed his side, carrying the sharp tang of chemical products—comforting, delightful, like a silent, gentle urging.
He skipped the massive newbie tutorial—stuff even humans wouldn’t bother reading through—and went straight to the heart of why he’d downloaded this game, opening the building page—
“Bam!”
Damn the main storyline, stealing away his freedom.
The building interface he’d just found vanished in an instant, replaced by a drafty, rundown office pocked with holes in the walls and windows.
“…”
Hastur’s heart turned as cold and hard as the wooden backrest of the chair under him.
He respawned forcibly in the dean’s chair behind the desk.
Under the yellow hood, those muddy yellow eyes with their bizarre pupils shifted, peering coldly from the shadows at the desk before him—and the gray-haired, shrewd-looking middle-aged man standing in front of it.
The game’s time synced with reality: ten o’clock at night cloaked the world outside the window, seeping into the leaky office.
Nissen, the middle-aged man, leaned forward with both hands on the desk. His overly sharp features split into light and shadow in the dim glow, taking on a predatory menace.
With an air of superiority, he glared down at the top of the yellow hood:
“~~~ Look at you, you pathetic mess. Poor old H.J. Do you really think pulling that hood over your head lets you bury it in the sand and escape reality?”
“Look around you—
“The toxic Black Sea with its sky-high pollutant levels, finances so dire you can’t even patch up a single wall or window… How are you supposed to raise that congenitally disabled Little Sick Ghost in your orphanage? Got the money to treat him?”
Nissen’s aggressive tone softened into persuasion:
“If you had even a shred of conscience, you’d let go and hand him over to me.”
“At my orphanage, he’d get the best care available—not the best in the world, maybe, but the best in all of Phoenix District.”
~~~ Lies.
Hastur slowly tilted his head back, like a yellow Dementor sniffing out a soul.
Besides the fishy sea tang and chemical sting drifting from the office’s north side, the air now carried subtler scents:
Epinephrine precursors, dopamine, adrenaline, norepinephrine…
The man was tense from lying, excited and agitated for reasons unknown.
Helping a disabled child plagued by constant illness clearly wasn’t worth getting Nissen so worked up. His true motives were likely far less noble and just than his words suggested.
But Hastur didn’t care if humans lied or whether their actions were righteous.
What mattered to him was this:
He hadn’t even opened the Building Interface yet, hadn’t started constructing his nest, and already the forced main storyline was trying to pluck something away from it?
Even the Company, which wielded absolute power in the real world, wouldn’t dare pull something like that!
—In reality, no Company Employee would dare meet his gaze without donning a specially calibrated helmet.
This was a game, not reality. Mental Pollution was hard to propagate in a world built from lines of code.
Even so, the instant Hastur lifted his head and Nissen’s eyes locked onto those yellow orbs beneath the hood, Nissen let out a shrill, ear-piercing wail—an inhuman keen that no human throat should have been able to produce:
“▅▁█▃！！！！！！！”
Behind Nissen, whose face was twisting in abject terror—
A small black shadow suddenly flitted past the open window.
The moonlight glowed blood-red as the frail figure plunged straight down, like a nightingale with broken wings.
The body struck the ground with a sharp yet muffled thud, a sound too complex to describe.
Melancholic strains of tenor saxophone drifted in, as if traversing the entire desolate white continent.
The scene before him froze in time, colors draining away until only black and white remained.
Heavy black subtitles materialized slowly against the dirge, evoking a funeral scene from an old black-and-white film:
【Prologue: Era of Inevitable Fall】
Hastur: “…?”
What kind of garbage game was this?
He hadn’t even laid eyes on the nest-building panel at the start, and one of his starting assets had vanished without his permission?
