006 Mr. Robot

The dark blue up in the sky and the searing cold of night air smells like old sweat and black mold. Burnt-out dreams seem to linger but only for a short while. The kind of place where the faces around you blur into a mess of white, brown, and cheap cologne. The flicker of the monitor bathes me in sickly blue light. I've been at this for hours on end, but I'm not quite finished. I'm not here to be depraved.

I'm here to disappear. 

Open-source intelligence in the digital form nowadays is a party trick. I know that will change in time considering the advent of technology and people's dependence on it, but for now, I am one of the few people in this world who knows how to make use of it online. I say digital because such intel was normally in the physical form. American OSS compartments boasted that more than 60% of their dirt was publicly available. Nowadays, it's probably more considering the extreme spread of information instead of the spread of goods by the engine.

It's strange to think that what used to be physical dossiers and covert operations is now a digital playground, a landscape where every scrap of information is up for grabs. 

I'm not tapping into financial systems for kicks—I'm threading a needle through the world's stitched-together lies. This isn't theft. This is reclaiming what the world owes me. That's how I see it.

A tap on the keyboard, a pause, a breath.

The data flows in waves, cascading into patterns only I can see. Every keystroke pulls another thread loose from the system—old accounts left to rot, digital wallets with forgotten passwords, unclaimed funds in limbo. Lottery tickets not cashed in, privately funded giveaways, all of them.

These are the world's forgotten breadcrumbs, and I'm here to sweep them up. The internet right now is full of cracks, and I'm slipping through them, taking what no one will miss.

The café hums with low conversation, the clatter of chopsticks against bowls, and the distant wail of a baby from somewhere down the street. All white noise. All irrelevant.

The real music here is the keyboard, the pulse, the tapping and clicking, a life unmaked and remade all over again.

I don't need much. Just enough to get out, to slip into the cracks of a new life. Fukuoka, Osaka, Tokyo—hell, it doesn't matter. Anywhere but here. Anywhere where Lee Do-woon is a nobody.

The funds trickle in, barely a drop in the ocean, but it's enough. Small amounts, spread thin, undetectable. Like an index fund but made illegal.

Someone out there is going to wake up a few bucks lighter, but they'll shrug it off, a glitch, a rounding error. And I'll be gone, nothing more than a shadow in the system.

But money isn't enough. Not for this. I need legitimacy, credibility, and for that, I need protection. I need a decent reason for Japan to take me in. Valid bullslit is all about 90% truth and 10% lie.

That's where the whistleblower idea comes in—my escape plan wrapped in a neat little bow of justice. The irony isn't lost on me.

The story is almost too perfect. A corrupt principal, shady dealings, the kind of dirt that makes people uncomfortable in their seats. I package it up, tie it with a bow of incriminating emails, shady transactions, things that never should have seen the light of day.

The kind of stuff that makes people disappear. Later, that turns into gang violence, juvenile crime, aggravated assault, cheating, nepo babies gone rogue, and so much more.

The principal thought he had power, but he never met someone like me—someone who can take a life apart with a few keystrokes and a well-placed leak. Someone who can dismantle a life with a few green and red buttons. I hit send, and the file zooms off into the ether. Whistleblower protection. They'll have no choice but to offer me a deal. Safety in exchange for silence if it reaches that point. It's poetic, in a way.

As I watch the screen, the little progress bar fills up, and I feel a weight lift off my chest. It's out of my hands now, out there in the world where it can't be taken back, it is what it is.

Obscure thoughts drift through my mind, fueled by a microdose of NZT. And then what? A new passport, a new identity. The ink on the papers from the old print shop is still fresh, clinging to my worn jacket. Everything is in place now. I imagine the flight—the recycled air, the muted voices of flight attendants, the hum of engines lulling me into a false sense of security, the cramped legroom. But that's a distant thought.

The city that never wakes up greets me as I step out the cafe, the blinking signs, the call girls, the KTVs. I keep my head down, knowing this is what I'm going to leave behind. Blinding lights flicker, prostitutes and bars line the streets, a neon-lit carnival of vice and excess. The shitty part of town.

I keep my head down, knowing this is what I'm leaving behind. It's a city of lost souls and forgotten dreams, and I'm ready to move on.

I make my way to the train station, a place where people are constantly in motion, always going somewhere. But now, no one's here but bored salarymen and vandals. It's fitting. I buy a ticket, a one-way trip to Fukuoka. It feels right, maybe I've been here before. Or maybe it just feels that way because my work is cut out for me. Planning is done, I just need to execute. one more thing off the checklist.

As the train pulls in, I glance back at the city one last time. It's still there, still breathing, but it's not mine anymore. It's just a memory now. I might come back, but that's a long time. I step onto the train, and the doors slide shut behind me with a finality that sends a shiver down my spine.

My ticket is booked, my death faked, my legalities right, my hair dyed, my supplies in adequate amount and my immigration complete.

The seats are cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and lingers. But I don't care. I close my eyes and let the train's motion rock me into a light sleep, my thoughts drifting like the scenery outside the window.

Fields, rivers, mountains—they all blur together in the night, like dreams never experienced until remembered properly.

But this isn't a dream. This is real, after all.

The train's rhythmic clatter becomes a lullaby that just won't put me to sleep. My new identity, my fake death, my legalities—all meticulously crafted and executed. The city fades into the distance, swallowed by the night, and I embrace the darkness, ready to step into the unknown, ready to become someone else.

The neon lights of the city are replaced by the soft glow of the train's interior. My reflection in the window is a ghostly silhouette, a mere whisper of the person I used to be. Black hair, Japanese features, the way they are in stereotypical comic strips. The future stretches out before me, a labyrinth of possibilities and dangers. But for now, I am just a passenger, drifting into the unknown, on the cusp of a new life.

The rain patters softly against the train windows, a soothing rhythm that blends with the steady hum of the engine. It feels like a blessing, a sign that change is coming, that I am on the brink of something new. The city lights are gone, replaced by the quiet darkness of the countryside. I let the train carry me away, my thoughts wandering as the landscape blurs into an endless night.

This is it. This is the moment when everything changes. When Lee Do-woon dies, and someone else takes his place. I walk away from my past, leaving behind the remnants of a life that no longer fits. The future awaits. I gaze into the abyss, and I maintain uncomfortable eye contact with it.

---

Or iiiiss iiit?

Power stones please.

Get the reference?