The Fire of Prometheus

Fear is the most effective weapon the strong wield against the weak, yet it is a weapon placed into their hands by the weak themselves.

Ji Ning’s heart pounded uncontrollably, making it impossible to find again that sense of melting into a puddle of slime as he had before. The heavy, foul stench in the air made him retch—a complex blend of decay: the putrid reek of rotting fish, the suppurating stench of rats in old houses, and the musty dampness of coffins buried deep underground. The black iron door was crusted over with patches of verdigris, its acrid odor like lightning tearing through the shroud of a rainy night, flooding his mind with every manner of unknown terror.

He gagged, but it was as though his throat had been seized; not a sound escaped. In that moment, he was like a child gripped by the ankle by something lurking beneath the bed; not screaming was the last shred of defiance he could muster, though it was all that remained.

He shut his eyes, waiting, shamefully hoping it would be over quickly—perhaps then it wouldn’t hurt as much.

He regretted it the instant he glanced back, cursing himself for focusing on the periphery of his vision.

A pale hand, its skin peeled away to reveal raw, sinewy muscle, rested on his shoulder. That was no living hand. In the empty corridor, only the owner’s heavy, ragged breathing remained—like a torn, battered bellows. To Ji Ning, it was the whisper of the abyss itself. He would be shredded as easily as the scattered remnants he’d seen before, his insides ripped out like stuffing from a doll.

Though, perhaps the creature was a brother from the neighborhood and didn’t like cotton.

A few seconds passed, and Ji Ning felt the hand glide from his shoulder. He stood there alone, miraculously intact, for another minute before collapsing to the ground. Using the last of his strength, he melted into a puddle and began inching down the corridor, never once daring to glance behind him, despite his nearly 360-degree vantage.

Once out of the corridor, Ji Ning sprang to his feet and bolted like a headless fly. Luck had not entirely abandoned him; by chance, he spotted a door that looked freshly battered in. At its center, three black arrows pointed inward from the rim of a pipe cross-section toward a circle. The symbol was faintly familiar; after a moment’s thought, he remembered it from the uniforms of the researchers who had treated him as a lab rat. This was, unmistakably, the emblem of the Foundation.

Usually, owners marked their buildings only at entrances or exits. It was the only Foundation-marked door he’d seen. He didn’t hesitate—instantly liquefying, he seeped through the battered opening. Freed from the underground complex, Ji Ning finally found a ventilation shaft.

Flames began to consume the corridor ceiling. Concrete slabs crashed down, reinforced with twisted rebar, shattering on the floor. Fireworks burst from the cracks in the vent, filling the air with gunfire, screams, and the wails of the dying—a cacophony fit for a third world war.

Time crept on. A puddle of “water” slid steadily through the vent. Neither explosions nor cries could halt his progress. The single thought—escape—drove him onward, ever onward. This unexpected flight ended even more unexpectedly: someone, some idiot, switched on the ventilation system. The blast swept him forward uncontrollably, and as he shot out the final duct, he crashed clumsily to the ground like an unready fledgling.

Ji Ning, prepared for wilderness survival, was stunned. He staggered upright and saw, at first glance, an asphalt road beneath a streetlamp and, not far away, a cluster of towering buildings. Behind him stood an utterly ordinary old house; he’d fallen from the air conditioning vent. The Foundation had installed its facility right within the city?

The absurdity of it all made the buildings seem like mirages. He wandered along the sidewalk, deeper into the city, like a beast escaping its cage for the steel jungle.

The growing traffic soothed him, but not for long. The bustle soon reminded him of his profound solitude.

He found a bench and sat, watching men and women in their finery beneath the neon lights. Alone, he felt out of place. He thought of calling home, but then it struck him: would the Foundation really let him return to a carefree life?

They were hunters who’d set a trap, waiting for their quarry to return. After a long hesitation, he decided to seek a place more suited to him—a self-service bank.

There, the lights were on twenty-four hours, no rodents to bother him, and surveillance cameras kept out lawless types. It was the best refuge for vagrants, beggars, and the homeless. If luck was with him, perhaps a kind soul withdrawing cash would take pity and spare him a little for food.

This was the city center, after all—wealthy people were as common as fish in the Delaware River.

The weather wasn’t cold yet. From experience during a rebellious spell when he’d run away from home, he knew a few newspapers would get him through the night—provided the bank cameras weren’t being monitored. Otherwise, it’d be the usual: shouted at to leave, pushing open the glass door to face the alien, icy city alone.

Ji Ning couldn’t bring himself to stroll the streets as casually as if out for fries at the pier. The crowds flowed by, indifferent to a lost young man just released from captivity. They had dates, parties, pleasures, and homes to return to.

None of this gaiety belonged to him. Though it wasn’t yet midnight, loneliness seeped into his bones once more. The world rolled over him like a silent beast, leaving him empty and hollow.

On the park bench, Ji Ning recalled a saying: “A person dies three times—the first when breath leaves them and they are biologically dead; the second when they’re buried and die in the eyes of society; the third when their name is spoken for the last time and they are forgotten.”

This cursed fate was like a sudden dust storm. He was an ant tossed skyward, with nowhere to hide, helpless in the hands of destiny.

He looked up, searching for a trace of starlight amidst the city’s neon haze. He searched for a long while and found none. Closing his eyes, he sank into confusion. At the Foundation, he’d fled like a child desperate to return home and erase everything. He kept telling himself it was all a mistake, that if only he made it home, none of it would matter.

But once he’d left, he realized he couldn’t just go home like a wayward child. He wasn’t foolish enough to try contacting his family. He was certain that if he did, even just lifting the toilet lid would reveal two Foundation agents ready to grab him and drag him back to that damned cell, thrusting “Finnegans Wake” into his hands once again.

At some point, a white man in a gray suit and a light felt hat quietly took the other end of the bench. Ji Ning opened his eyes, glanced at him, and considered leaving—but quickly dismissed the thought.

“How is your journey as a fugitive?” The gentleman in the trench coat smiled softly, as if greeting a guest at a medieval ball.

“Not great,” Ji Ning replied, body tense, then forced himself to relax against the bench. He knew that if this man was from the Foundation, running would only make him look even more pathetic. There was no point in showing fear.

“No need to be so nervous. We’re not from the Foundation,” the gentleman said with a slight smile. Ji Ning noted he’d used “we.”

Catching Ji Ning’s flicker of confusion, the man nodded almost imperceptibly. “I represent Nobody. You may call me Nobody.”

“Why are you looking for me?” Ji Ning asked straightforwardly, not taking the odd name seriously. What kind of organization called itself something so strange? Clearly, the man had just chosen an alias.

“Anyone who catches the interest of the Serpent’s Hand is bound to attract ours as well.” The gentleman let a peculiar term slip, removing his hat and saluting elegantly.

“Serpent’s Hand?” Another strange name. Ji Ning made a mental note—at this rate, he might yet meet someone from the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and at least then he wouldn’t have to worry about dinner.

Whether it was Nobody or the Serpent’s Hand, none of it really mattered. What mattered was who could help him.

“I don’t care for the Foundation, but I must admit, their containment methods are the world’s most effective. Don’t tell me you believe you escaped by luck alone. Not every group can call itself the world’s guardian.”

Ji Ning lowered his head, hiding his expression in the night. A breeze rippled the distant artificial lake; moonlight shimmered, and all was still. The stillness only made his irritation worse.

He loathed this well-dressed stranger, just as he loathed black gloves and that woman named Quelyn. These so-called organizations reeked of condescension toward ordinary people. Even if they didn’t mean to, Ji Ning had no desire to simply accept scorn. If weakness meant indifference, at least he still had the right to show his contempt.

“The anger of the weak isn’t really anger at all. You’re just a child unable to fight fate, left with nothing but submission.” The man paused, then continued, “If you don’t want the past month to repeat itself, you need a small opportunity. And we’re happy to provide one.”

“Sounds like a deal with the devil.” Ji Ning lifted his head with a wry smile. Every opportunity came with a hidden price, but he was in no position to refuse.

“A small opportunity requires only a small price. Even the devil believes in fair trade.” The gentleman drew a cigar from his coat, lit it, and exhaled a ribbon of smoke. From his hat, he produced an envelope and set it on the bench between them.

“Graduate from this school. That’s all we ask in return for our help. Of course, you’re free to fold the letter into a paper airplane and throw it away, then continue your fugitive life. It’s up to you.” The man rose to leave, and before vanishing around the corner, he added, “If you’d like to be contained by the Foundation again, you’re welcome to go home.”

In the depths of night, the ember of the nearly untouched cigar flickered as it was discarded, rolling across the gray pavement. Ji Ning suddenly realized he was no different from that cigar—something this world could crush underfoot at will.

“Do I even have a reason to refuse?” Ji Ning sighed. He stamped out the ember, then picked up the cigar and tossed it into a distant trash can—a perfect three-pointer. He returned to the bench and picked up the envelope, inspecting it closely.

Two winged deer glared mischievously at him from the envelope. Meeting their gaze for a moment, Ji Ning then drew out the letter and began to read by the dim glow of the streetlamp.

Years later, Ji Ning would finally understand: only when you step into the theater do you realize you are not there as a spectator. The stage of fate is already set; the curtain has already risen. Sooner or later, an invisible hand will push you onto the boards, and your own performance will begin.

This brilliant solo will last a lifetime, and only death can bring it to an end.